If you read the weeklies with any regularity then you could be forgiven for thinking that most pike top 30lb, bream average around 15lb and that notable barbel and chub are 18lb and 7lb respectively. Well most of us know this is not the case. It’s not the fault of the weeklies – let’s face it, big fish are big news, it’s just that being flooded with images of monsters like these can take away all perspective of our own local fishing. Favourite fish and favourite river We all have a favourite fish and in a lot of cases a favourite venue and I’m no different. For the best part of six years I have spent a large proportion of my winters fishing for chub. My search for these specimens has seen me fish the relatively local (Within 80 miles) Upper and Middle Severn, Vyrnwy, Dove, Dane and Ribble. I’ve even made the odd sortie to the Upper Great Ouse in my search for what I considered to be the magical weight for the species. And what to me is that magical weight? Well, it has to be six pounds. Despite what some may tell you I still believe a six-pounder to be a special fish. Yes, some have been fortunate enough to catch numbers of fish over this weight, often through the fact that they lived within that triangle of great southern rivers the Avon, Stour and Ouse, or more recently the Thames at Oxford. Some have achieved the milestone through long hard campaigns on tough venues, some through marvellous angling ability and others through sheer luck. But I am aware of a great many, vastly experienced chub anglers who have yet to attain the target. My own searches took me full circle and for the last three years I have spent the majority of my chubbing on the river closest to my Warrington home, the Ribble. Here the chub fishing goes largely unnoticed due to the modern clamour for the ever popular barbel and this suits me just fine. The areas that in summer see anglers sat shoulder to shoulder, fishing twin rods pointing to the sky are usually deserted after the first hard frost. The boilie/bolt-rig approach for chub is not for me Although boilies or pellets fished on mini bolt rigs catches a lot of big chub this isn’t really for me; no criticism here for those who’s boat this floats but as I say, it’s just not for me. A light quivertip rod, bucket of liquidised bread and a ball of cheese paste can keep me happy in the most adverse of conditions.
A lot of people I meet on my travels claimed to have caught a ‘six’. I’m sure some had, maybe they all had, maybe I’m just crap, maybe I’m just unlucky, I don’t know. What I do know is a lot of people that I know and trust were in the same boat as me, we had all caught chub and lots of them, plenty of upper fives as well. Many, many times I thought my efforts had been rewarded only for the scales to drop agonisingly short or for the headlamp to illuminate an average-sized but hard fighting specimen. Still etched vividly in my imagination is a night in December of last year when I lost a huge fish just a few feet from the net, it made me feel physically sick. It still does, even now I don’t like thinking about it. As I say, its not just me, my mate Eric Edwards last season took fish of 5lb-15oz and 5lb-14oz. Bloody unlucky or bloody honest? You decide. I had some luck But I digress, by now you will have guessed that I have now achieved my goal, so no need for the big build up we’ll just get straight into it. I’m not ashamed to say that as with a lot of notable captures it seems that a large slice of luck is involved and this instance was to be no different. Along with Eric I had been fishing a particular stretch for most of the winter from which we had taken some great catches and it was for this spot I set off straight from work one bitterly cold February night. As I drove up the M6 I thought to myself that I didn’t really fancy another night freezing my nuts off and sat alone (must be going soft), I fancied a bit of company to while away what I expected to be a tough night’s fishing. For some reason I dialled the number of an old mate, Simon Thompson (Thommo), I had met Thommo several years ago when I helped to organise a FISHINGmagic fish-in and we have remained friends ever since. Despite the fact that we still stay in occasional contact we rarely fish together so why I dialled his number that night on the off chance he may be fishing I’m still not sure – I’m just glad I did. As it would happen he too was on his way down to the river and we decided to meet up for the evening. Like myself, Thommo was on his way to a different part of the river to where we eventually chose and as he was not a member of the controlling club of my first choice venue, we decided to meet somewhere where we both held club cards. I told him I didn’t fancy the stretch he was heading for and thought we should go to a spot that was much less prolific, but one that does produce larger than average specimens. He agreed and half an hour later we met in the farmyard. The river was up a little The river was pushing a little harder than I would have liked and carrying a bit of extra water, not great chub conditions but as usual I figured that as long as you had a bait in the water you had a chance. I made my first cast in total darkness. Fortunately I had fished the swim before and knew where best to present a bait. As the river here is some 50 yards wide and as a cast of around 35 was being made resistance to a taking fish was my primary concern. When tackling a swim such as this I like to critically balance a cage feeder so the slightest pluck dislodges the feeder giving a slack line bait and, most importantly, no resistance to taking fish. It took a few casts and quite a bit of fiddling about before I was happy but eventually I got my set-up just about right. After about three hours both Thommo and I were cold, biteless and getting whisky withdrawal symptoms. The rod was white with frost and my landing net was frozen solid. It looked like a blank was on the cards when the twin isotopes allowed me to spot the tip drop back no more than quarter of an inch. Due to the slack line the strike had to go all the way over my shoulder before I felt the fish, but feel it I did. A spirited fight and a cracking fish of 5lb 3oz is soon being returned some way upstream. Suitably encouraged out goes the cheese flavoured breadflake and 10 minutes later I get an identical bite, with an identical strike giving the same result. The fish felt ponderous and heavy The fish this time kites in a huge arc downstream only stopping when it reached the near bank – classic big chub behaviour. This meant I had to slowly pump the fish directly against the current, not a pleasant process especially as the fish felt particularly ponderous and heavy. Even before I saw it I knew this was a big fish and the sickening feeling of the line falling slack was still vivid in my mind after the events of December. I remember muttering to whoever was listening up there, “please, please don’t let that happen again.” It didn’t. When the headtorch picked out a huge grey back just below the surface I knew this was the one and I can’t begin to tell you the relief I felt when I finally lifted the net around it.
The scales had been zeroed from the earlier fish so I popped the chub straight into the sling. It was over six! To do things properly I shouted Thommo over and with the chub resting in my landing net we re-zeroed the scales before slipping the chub back inside. Thommo thought it went 6.2, myself I thought it fell just short. We settled for a weight of 6lb 1oz…… who gives a toss about ounces at a time like this. In a moment that only an angler will understand I let out a whoop of delight, startling a nearby tawny owl and no doubt scaring the sh*t out of a badger or two. I didn’t cast in again that night, foolish maybe, but to be honest I didn’t feel like I could beat how I felt at the moment, anything else would be an anti-climax so I just sat behind Thommo and we chatted for a while. Reluctantly we pulled ourselves away from our nocturnal world and slowly packed away our gear in readiness for our imminent return to the rat race. As we made our way back to the farmyard over the moonlit field the frosted grass crunched underfoot and the bone chilling north-easterly stung our eyes. But my grin never faded, not for days. In fact, I’m still grinning as I type this……. |
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