Journalist and predator angler Chris Bishop fell in love with the Fens when he moved to Norfolk five years ago. In a new monthly series, exclusive to FISHINGmagic, he gives us a glimpse of this unique landscape and some of the characters who fish it.
PREDATOR ON THE WING Death lashes down and hits the river in an enormous splash. The water boils, before its massive wings carry it aloft in a shower of spray, with a hapless perch gripped tightly in its talons. I watch transfixed for a minute or two before I grab a camera out of the bag – and remember I left the long lens at home.
I’m still asking myself when I last saw a buzzard, as it wheels away across the Wissey leaving its tormentors behind in a chorus of caws. Odd-looking buzzard come to that, I think to myself, as the sun glints on flashes of white beneath its wings as it stops dead in mid-air. How can a bird that big hover, I wonder, as it floats on the southerly breeze. Then it drops like a stone and smacks into the river, rising effortlessly away with its lunch. I can’t believe I’m seeing his, I say out loud, fumbling for a camera as it drifts away above the bream man fishing the far bank. An osprey’s just appeared out of the big Fen sky to give us both a fishing lesson. “That was an osprey. An osprey wasn’t it,” I shout across the river. “Tha’ss been here all weekend, that was here yes’day too,” comes back the reply, as we crane our necks and scan the empty sky. The double-figure pike which picked up a mackerel tail half an hour earlier would have made any other day. But it pales into insignificance as I realise how lucky I’ve just been.
“Can’t understand it though,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s Sunday morning and there’s just us here.” I can’t understand it either, I admit as he hops back on his boat and motors back to his bream shoal with a wave. Just us here. And the pike. And the osprey. One of the floats slides away across the surface and I pull into another pike. Eight pounds odd on a good day, I guess, as I lift it out. Then again two fish in an hour’s good going the way my fishing’s been all summer. Rebait, cast again and it careers off without even settling. On a roll now indeed, I think as I pick the rod up and wind into it.
My mind’s on other things as I turn the hooks out and drop a future 30 back in the margins. Give it another 10 minutes and I’ll clear off, I think, scanning the skies, unable to concentrate. Chris Hammond would have given his right arm to have seen an osprey. Then again, knowing Chris, he’d probably have got a decent picture of it. Sod it, sling the rods in the car and have a drive on the off-chance of spotting it again. The drive around fails to yield another sighting. But like an idiot, I left the long lens I usually carry at home to lighten the load and the longest I’ve got on me is a 100mm. I did manage to loose off half a dozen frames as it circled so you never know. I blew up the dot in the sky when I got the film back and – well, you could just about see what it was. CRUISING OF A DIFFERENT KIND I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much. It’s not the lager, honest. Well, not entirely. Part of it’s down to the fact we’ve just discovered we’ve tied up alongside one of the busiest cottaging spots in the Fens. I’m not sure whether it’s Disco Dave’s stunned look of incredulity or Andy Doughty’s matter-of-fact description that’s got the tears streaming down my cheeks. “Err, that probably explains why no-one ever fishes here then lads,” shrugs Disco philosophically, taking another slug of the old amber throat charmer. “Apart from the ‘No Fishing’ sign, like.”
There again, we look more like a trio of extras from Lord Of The Rings than the Village People out on the pull as we settle in behind the rods for the night. If they’d had lager in Lord of the Rings of course. And they’d sat around all night on park benches swigging the stuff and giggling inanely. ZA-A-A-A-ANDER? “Za-a-a-ander..? Yew don’ wanna go fishin’ fer them za-a-a—ander,” drawls Disco, launching into the umpteenth impression of a local character whose catch-phrases are almost as famous as some of his own. “Za-a-a-a-ander,” three voices chorus. “Yew don’t wanna go…””Clack. Wheee-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e….” Disco’s down the bank in the flash of an eye, feeling the line between his thumb and forefinger. Seconds later the first za-a-a-a-ander of the holiday’s staring daggers at us from Disco’s mitt, before he slips it back into the black depths of the river. Might only have been a pound or so but it’s an encouraging sign. There really are zander around this bit of the river we’ve never fished before. Encouraging sign two comes along five minutes after Disco Dave rebaits his leger rig and lobs it out towards the far bank.
“Za-a-a-a-ander,” we all chorus for good measure, washing the wisdom down with another swill. Barely half an hour later and “wheee-e-e-e”, Dave’s off again. “S’nother schoolie, shouldn’t rush,” I say to Andy. “Err no, this feels a bit bigger mate. Make that a lot bigger,” says Dave as a fish that literally looks 10 times the size of the last one boils in the glow of the headlamp and tumbles over the draw cord. Disco slips the hooks out and rests it in the landing net for a few seconds while we get scales, weigh sling and cameras ready. It’s a double, 10:10. And what a cracking fish as well, fin perfect apart from a split ray in its tail. Long but solid with a great jewel of an eye that flashes in the torchlight.
We’re still toasting Dave’s 11th double half an hour later when one of my rods goes and I’m into one which bangs around like another good’un on the end. “Stop playing it like a pussy… Yeah, come on Bish, stop fannying around and land it,” comes the helpful chorus from up the bank. We think it might scrape another double as we slip it on the scales but they stop at nine dead this time. Still, it’s another perfect example, all fins, fangs and attitude. “Za-a-a-a-a-ander..? Yew don’ wanna be fishing fer them za-a-a-a-ander,” we sing. Despite trying more lager and some of the jokes which worked earlier in the evening, an hour passes without another touch. Time to hit the sack, we’re unanimous. Three more days of this after all.
It all started when we tried to arrange a few days zander fishing with Graham Marsden, Dave Colclough and Stu Johnson. B&B-ing it was going to cost an arm and a leg and rob us of precious hours in the right places. Other issues, such as licensing hours and storing bait needed to be factored into the equation. Then I sussed it – hire a cabin cruiser. For £ 15 a night each we could fish more or less where we wanted when we wanted, kip on board and have a good crack. We could also recce a few parts of the river we’d never really fished before. It just had to be done. Night one turned into a bit of an anti-climax after we managed to moor up outside the only pub in the Fens which doesn’t open on a Monday and a schoolie which fell off the hooks turned out to be the only run. Night two delivered a double and a near miss, showing just how up and down the main artery of the Fens can be. No-one thinks it’s going to be easy. Least of all us. But it’s fair to say we were pretty confident as Wednesday morning dawned and we set off to RV with FISHINGmagic’s finest.
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly Then a car pulls up and three men get out. One of them breaks wind loudly and I’ll swear I heard a snatch of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly on the breeze. It can only mean one thing. Graham, Dave and Stu. Half of us head off shopping while the other half of the crew take the boat 10 miles or so downstream to a little spot we fancy. We meet up with one or two misgivings. mainly, for reasons I won’t go into, whether we’ll get away with mooring up and fishing here. Still, sod it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It’s interesting, as we set up for the night, how tactics differ. The Fen Boy Three have rods a few yards apart, with leger and sunk float rigs fished to drop-off indicators. Graham, Dave and Stu are on bobbins with a long-ish drop and they’re sitting right over the rods, ready to hammer the first decent bleep. Bleeps come a-plenty as the light fades, but just a jack and a schoolie come to Dave and Graham as it gets dark. We’re well confident but as it happens Disco gets the only decent zed of the night. A move’s in order for the final night. Time for another spot we’ve long fancied and a pound plus perch and the bleak equivalent of a 25lbs pike, which came along while bait snatching, only served to boost our confidence. The river’s full of bait fish. Graham demonstrates his masterful skills at waggler fishing off the front of the boat, catching a steady stream of wrigglers. Then they leave me and Dave at it, while they disappear in search of licensed premises, and before you know it Dave’s into a sizeable tench which leads him a merry dance before the inevitable happens. By the end of the afternoon the zander rods are all in place and Disco’s showing Graham and the lads around one or two of his rigs. We should have caught more. It’s easy to say that in retrospect. But neither our Fen boy tactics, or the visitors’ hover-over-the rods/hit-every-bleep produced much other than missed runs and scored-up baits.
Love it or hate it, the Ouse never gives up its secrets gladly. I love this river for the likes of Dave and Andy, because every time you plot up on it, you never quite know what’s going to happen. The fen drains and rivers are teeming with food fish this year. Someone’s got to hit bonanza time soon. Note from Graham We didn’t catch much but it was an education for us zander improvers to see how Chris, Andy and Dave went about it. They had some interesting rigs and some novel ideas that we took on board and will no doubt try on our one and only zed water that’s close enough to fish on a regular basis (and that’s over 70 miles away!). Rather than fish pike style like the fen’s trio – drop-off indicators, pick the rod up and feel if the fish is still there – we decided to try the style that we found was best on our ‘local’ zander pit, which is closed bale-arm, a hanger on a fairly long drop, sit over the rods and hit anything that could even resemble a bite. Trouble was, we weren’t there long enough to make a fair comparison of anything, and fate decided that zander sport was going to tale off at the latter end of the week. But we’ll be better zander anglers for the experience, and that’s only fitting, considering that it was Chris and Dave Marrs (zander lander supreme) who gave us so much information and encouragement to fish for the species in the first place. Anyone who hasn’t fished for zander should do something about it soon; they’re different, interesting and one of the best looking fish to grace a landing net. Loads of zander information here on Dave Marrs’ zander website |
