Dabbling On The Dane

An angler fishes for chub on the picturesque River Dane in Cheshire (click for bigger picture)

I can always find things to do during the closed season, like having a drive about looking for new areas, and even going down to the places that I already know of, just for a look. The memories it brings flooding back are uncountable. The people I have met, the funny things that have happened, and best of all the countless chub that I have caught. Most of them have a story attached, if only we can remember them. This is one reason I now keep notes, because when we are out of season and are having a mooch about, it is almost as good as actually fishing.

One of my favourite out of season pastimes is float making
This really begins in the Autumn as I am walking across the fields, there are lots of crow quills lying about in the grass, and I usually collect a dozen or so, and take them home for use later in the year.

Baz’s crow quill floats

It is the crow quill Avon that I enjoy using no matter what the water or weather conditions are like. I suppose it’s because they look the part, and conjure up pictures of a person who knows what he is about, and maybe a Kelly kettle steaming away by his side for that all important cup of tea. The cup of tea part, yes, I can go along with that, but as for knowing what I am about can only be left to the onlooker to decide. But I enjoy it and that’s what is important.

As for the float making, that is saved for a rainy day in the shed. First off I gently singe or burn the feather fibres from the quill and give them a gentle rub with a piece of sand paper, being careful not to take the natural waterproof coating off the quill itself. Next I get a piece of balsa and burn a hole top and bottom, not all the way through, but just enough to take the diameter of the quill. Shaping the balsa body is simply a matter of a few quick flicks with a craft knife depending on whether one of my lads hasn’t ‘borrowed’ it and then again finish them off with a gentle sanding down. I use a waterproof glue to fix the two separate pieces of quill into place at the top and bottom of the balsa, and finish the quill off by spiralling a piece of fine gauge copper wire down the bottom half of the quill to give it added strength. Finally the paint job. I always find it better to give the float top a coat of white paint first, as this makes the final coat of orange paint more translucent and stand out more clearly. The last job is to give the balsa body a coat of waterproof stain, and that’s it, all done and dusted ready for the coming season. Each of my floats takes no more than four No. 4 shot. And more importantly they catch fish. Many thanks to the chap that I met on the Dane all those years ago for showing me how to make them in the first place. They really are the dog’s doo daaahs.

A bit of old Bill?

How’s this for a bit of old Bill then? I had completed this article in full, and was looking for a photograph, which I was sure I had taken on the day on which the next paragraph is written about. Complete with a centrepin reel (Arnold), split cane rod, (Edgar Sealy) one of the crow quills that I used on the day, and even a sprig of rose bay willow herb. You will also notice, that on the float I use three rubber bands and a piece of rubber that extends beyond the end of the float. If I didn’t know myself better, I would say that I had planned it.

The first time I used a crow quill float I ended up in my undies!
Thinking of the chap who first showed me how to make the crow quills takes me back to when I first tried one out for myself. I had a week off work and the weather was a real scorcher of a day, it was midweek and again nobody else was about. Not the best of conditions for chubbing we might think, but as it turned out it was most definitely one of those red letter days, and I have only ever equalled it once in the whole of my fishing career. So you never can tell what will happen can you?

I was feeding hempseed on a very regular basis and also fishing it on a size eighteen hook. It wasn’t long before I caught sight of the chub with the bright sun flashing on their flanks. Chub after chub just kept on coming to the net, it was real adrenalin pumping action for half the morning and into mid afternoon, and I wasn’t using a keepnet – I just can’t weigh it up at times. I am not exaggerating when I say I had over seventy pounds of chub, all weighing two and a half to three pounds.

It got to about three o’clock in the afternoon when I decided it was brew time. I screwed the top off me flask and placed it on the bank, then as I turned to get the milk I knocked my cup into the river, and as I lay down to reach my cup, the sandy bank gave way and I ended up lying full stretch in about ten inches of water.But what the heck, it wasn’t a problem, and I stripped off completely down to me underpants and laid my clothing out on the bank side to hopefully dry out as it was still very hot. I had the brew and carried on fishing for another two hours.

Somewhere about five o’clock I decided to call it a day and get dressed. My clothes were still wet, so seeing that there was still no one else about, and I didn’t fancy putting wet clothing back on, I tackled up and as I was wearing waders at the time I must have looked a right sight walking across the fields in me underpants and waders, with those little straps hanging down the sides. My last thoughts about this most eventful day were, please God, don’t let anybody else come across the field now and catch sight of me, as there were sheep in the field and they were all running away from me as I approached them. Well, what would you do?

Quivertipping with meat, then I slugged ’em!
It can’t have been long after this remarkable session that I was once again back on the Dane, and this time I was quivertipping with meat, which was the only bait that I had with me. After all, I had recently caught over seventy pound of chub so I must know what I am doing, I was full of confidence that I was going to catch and it didn’t matter what bait I had, I was an expert.

I sat on a peg different to where I had my record catch from, but I had fished it before and never blanked on it.

A full hour and a half later and I was still waiting for my first bite. I can tell you that my ego was fully deflated, and I cursed myself for not bringing a change of bait. This was another lesson I would do well to remember.

I sat there with my head in my hands trying to think of what to do. When like a flash of bright light, I got to thinking what Graham Marsden would do in a situation like this. And then I remembered an article he had written about slug fishing. Sure enough, there lying at my feet was the biggest, blackest slug that I had ever laid eyes on. It was as if the man himself was stood over my shoulder saying, don’t cry mate try one of these.

I looked at this slug for what seemed an age before I plucked up the courage to pick a dock leaf to hold my black piece of gold with, and impale it on the end of my hook. This was my first time with slugs, which meant I was a virgin slugger. That first time still makes me shiver even now when I think about it, but I was getting desperate to catch something. With the newfound bait firmly hooked through the tail end I gave it a gentle chuck of only about ten yards. As I was putting my rod back in the rest, the rod itsself was almost snatched out of my hand. Good God that was a quick bite I thought to myself as I reeled a three pound chub to the waiting net. At last I had caught something, I spotted another slug in the grass, so picking another dock leaf I soon had that one on the hook as well.

I cast this one to the same spot and couldn’t believe it when the same thing happened again – bang! Over went the rod tip before the rod had been put down, a carbon copy of the first bite. Nine slugs and nine chub later, I still couldn’t believe it, I would have put money on the fact that there were no fish in front of me. I couldn’t find any more slugs and so I thought to myself the chub must have moved in. I had plenty of meat so I put a piece on and eagerly waited for the rod to take on a life of its own. But nothing happened; they simply did not want meat. In my haste to find slugs I must have knocked my box of meat over, and there gathered around the meat were half a dozen or so more slugs, black, brown, grey, some with an orange frill around the edge of them, it didn’t matter, every single one of them produced a chub and I was picking them up with my bare hands in the end, I couldn’t get them hooked quick enough. Every one a winner as they say. Slugs don’t always produce the goods, but on this day they did. Thank you God, or should that be Graham.

Slugging for chub (click for bigger picture)

Anyone looking for slugs when you are down the river try looking around the base of plants or underneath the leaves of Rosebay Willow herb, that’s the tall weed with a bright pink flower, you will know it when you see it. Failing that, put a couple of pieces of meat in the grass near to where you are fishing, the smell will soon attract them.

Slug City
But if you want an uncountable number of slugs, then go to Clitheroe. I was up there once by Edison bridge,or is it Edisford? which incidentally was where I caught my first ever grayling. It was early one morning and I had a walk into the town to buy a newspaper. I can see it clearly right now, as I had to walk in the road, because the pavements were covered by literally thousands, if not millions of them. It would have been like a skating rink if you had dared to walk on them. And it soon became known as slug city.

Another special day
Another one of those special days came the following winter. I had gone through a couple of sessions where I really had to work at it if I didn’t want to go home fishless. The nights were drawing in, and it was getting progressively colder and I was still fishing as though it was the middle of summer. Time to change tactics and go roaming about to find the chub. Instead of bringing them to me, I would go looking for them. This would be my battle plan for the next couple of months.

I had armed myself with two pints of maggots, something which I can’t do in the summer because of the shoals of minnows. And apart from anything else I had made a note of a nice little cave-like structure that I had noticed during the low water levels earlier in the year. It was where the current was continually hitting the far bank, not at a terrific rate of knots, but just enough to hollow it out gradually over the years. I used a maggot feeder on this occasion because I wanted the bait to get on the bottom before being swept away completely by the current of the river, and I guessed my cave-like structure was no more than three feet in length. The rod was tackled up and a few quarter filled feeders were launched into the desired spot for about fifteen minutes at three minute intervals or thereabouts.

I was keen to start fishing and so I made the first underarm cast of about ten feet somewhat tentatively into the swim. I should say that is where I wanted my baited hook to go, but it didn’t, instead it went straight into the bushes opposite (expletive deleted). Why should it happen? I don’t have a clue, call it sod’s law if you like.

As I was sat there tackling up again, another angler came along and asked, in a deep scouse accent, if I had caught anything. I told him I hadn’t even started yet, which I hadn’t. And he also told me that he had not caught anything although he had been on for a couple of hours. This gentleman from the north asked me what bait I was going to use, so I told him lobworms. Eeeer, would you mind if I scabbed a couple off you mate he said, and as I did also have some lobbies, I gave him half a dozen, but kept my other hand firmly clamped over my watch as I passed them to him. Cheers mate, I’ll let you know how I do if I see you later on, and off he went to a swim about three hundred yards away.

I had re-tackled and was ready to go again, and I tried not to be nervous this time. All went well and I was hitting the spot every time from then on. It wasn’t long before I had my first chub, then another, and another, this is how it went for the rest of the afternoon and I immediately knew I was in for a good session. All in all I must have had around twenty-something chub, which I was well pleased with seeing it was winter time.

I had run out of maggots, and it was now getting dark, but I’d had a really good day, and as the owls were now starting to call to each other from along the river I tackled up and went along to see how the Bootle borrower had done. He was partly tackled up when I got to him, and he had a smile on his face which stretched from ear to ear. Eh mate, let me shake your hand he said, them lobworms worked a treat, I have caught my biggest chub yet, and it must have weighed four pounds or more. Great stuff I said to him as we shook hands, we were both as happy as Larry as we walked back towards the cars.

But my day wasn’t over yet.

As we got to the cars and had a cup of tea together, I couldn’t resist it, I had to say to him, do you know that four pound chub what you caught? Yes mate he said, it was a corker. Well, I said, seeing it was one of my worms you caught it on, I think half of that chub belongs to me. He looked at me with almost a look of doubt on his face, then burst out laughing. We had both had a really good day and quite often bump into each other, and he always says, I’ll remember to bring you that worm back what I owe you, but he never does.

The most memorable catches are not always big catches though
I remember being on the Dane about ten years ago on a Boxing Day afternoon. There had been a falling of snow and I had decided to shake the cobwebs off after the previous day’s festivities. I had set off with a dozen or so lobworms and a few slices of Warby’s best. It was early afternoon and not chilly at all as the sun was out and at it’s fullest.

I was fishing in a swim where the river was moving at a fairly fast pace over the rocks and boulders, It didn’t matter if I caught or not, the pleasure of being there was reward enough on this bright and crispy day. But catch I did, it was a lovely chub of about two and a half pounds, and I momentarily held it, admiring its fin-perfect quality, before releasing it back into the shallow but turbulent and icy cold water.

The icing on the cake came, so to speak, as I let go of the chub, and watched as it swam effortlessly back into the faster current, when something caught my eye. As I looked up to the opposite bank there was a fox, with her bright red coat against the snowy background caught in a ray of sunlight, quietly watching my every movement. This is my most memorable moment on the Dane, a feeling of being at one with nature. And one I will treasure forever.

We haven’t long to go now before the start of a new season, I wonder what surprises it will hold in store for us all, each as individuals. Let us hope there will be some good memories for us to fall back on. Will it be a personal best? Or simply being there? Whatever happens, savour every moment, enjoy yourselves, and all the very best in the coming season to each and every one of you.