Well done, Alan, that'll teach them to all hide in the same place!
I was out the same day and fishery where Whitty blanked last week, and almost suffered the same fate, but in my case, through fishing like a pondside grden gnome with St.Vitus' Dance. My thumb had completely forgotten what to do, and I spent almost as much time unpicking tangles as I did fishing. A gusting wind that seemed to come from three points of the compass at once didn't help...
I was fishing to a cunning plan, but someone must have tipped those sneaky fish off, for in the spot where the eddy peels off, and food should settle out, there were no roach; and whre the eddy returns to the main flow, and in the main flow itself, were no barbel. There were, however, horrendous snags there, that ate two of my legers - on ten-pound string! As part one of The Plan was to fish a big bait in the main flow while I set up the roach kit, that flopped.
After an hour of thrashing the eddy to a foam with neither roach nor gudgeon, to keep hope alive, the float buried and something big went nod, nod, nod just off the rod-end, then sauntered off into the nearside weeds to find a disgorger. It was kind enough to pick a twig which actually came back to me, so i got my hook back and was sure the culprit was a chub. Tiny bit of bread on a 16.
About three hours later, a trot ran on and on without finding the shallows, and some way past the next peg (empty, of course) it vanished, and a chub came very grudgingly to the net; it was just over four pounds, and I wasn't sure it wasn't a bearded wonder till I saw it. That was the end of roaching for me; on went a waffling float and a mussel, which waffled down to the spot I'd expected to produce roach and, later, sank; another very grumpy chub of just over four, but a different pattern of spots on its face, so not the same fish.
My float got beaten up in the scrap, so I took up the roach set again, and got the worst overrun I've seen since my beach gear got retired; five stray loops of ten-pound stuff will eventually surrender, but two dozen in three-pound gossamer ain't gonna play nicely. I had fifteen minutes left, but couldn't have set up a spare reel in time, so s@dded orft 'ome, grateful for the two chub, but in need of 'pinhead rehab for my stoopid thumb.
Note to self: cheesepaste for the next trip, and pack an egg-beater in case of moody breezes and a dumb thumb.