Journalist and predator angler Chris Bishop fell in love with the Fens when he moved to Norfolk five years ago. In a new monthly series, exclusive to FISHINGmagic, he gives us a glimpse of this unique landscape and some of the characters who fish it.
A NEW SEASON After three months longing to get back on the drains and rivers just being out there’s a thrill in itself. Except I’ve overslept on opening day, missed Andy and a trip up the river on the boat and now I’m haring around the Fens like an idiot trying to catch something to convince myself the season’s started. I’ve thrashed three rivers and a drain by opening time and I haven’t even had a follow. I’ve hardly seen a soul either. It’s the first day of the season, yet I’ve mooched around miles of water and hardly seen a handful of anglers. Where are they all, I wonder – echoing the sentiment that regularly appears in King’s Lynn secretary Mike Grief’s weekly reports in the local paper. Well, the Daily Telegraph I’m reading in the pub says it’s June 16th, so who am I to argue..? Maybe pike can read after all. But they can’t do the crossword, I console myself, as I work out zebra invites us to take a bath with a nag means Zimbabwe. When was the last time you caught one and it had a biro..? I want a river fish but not even a couple of pints of Black Dog can rekindle my optimism. I’ve been telling myself it’s the being here that matters all morning, but I’m starting to wonder. Like, a fish wouldn’t hurt. Just one would be nice. I know, stuff the rivers – I’ll give the pit a go on the way home. Bound to catch one there. Better still it’s all-but deserted bar the odd carper, so look out pike. Bounce one off second cast in a swirl that rocks half the pit. I know, I’ll try sharpening the hooks. Then I hook into another one. Slightly smaller swirl this time. Looks a good 3lbs as I winch it in. I go to grab it but it tailwalks and shoots behind me as I drop the rod and reach for the lure. Then I feel a sharp pain in the side of my leg. Unbelievable. It’s thrown a Shad Rap and my chinos are now stapled to my calf.
Day two – June 17 – and the leg’s swelling up a treat. But I’ve limped 200 yards of my favourite drain with Andy, chucked lures at all the spots you could bet your life on last summer and we haven’t seen a single fish.
Andy’s plopping a surface lure off the lilies and whoosh – a fish lunges at it and misses. Next chuck its aim improves and it ends up with more than it bargained for. Maybe it’s the only fish in the drain. Or the only one daft enough. I’m a pike angler, get me out of here. Time for beers and a double bacon monster burger in the pub at Welney.
Rule One, they only feed at night. Rule Two – you don’t usually catch them fishing three feet deep in more than three times that much water, on a boiling hot June morning. Try telling that to Matt Drew as the expected pike that just smacked into his free-roaming livey turns out to be a 5lbs zander.
He might talk ten to the dozen but he doesn’t hang around when the fish are about. It’s the second time I’ve shared a spot with the bloke and the second time he’s given me a good pasting. I can’t understand why the pike ignore every lure I work past their noses, yet as soon as we run a livie past them we get one. Well Matt gets one. They ignore my baits until I reel them in, I bounce one off, another fish appears from nowhere and misses as I lift the bait from the water to recast and I finally manage to stay attached to a nice double that careers around like a good ‘un until it hits the landing net and honour’s restored.
And what a whacky zander it turns out to be. A zander around 5lbs with most of its dorsal fin missing and trace marks all over one side of its face – an old warrior that never made premier league status. I’m writing it off as a fluke but Matt misses a take that scores his bait up and hits a schoolie next trot. Now this is the guy who was asking for advice on catching zander on the forums a few weeks back. Maybe we ought to be asking him. Tits Up and off to Oulton Broad So the first week went largely, well, ‘tits up,’ as they say in the brassiere department at Harvey Nicks. To make matters worse, I’ve rashly told Chris Hammond I can pop his cherry when it comes to catching a pike from a boat. “Don’t worry mate, a load of us are fishing Oulton Broad first Sunday of the season,” I told the Milky Bar Kid. “We’ll sort you out a few.” I can’t believe I said that. I come here a couple of times a season and get regularly stuffed by the likes of Peter Waller, Gerry Castles and Big Trev Salmon. But there’s no going back. Today will be enshrined in history as the day Chris got his first boat-caught pike. Fast forward to a hire dinghy, with oars that don’t quite fit and no engine. Five minutes away from the jetty and my arms were killing me. Chris looked mildly sympathetic as I put my back into pulling us up the broad through the breeze. Chris has done his back in, so I’m hauling us towards Peter Waller’s house, trying to make it look like I know what I’m doing, as the oar flips out of the rowlock for the umpteenth time and I smack myself on the chin. Never mind, I think to myself. I’ve arranged to borrow an engine and there’ll be a bunch of good ole FISHINGmagic boys there to offer some advice and spare my arms before they fall out of their sockets if I can only remember where Peter lives. Ten minutes’ heave-ho and we find the guys. “Where’ve you been Bishop..?” they chorus, as I barge the boat ashore. The sweat’s pouring off me and I feel like I’ve done a round with Lennox Lewis but the fun’s about to start, in theory. “Chris usually blanks on here,” Peter says helpfully, as we slap on an impressive-looking Suzuki outboard we’re borrowing for the day. I’m master of all we survey as it kicks into life and we head out across the water. We’ve made it all of 50 yards before it died and it was Chris’s turn for some arm ache. “Get us over there,” I said, pointing at some bays where I managed some fish when I was out with Barry Kneller last season. “Err, and mind the houseboats and that cabin cruiser. The one with all the worried faces peering at us wondering if we’ll hole them if we hit them square on.” Drop the weights, anchor off some tasty looking rushes and the pain’s forgotten as we get the rods out. Chris is still rummaging in his tidy lure collection, weighing up the prospects, when I lob the secret weapon up the boat. “Here you are mate, try one of these,” I say, slinging him a gaudy mag grub that looks like a squished banana. Chris humours me and so does a pike, which hits the lure on the drop but somehow manages to wriggle off en route to the boat. The broad’s getting busy by 10am. With my usual impeccable timing, I’ve managed to pick regatta day, judging by the number of racing yachts hurtling towards us. We’re right on their turning spot and while it’s glorious watching the sailing fraternity spin their craft on a sixpence, duck the booms and hurtle away, it’s all getting a bit close for comfort. We’ve got to get away and find some quieter water. The lee shore looks the business but there’s the small question of getting there first. I hop to my feet and give the outboard another tug or two. It fires and dies a dozen times. My shoulder’s throbbing in agony before it finally coughs into life. I turn us and sneak along the reeds until the yachts have passed on another sweep, then open her up and we beat across the broad to a weedy bay. “This is it,” I tell Chris. “Bound to be a few over here.” Suddenly the pressure was on Within a few casts two boatloads of mates appear. When they ask what we’ve caught, I lie and say three. Trev Salmon’s chuckling “I bet” as he and boat partner John anchor up 20 yards away. Gerry and Barry head straight for the next spot I’d earmarked and all of a sudden the pressure’s on. Then the surface erupts right in the centre of the bay, as some hapless prey fish skitters across the surface followed by a huge bow-wave.
The rod goes round but it can’t be the same fish. Nice double, we agree as he holds it up. No way that was the fish we saw, that was getting on for twice the size. We thrash the bay with every lure in our boxes but she doesn’t want to know. The rest of us remain fishless when lunch time comes. My arm really is killing me, after starting the outboard half a dozen times as we zig-zag through the yachts en route to the boozer. “What’s on,” I ask the carvery chef in the holiday village. “Beef, turkey or lamb,” he replies. When I opt for the lamb, the chef asks: “Stuffed shoulder..?” “Nah mate,” I reply. “Done it in trying to start the boat…” The afternoon’s getting on by the time we finish stuffing. Trev and Gerry even find room for pudding. We’re away first and we’ve got a hunch the pike might be in the deeper water. Well, we haven’t managed one anywhere else. The others have the same idea as we plot up off a marina. But Chris’s rod goes first and he’s smiling all over his face as I slip the net under a long, lean double. “My first boat caught pike, really made my day,” says the Milky Bar Kid. |
