| MARK WINTLE |
| Mark Wintle, an angler for thirty-five years, is on a quest to discover and bring to you the magic of fishing. Previously heavily involved with match fishing he now fishes for the sheer fun of it. With an open and enquiring mind, each week Mark will bring to you articles on fishing different rivers, different methods and what makes rivers, and occasionally stillwaters, tick. Add to this a mixed bag of articles on catching big fish, tackle design, angling politics and a few surprises. Are you stuck in a rut fishing the same swim every week? Do you dare to try something different and see a whole new world of angling open up? Yes? Then read Mark Wintle’s regular weekly column. |
AN ANGLING CAREER THAT STARTED WITH ROACH FISHING Recently, Jeff Woodhouse made the remark that despite my column running for a year, my angling career still spanned thirty-five years. He reckoned that either I couldn’t count, or that I was some sort of Peter Pan figure, forever young. Neither, I’m afraid, but it did make me try and remember when I did start fishing. Centrepins – Who needs ‘Em?
I can remember several early trips on a backwater of the Thames at Oxford aged around six or seven, catching one or two bleak on bread paste, using a five-foot glass bait casting rod, ancient brass fly reel, garden twine as line, and a hook to nylon. These trips continued on and off until I was eleven. From then on the nearby River Piddle at Wareham became my angling Mecca. Sometime during the summer of 1968, it became obvious that a new fangled fixed spool reel would solve a lot of the problems caused by the dreadful tinny centrepin reels that my mates and me had so far endured. Even in those far off days I preferred floatfishing whereas my mate Roger had discovered that legering a big worm in fast water would catch a trout or two. That summer, we caught a lot of fish, mostly minnows, but also a few small dace and trout. Forget the Summer of Love – The Summer of Minnows About that time, I also began a keen interest in fishing books; getting “Mr Crabtree Goes Fishing in All Waters” as a present, and reading “The Whopper” by “BB”, and a book by Trevor Housby from the library. These books were a source of mystery to me. I’d never seen, never mind caught, carp, chub, barbel, grayling, perch or bream. I had seen a shoal of tench in the Thames backwater, but the other species were far outside my world. I even discovered the magic of the angling press, first buying the Anglers Mail in 1968, to read about David Groom winning the Broads National. But back to reality. By now armed with the cheapest Daiwa fixed spool reel available, wire bail arm and all (remember how the line would cut through the wire?), loaded with 3lb Harelon line, I flogged a short stretch of river to death. Bait supplies were solely based on cost; worms could be dug, old bread scraps kneaded into paste and caddis grubs were free. Floats were seagull quills from Swanage beach or my lucky porcupine quill, for my early attempts at making balsa floats were abysmal. That summer, try as I might, I could not catch a fish over six inches long. One uncle promised me half a crown if I could catch a fish that big, but as yet his money was safe. What I lacked in skill and tackle I made up for in perseverance. A typical trip might last three or four hours. A four-inch dace plus five minnows was probably the reward (not much has changed then!). Slowly but surely I was learning, and though I stopped fishing through the winter and spring, by the following June I was better prepared. An Obsession with Caddis Grubs For reasons long lost in the mists of time, I used caddis grubs as bait every trip in the new season. Though I continued to catch minnows, I also had dace and trout, and finally caught both dace and trout over six inches long. Each fish was carefully measured; a spring balance would come later. The weir pool that I fished was free fishing on the south bank but the north bank was private trout fishing. It was possible to poach the north side for there was no river keeper; occasionally I’d get turned off that bank by one of the trout anglers and redirected back over the bridge but as the fishing, in my eyes at least, was better I often could be found on the wrong side. Hooks, to a twelve-year old with little pocket money, were a precious commodity. At some point, I’d bought a single size 8 hook to nylon. These were the days when you could buy just one, and forget spade-ends, these were whipped on with silk. It must have been the influence of Mr Crabtree that persuaded me to buy a hook in such a large size for I mostly used an eyed size 12. One Saturday in July
Baiting with two big caddis grubs on the size eight, I began to fish the eddy. After ten minutes or so, the float shot under and my rod bent double. It was not long before I got the fish to the top and swung it in (landing net – what landing net?). Gently lowering it on the grass, I was able to admire my first ever roach. The roach in the Piddle have always been beautifully coloured, and this one was no exception, with that blue sheen and reddish fins that mark out chalkstream roach. How big? I measured at a fraction short of twelve inches and with the benefit of hindsight, it probably weighed a little over a pound. After slipping it back into the river I fished on, encouraged by my success. I forgot the time, in my excitement, alas, for not long after my father appeared wondering where I’d got to, for I was late for lunch. But a roach angler was born… After that, I continued to try for a big roach from that eddy though no more were forthcoming that summer. With my mates, we started to try other swims further downstream. One spot yielded some fine trout to ten ounces and two flounders of around half a pound on legered worms. Experimenting with maggots, I caught some tiny roach and dace, and as the caddis became scarce later in the summer, we stuck to bread paste. I saved up to buy a seven-foot spinning rod from Woolworth’s; it was an improvement and had a surprisingly forgiving action. By early October, our attention had switched to two swims below the next mill downstream; I’d acquired a keepnet (two feet long in khaki cotton) and a Little Samson spring balance and now laboriously weighed each fish that was over three ounces. Best of all though, as the weather cooled, I started to get some quite decent fish; a dace of eight ounces and some roach of four to eight ounces plus a nice trout or two. So, it was in late October that I went to fish the road bridge pool with Roger. The Piddle is tidal here with only a small rise and fall of about two feet. The best place to fish was on an island separated by ditches from the main riverbank, and therefore only accessible at low tide. When the tide turned and the water began to rise, the swim steadied. I trotted paste down the pool on a size twelve, and striking a gentle bite, felt the heavy thumps of a big roach. My landing technique had improved; no more attempts to swing it in, rather a careful scooping out by hand. It looked enormous. Carefully weighing it in a plastic bag, we found it went one pound and six ounces. Roger reckoned he could get his dad’s camera, so placing in the tiny net; he cycled home to fetch it. By the time he returned, twenty minutes later, the tide had risen further and after a quick snap we had to wade through the ditch to get back to the main bank. Later that afternoon I caught my first seatrout plus some good dace. A fortnight later, I landed an even bigger roach of a pound and a half, again on paste, and a lifetime passion was confirmed. Within a year, I started to fish the Frome, and that too yielded big roach, eventually very many very big roach but that’s another story. All this happened thirty-five years ago, and some of the details seem sketchy. What I do know is that I enjoy my fishing now as much as I did all those years ago, and still get a thrill from a gorgeous chalk stream roach over a pound. |
