Chasing dreams: monster chub from tiny rivers

This year’s Chubbing campaign could only be described as getting off to a tremendous start, I had caught a good few fish over my target specimen weight of 4lb, a realistic benchmark for this particular river, plus the loss of a monster that still sends my mind reeling! At this point I feel I should add a degree of perspective.

My local river is no Dorset Stour, or River Lea. It can’t even claim to equal its nearest rival, the Waveney on the Norfolk Suffolk border. Whilst catches of 4lb chub are not uncommon, 5lb Chub are very much the exception, not the norm. I have fished on and off for Chub for nearly two decades and always sensed that a chub of 6lb or more could be a possibility, but with nothing more than rumours of monsters banked in the past, I had lacked the evidence I was craving – a six pounder of my own.

I was coming to the conclusion that having caught 17 Chub over the 5lb mark to a personal best of 5lb14oz, I had either been incredibly unlucky, or they did not exist on the stretches I had focussed so much attention. I was questioning whether this dream was realistic; perhaps this desire was too extravagant a request to ask of a river that has been so kind to me over the years. Shattered dreams.

Whilst the Chub that inhabit this charming little river have become a consuming passion, my mind had drifted towards the possibility of catching a real monster Chub from that famous fishery, the Throop on the Dorset Stour. Out of desperation for a 6lb Chub, this could just be the place to make this dream a reality; perhaps if luck was with me, certainly a 7 pounder wouldn’t be out of the realms of possibility. A plan was devised to fit in with work and family commitments meaning that my trip would take place at the end of a hectic Christmas break.

Now for some a 200 mile pilgrimage to Dorset on a cold January night followed by a night spent in a dirty van with just sufficient room to sleep amongst nets, rods and bait might not sound fun (who am I kidding) – but for me the journey was all part of the spine tingling adventure; I was restless, adrenaline coursing through my body, I barely slept a wink that night – and this was the day before my little escapade! Taking the directions given by those lovely folk at Davis Tackle, I took an uncertain journey down winding roads to a less definite destination than the car park on the neighbouring Royalty. Gathering myself together, I marched through the gates to cross the field, frost breaking under foot, to be met with an iron grey river.

I love the country side in winter, especially those precious early dawns, trees and leaf stems encrusted with flecks of icy diamonds, the early morning sun low and hazy struggling to find its horizon. From an aesthetic perspective it was perfect, but from a piscatorial aspect it was nothing short of disaster! Had this been my own river, I felt I would have struggled, but without reference to a lifetime spent on its bank, I felt an immediate distance between myself and the Stour. I couldn’t even muster much enthusiasm from the maggots that had shared a cold uncomfortable evening with me, fellow bedtime companions in the van. The water was very clear for the time of year and by all accounts the temperature too low to guarantee success. So where to start?

Lacking any obvious signs of fish, I searched out the creases, pools and bank-side cover with a small loafer float, beneath which I would suspend my near lifeless maggots. Adopting a mobile approach, I catapulted a steady stream of maggots for sometimes upwards of an hour to try and stimulate some interest before casting a line. Having blanked – tired and dejected I returned to my transport and subsequent accommodation for the night.

A first day blank was acceptable I thought; after all, I had explored the banks of this legendary river and could build on my apparent lack of success after an evening’s rest. Sadly, this was not to be the case. The second day passed and went, all I had to show for two days hard fishing was a broken rod tip! It is hard enough to break a favourite fishing tool, least one you have proudly owned for near on 10 years.

Cold and despondent I had finished fishing and instead of dismantling the rod with my bitter cold fingers I decided to make the journey across the now dark field back towards the general area where I understood I might find my van. I was terribly lost and disorientated in the gloom as dusk fell. On walking forwards I heard the most tremendous snap, an explosion that I came to understand was the shattering of carbon fibres, comprising the tip section my favourite trotting rod. Fatigued, I had simply walked the rod tip into the ground whilst un-confidently marching forth towards my approximate destination! To this day, me and the Stour are still not on talking terms which may sound a little unfair. Perhaps I will address this lack of connection when I have achieved my goal of catching a decent Barbel, a Royalty double no less!

Home is where the heart is – A dream realised

I was to catch a 6lb chub this season and best of all from my beloved River in the heart of Suffolk. The river was looking in a sorry state, my heart sinking at every visit as it seemed lower on each visit. It was mid-august, never really the high period in any river fisherman’s calendar and really my heart was yearning for autumn and the start of a Chubbing campaign that takes me through to the end of season.

I was walking the bank with my good friend and fishing companion Geoff Felgate, we walked and talked of fish caught and lost, comparing our favoured spots and our expectations for the season ahead. Geoff mentioned he was fishing a shoal of Chub and two in particular were very big. He had managed to extract a Chub of 4lb12oz, one of the small ones! This did prick my interest, and being the good friend that he is, dually showed me where this group of fish resided.

I was a little surprised as it was not really anything you could call a swim, it was practically outside someone’s back garden where the river meets a disused lock, the water backing up before plunging over a weir. In fact, I have probably just passed this swim a thousand times on my way to the typically chubby haunts further upstream. Geoff assured me they were there; in fact he had them tail up over a bed of halibut pellets, but they had since turned cagey. This 4lb12oz fish had come out to Geoff’s rod on legered pellet, but despite his numerous subsequence attempts, the Chub had closed shop, only the slightest twitch or nod of a rod tip nearly imperceptible, the only reward for a number of days and nights fishing.

On reflection, it was a stunning Chub hotspot, a reed lined margin towering above the river on the near bank, a sunken stale looking clump of cabbage weed and a ready supply of food. I even suspect these fish were being pampered, nearly akin to ‘pet’ Chub; such is the human instinct to feed and nourish the wildlife on its doorstep. Geoff mentioned that they would no longer settle on a bed on his free offerings and even considered that they may have moved on. Out of curiosity, on passing this swim a few weeks later, I crept up to the reed margin and carefully threw in a small handful of maggots only for a group of Chub to materialise from nowhere. I continued to casually feed this already impressive shoal of Chub when not one, but two giant Chub joined the group to capitalise on this newly acquired food source. Very spooky and difficult to settle, I fed that group of fish for close on an hour. I had a strong suspicion the two larger Chub would easily make a very good 5lb – a good way of thinking about it as it turns out. I did cast a line for these fish, but apart from establishing how intolerant they were to me moving the rod to cast; my subsequent endeavours were scoffed at by those secretive wraiths. I instinctively struck when one of the smaller chub engulfed the tiny morsel, only for the line to part at the hook.

On reflection that chub was clearly over 4lb! – Had that faulty hook to nylon attracted one of the monsters, I dared not to consider. The rest of the fish were clearly shaken but were persuaded to continue with their impromptu banquet. A further opportunity did arise to ensnare one of the leviathans; one of the monsters had drifted off lazily with my size 16 hook baited with 3 maggots. A hasty strike was met no resistance followed by a swift departure. That fish had simply picked up the bait with its lips and was testing it – now that is what I call cautious dexterity! All this drama unfolded before my very eyes in the crystal clear water, every reaction of these fish to my clumsy attempts clearly visible. I had to return the next morning!

Deceiving crafty Chub.
I absolutely adore angling for visible fish, in my mind it is the purest form of angling and provided you can approach your quarry with stealth the rewards are more than just simply catching fish, it is like an invitation to share the secrets and learn the ways of these cautious creatures.

As much pleasure as I get from trotting a float or ledgering, you have to build up a complex mental picture of what is taking place beneath the surface, perhaps it is this sense of mystery that makes these techniques so absorbing. You have no idea whether the fish you have fought and landed was the largest present or whether, backstage an even larger specimen was waiting in the wings. You may be setting the scene, but you are not the director; there is wider piscatorial play unfolding, taking place unseen with a cast of scaly thespians that have no intention of taking centre stage.

In my experience it is always the largest most desirable specimens suffering from stage fright! In our youth fishing from the walls of a Mill pool for clearly visible fish, my brother and I would wonder at the fish’s reactions to our clumsy attempts to deceive them. Over time we devised a method of free lining maggots in our desire to capture and marvel at these clearly visible fish. It is not strictly free-lining as the negligible mass of a maggot needs the assistance of an amount of shot to enable casting. The trick is to allow a long tail from hook to shot thus enabling the baited hook to fall freely through the water column as naturally as a free offering. It is a devastating tactic for situations where you can see the fish engulf the bait and has accounted for some of my best river specimens. In-deed, you can track the baits progress to the bottom and either watch the line for a twitch or observe a fish take the static bait from the river bed. It should be noted it is equally effective for any species of fish and has also accounted for a stunning roach of 1lb14oz this season!

I tackled up away from the river bank, simply threading the line through my B James MK IV Avon attaching the hook length comprising 1lb14oz line to a size 18 hook. Two BB shot supplied the casting weight about 4ft from the hook. I don’t want to sound blasé, but I was unaware I was preparing to meet a dream fish! Peering over the reeds onto the water below, I began a feeding regime of little and often, the soft red and white grubs descending through the water column. The fish were hesitant; the population demographic had altered drastically overnight. There were only two of the smaller fish present and were slow to settle onto the maggots, the monster Chub were only conspicuous by their absence. The thought I had blown it was soon to pass, alleviated as a sole giant emerged to take a maggot before returning to its upstream lair.

The fish were skittish and failed to feed as confidently as the previous day, every time I saw the larger Chubs fleeting appearance, I was torn between continuing to build its confidence or attempt a cast. The obvious danger of one of the smaller fish reaching the bait completely blowing the complete operation was always one of my foremost thoughts. Fortunately a pattern soon emerged; the larger Chub was actually patrolling closer to the near bank, and then observing the progress of a maggot, it would take it only to return to its upstream sanctuary. This pattern of behaviour was to be its downfall; the bait was laid upstream allowing the 4ft tail to drift the maggot gently with the lazy current.

First cast, the bait drifted inconveniently into a small clump of streamer weed, but the fish did turn and show an interest. A careful retrieve and after further patient feeding, a second cast was made slightly further out. This time the bait drifting to perfection, the chub passed by the bait as if carefully inspecting the maggots tumbling progress, before turning to inhale the single grub. This was simply met with a gentle strike. On reflection, it was a fairly un-dramatic fight. On first contact I could see the fish throwing its head from side to side in an attempt to remove the cause of its discomfort. On realising its predicament, its fins pricked alert; followed by a heart stopping powerful dash upstream to reach its weed bed home. Failing to reach its sanctuary, the fish made a lazy upstream flight, its progress halted at the head of a weir. By simply keeping in contact, the fish succumbed, its lips just parting the water beneath the rod tip. Aware my prize was not fully played out; the awaiting net was far from calmly placed beneath the fish. From its deep head and obviously stout frame it dawned that this could indeed be a very special fish, but having fallen short by ounces in the past, I was just satisfied that I had simply caught another spectacular Gipping Chub.

The fish was carefully weighed; the fish and sling pulling the needle of my Avon scales well past the 7lb mark making me stumble. Quickly deducting the weight of the sling I arrived at a weight of 6lb12oz. I jumped a Hill Billy Jig and screamed at the top of my voice ‘I’ve done it!!’ – Very dignified……. The fish was carefully sacked up and a series of breathless phone calls ensued – most significantly to Geoff, followed by the local tackle shop where another good friend came rushing to the scene to take the photographs. The Fish was weighed and photographed an hour later, we both agreed on a final weight of 6lb4oz – as this was witnessed and verified on a second set of scales, I was more than happy. It didn’t really matter, it was clearly over my target weight by a good margin and perhaps an impartial view on weighing is a good policy!

Chasing dreams.
For me, fishing can be a fickle mistress, my head turned by ambitions of catching monsters from another river only to return and find that a dream could come true on my own doorstep. Reflecting back on that disastrous trip to Throop, it had dawned on me that my approach was wrong; it was naive and perhaps arrogant to expect to visit a river and slay its monsters on our first meeting. What I came away with was an immense sense of respect for the anglers that have made the fish in that mighty river so famous; it is very hard and extremely pressured. As for my broken rod, it was like the river had turned round and slapped me in the face for trying to take liberties on our first date.

In complete contrast, I felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that I should catch my dream fish from a river I have learnt intimately and shared a lifetime’s passion. It felt like it was meant to happen, dare I say it, it was fate. I will make my re-acquaintance with the Stour in due time, I will visit with humility and attempt to learn its moods and ways. As for my own little river, I have learnt like any good relationship, the more you put into it, the more you get out – well that’s what my wife keeps telling me!

From a personal point of view I have always found it important to have goals, targets and perhaps a little friendly competition – it’s what keeps me motivated and driven. These however are well grounded and realistic for the types of venues I or my friends are likely to fish in any coming season. But there is an important distinction to be drawn. Dreams should be very different to goals and targets; a dream fish is the most optimistic end of the spectrum and may entail a lifetime’s ambition never to be achieved.

If you should be lucky enough to behold a miracle, it should leave you in no doubt that something very special has taken place, a gift from the river if you like. What I have always loved about the specimen fish targets handed down by our fore Fathers (and by this I mean 2lb Roach, 6lb Tench, 6lb Chub, 10lb Barbel, 10lb Bream and 1lb Dace), is that they are grounded in a belief that perhaps some dreams should come true. Of course we could argue for a revision of some of these targets in light of some of the superb specimens that many venues can produce. But for the angling majority, this is barely necessary. Catching fish of these proportions should be a dream come true for any angler.

Christian Barker