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.
“IT’S NOT ALWAYS THIS EASY YOU KNOW” Fabian blushes with pride when John the bailiff appears, to find out how we’re diddlin’. “I’ve had two pikes,” he pipes up, arms stretched out in time-honoured gesture. “And Dad’s had two – but his was just jacks.” I wish I was seven again sometimes. Or someone else drove me out there, cast the baits out in his best spots, hit all the runs and just handed the rod over when there was a fish on.
So we’re starting on the bunch of gravel pits John runs because I know the fish just might come often enough to show the boy there’s more to life than Playstation. John’s listening with the patience of a saint, as Fabian relives his triumph for the umpteenth time, when one of the livebaits goes for a burton. I pull into it and hand the rod over, thinking it felt a bit bigger than the last two I passed his way. Next thing the rod tip slams down and the lad’s water skiing on dry land, heading for the lake (note to Dad – set the drag on the reel next time…). “Don’t be such a wimp,” Dad says helpfully, as boy leans back, digging his Action Man trainers in and giving it some grunt. “Goooo on there my boy. You hold on tight there,” John the bailiff says, shooting his arm around the lad’s midriff just in case, as I jump down the bank with the landing net. The line sings in the breeze above my head as the two-man tug of war team put the pressure on. As a scraper double comes over the net, we pronounce it a monster, the biggest pike a little boy ever caught. “I’ve had three now,” Fabian beams, as I flip the hooks out and tee him up for a picture. “And Dad’s only had two. And his was only jacks and mine was all doubles, weren’t they Dad.” John the bailiff’s weathered face creases up in a great big smile before he’s off on his rounds with a wave, a laugh and a puff of cigar smoke. Southport’s Finest and Andy A few days later and we’re on for a repeat performance. Jack Pike, Southport’s finest export, is staying for a couple of days. And we’ve hooked up with a lad called Andy, who’s never been piking before. John’s pits seem a safe bet for a fish or two, so we arrange to meet there to see if we can catch him one.
But he’s realised there’s more to life than this kind of fishing, which is where me and Jack Pike come in – or so the theory goes. We start with a quick run through two basic gravel pit rigs, as we get Andy sorted with a pencil float on one rod and a legered dead straight off a stem on the other. Ten minutes later and Norfolk’s newest piker’s got a pair of deads in a channel between the bank and an island, as he settles back on his seatbox. Well he did have briefly, before the float slid off in time-honoured style and all four pounds of his first-ever pike joined us on the bank. First-ever piking trip, pike first cast. Andy can’t believe it. He’s thrilled to bits in fact. Barely an hour later and he’s into a bigger one, which catches him off guard when it wakes up and legs it for some marginal lilies two swims down the bank. A quick dive through a thorn bush (ouch), a bit of jiggery-pokery with a spare rod, an opportunist scoop with the landing net by eagle-eyed Jack Pike in the next swim and Andy’s PB’s shot from nought to just over 12lbs in his first hour’s piking. “It isn’t always this easy you know,” I warn him – not even dreaming quite how ironic those few words would turn out to be. We haven’t put Andy off, despite the fact we struggle until I bump two off one after another and finally nail one at last knockings. Jack nabs his namesake He wants to come out the next day. So we kick off on an easy drain, to see if we can catch him a couple more.
Time for a move but ‘where?’ is the question. I fancy the pub. If they aren’t feeding on this drain, the only nearby alternative is ten times the size and twice as windy, I tell the lads – not that I was trying to put them off, you understand. And it’s only a mile down the road. And they do Black Dog. And you get a real plateful for a fiver. And the barmaid’s Catherine Zeta-Jones’s sister… Jack and Andy don’t look too bothered as we give the drain a once-over, so we abandon all thoughts of a liquid lunch, plot up in the reeds and lob the baits out into the teeth of the blow. We’re all on sea deads, Andy’s got a scad (horse mackerel) on that’s seen better days. I make a mental note to give him a couple of fresh baits out of my coolbox when he reels it in. I keep forgetting he’d never been pike fishing until yesterday, I’ll go up in a minute and make sure everything’s ok. “Chris, Chris – me thing’s gone, I think I’ve got one, yes, it is,” comes the shout from the next swim, while I’m still trying to get the rods angled right to beat the wind.
It’s staying deep, I think out loud, as I sink the net and peer into the depths. Maybe it’s another double. Then there’s a flash of silvery-green and the biggest zander I’ve ever seen appears, with the bottom hook of the trace nicked right in the front of its mouth. He’s going to lose it. He’s going to lose it. That hook’s going to pull, one headshake and it’s gone, I think as it wallows on the surface, gills flared. Instinct says tell him to ease off, it’s going to go off on one when it sees the net. But I bite my lip, because if I start interfering and he loses it, it’s going to be my fault.Somehow it doesn’t come off. It surges towards us, the top hook catches the mesh, the shop-bought trace snaps and its forward momentum sends it somersaulting into the net. “Is that a good one then?” I turn around, lost for words, as Andy sees his prize for the first time. “Is that a zander..? Blimey, how big do you reckon that is – is that a good one then..?” he says in all innocence, as I lift the net from the water. Jack Pike’s with us now, marvelling speechless at its bulk. Whoever said there’s nothing as impressive as a big zander certainly knew his onions. This one’s in mint-condition, with pectoral fins like table tennis bats. I guess it at around the 15lbs mark. A zed to be proud of in anyone’s language. One touch of the forceps and the hook’s out. Andy looks non-plussed when I tell him it’s the fish of a lifetime. He shrugs it off as beginner’s luck, as I slide it into the weigh sling. And what a zed. The Avons lap the dial well into orange territory and judder to a halt at 15:02. Knock 14oz off for the sling and it’s 14:04. Then Andy’s cradling it, worrying he’s going to drop it, while I worry about shutter speeds and depth of field. Under one, over one, bracket it – and don’t forget you cock up pictures when you’re this hyper, says a helpful voice in the back of my head, as I try to keep the fish sharp and blur the background, fingers fumbling their way around the f/stops.
Never mind the fact the cap’s put half of Andy’s face in shadow and he looks like Monolito off the High Chaparral. I could have asked him to take it off or lit him with a bit of flash, but you don’t think about things like that when you’re staring though the viewfinder at the biggest zander you’ve ever seen and the flashgun’s in the car. Jack must have had a voice transplant while we’ve been doing the honours. I can see his lips moving but the only words that make it out are wow and crackin’, wow and crackin’. I try for a last farewell picture but it’s gone in an instant the second he eases it out of the sling. “Well, I suppose you’d call that a bit of beginner’s luck then,” Andy smiles, shaking his hands dry. I’m lost for words for a second. It’s the middle of the bright, sunny day. And the biggest zander I’ve ever seen’s just mopped up a horse mackerel. “It isn’t always this easy you know,” I say, with a distinct feeling of deja view. “I know guys who fish around here all the time who’ve never seen one that size.” As I put the Avons away, I realise I forgot to zero them. When I check, they’re set 2oz shy of the mark, so Andy’s first ever zander, on his second-ever predator fishing trip, went 14:06. So the lad hit bonanza big-time. The way he’s going he’ll probably nail a Fenland 30 by the time you read this. |
