That bloody Bernard Venables’ Mr. Crabtree and articles in the Angling Times have a lot to answer for as far as I’m concerned: tench fishing will be no other way for me – ever! I well remember a line from one of his articles in AT on tench fishing:
“So what is it to be, float or leger? No ’tis a morning for the red tipped quill”
As a kid, I was there, with him, at the lakeside, so evocative were his writings. And that’s the way it will always be for me; I don’t want it TO BE any other way.
So I carried on fishing here and there for tench in the waters of various counties; Essex, of course, Hertfordshire, Norfolk and elsewhere, always on my terms i.e. float fishing, but I still hadn’t caught twenty at a sitting. Don’t get me wrong, some excellent sport was enjoyed and the five pounders started to come; even a couple of sixes came to my archaic tactics. I absolutely adored a morning’s tench fishing, be the catch just one fish or a dozen, I always came home feeling that I’d been in another dreamlike world while others slept. I felt sorry for them. They hadn’t been where I’d been, and felt what I’d felt for a few short hours that morning.
I drifted off sometimes to do other things, barbel fishing, chub fishing etc, but the early weeks of the season were always reserved for tench. I received an invite from a Norfolk pike fishing mate of mine for a pal and I to visit a private Norfolk estate lake for a day’s fishing. He was kind enough to bait a couple of swims for us a few days prior to our visit, and the trip was greatly anticipated by me.
The morning arrived and the false dawn saw us setting up on the most gorgeous secluded lake on a lovely June morning. Beds of miniature water lilies were scattered about the lake, the water between them deep – twelve feet in my swim, just off the rod end. I set up with sliding float tackles on both rods. The fish were there from the off and so many fish were caught that only one rod could be fished. We packed up at 10.30 with the fish still feeding, exhausted and covered in snot and slime (some of it from off the fish). The nets were emptied onto the long, thick grass to reveal a total bag of 64 fish; trouble was, 33 of them were bream, well over half of which I had caught. Of the remaining 31 tench, my mate had taken the bigger share with my contribution being thirteen. So thwarted once again was I.
“Trouble was, 33 of them were bream…”
I carried on my wanderings through the Southern counties, catching fish here and there from a multitude of waters with some very good fish coming from a Suffolk lake I had occasional access to by invite. Meanwhile, the age of monster tench (and other species) had arrived, and while some of my mates fished and caught from the waters that held these ten and twelve pounders, I had no great desire to do so: almost all were caught by legering – mini carp tactics if you will.
I did fish one of these lakes – in Huntingdonshire – a couple of times; a water that a mate had caught numerous very big fish from, braces of doubles etc, but I just didn’t enjoy it. It wasn’t proper tench fishing in my book so I never went back. Bit of a stubborn bugger I am, but fishing is supposed to be about enjoyment, so if you ain’t enjoying it – don’t do it: that’s my take on the matter.
But I still hankered for the twenty-fish catch that still hadn’t come my way. I was happy enough doing what I was doing but I had almost given up on the idea of it ever happening.
Then one year I was on holiday in Portugal when I got a phone call from one of my Norfolk fishing mates. Would I like a ticket for a syndicate water on a VERY remote and secluded estate lake in Norfolk? The water in question was a thirty acre reed-lined lake that was a couple of miles off any tarmac road, in the middle of a forest. I had in fact fished this water some thirty years before and had caught some nice fish when it was briefly opened for fishing by the Peer of the Realm who owned the estate. I actually met him at that time and spent an afternoon in his company when I convinced him to allow me to night fish his lake. He wasn’t too keen at first but I convinced him that I was a decent chap who wouldn’t steal his pheasants and he eventually capitulated and granted me permission. He then invited me into the library of The Great Hall, got the maid to bring us a tray of tea and proceeded to tell me his life story. He told me that his estate was now ONLY four thousand acres; originally it had been SIXTEEN THOUSAND acres and that his Grandfather and King Edward had, in his own words “shot and pissed it nearly all away”! What a fascinating man he was and, as it turned out, a very nice man too, an archetypal Lord down to his scuffed brogues, drooping moustache and shabby suit. In fact he looked a lot like Harold McMillan and I do believe he’s still alive.
Anyway some idiot (his estate manager I think it was) convinced him to stock it with carp and set up a big-money syndicate on it: time for me to leave it alone then. I learned from my mate that some years later someone had removed the planks from the dam sluice, almost draining the lake, and that almost all of the carp had perished. I told him not to make me laugh as I had a cold sore and didn’t want a cracked lip. The stream-fed lake had subsequently refilled and was never stocked again. It was now a brilliant tench water with some very big pike in it, fished by a small syndicate of local anglers. “That’ll do for me mate, sort it out and I will square you up when I get home” I told him…
Continued…
