Journalist and predator angler Chris Bishop fell in love with the Fens when he moved to Norfolk a few years ago. In a regular series, exclusive to FISHINGmagic, he gives us a glimpse of this unique landscape and some of the characters who fish it.
The Fenland Flyer Water, water everywhere. Barrie Rickards is up to his knees in the stuff, casting his fly at what used to be the Delph. The drain has burst its banks and covered the Welney Washes, hundreds of acres of low-lying pasture which are flooded each winter to store excess water. Half the fish could be three fields away but Barrie’s still swishing away, along with the 20 or so fellow fluff-chuckers who lined up at the draw for the Fenland Flyer, an annual charity pike fly fishing contest organised by the Pike Fly Fishing Association, aka Peter Jones, Colin Brett and Alan Ward. The mood was optimistic as we munched bacon rolls in the Lamb and Flag before the draw. The Colonel’s pike looked down with its beady eye as the talk turned to fly patterns and the prospects for the day. Not prepared for the fact some of these guys will happily walk two miles before they start fishing, I managed to miss all the action last year and while I got some great pics of people fly fishing, I managed to be at the other end of the match length every time a fish was caught. This year the drain’s gin clear, the margins are flooded and most of the decent spots are difficult to fish in the gathering breeze. While most of the guys I regularly fish with are obsessed with secrecy and keeping things in house, the fly guys are bantering each day. One readily volunteers he’s had a few follows on a particular fly. The rest follow suit and as Roger McCarthy gives me a running commentary on what he’s doing, he hooks a jack. Roger went on to win the match with two fish for 11lbs 11oz. Cecil White came second with an eight pounder I grabbed from on top of the floodbank, not wishing to get my feet wet. Third was Richard Harvey, with a six pounder. Perhaps the most impressive capture of the day was the 8lbs 4oz zander caught by Allan Shephard. Colin Brett, patrolling the match length on a mountain bike, was on hand to take a picture. There are record numbers of swans on the Washes this year. The huge flood reservoir is an internationally-important bird reserve run by the Wildfowl and Wetland Trust. I can see huge flocks of them grazing neighbouring fields, hundreds of puffs of cotton wool against the black peat. Every now and then a formation flies overhead. I know the picture I want but as I burn half a roll of film with a clack-ack-ack-ack of the motordrive, I know the 200mm lens I’ve got on an old F4 hasn’t got the reach to make it happen. As the anglers drift back to the village hall for a cuppa before the presentation, the mood’s upbeat. Four pike and a zander caught, but even those who blanked have enjoyed the challenge of tackling what was a new water for most of them, using a method still in its infancy. Best of all, the day’s raised over £ 250 for the Anthony Nolan Bone Marrow Trust. I’ve already agreed to go and photograph next year’s. Total Fannies
Weee. We-bee-bee-bee-beep… The bite alarm shatters a hangover like a bear’s backside as one of Fabian’s rods goes. He puts down his Game Boy and leaves Sonic the Hedgehog to fend for himself, as I pull into it and hand him the rod. “Go on boy, bend into it. Hold the rod up, give it some stick, lean into it or it’ll…” The line goes slack, the fish is off. Okay, he’s seven and still struggles with a Dad-sized rod and reel. There again I’ve cast it for him as you have to get a bait out 40 or 50 yards to a feature on this part of the pit to catch. And apart from lobbing it out to the right spot, tightening down and hooking the fish for him, there isn’t much else I can do apart from catch them myself. “Never mind son,” I say, bunging another mackerel tail out and sorting his indicator out. “I expect we’ll get another one.” No sooner has he gone back to Sonic the Hedgehog, when the alarm goes again. I smack it one, feel it kick on the end and give it another couple of digs to make sure it’s well and truly nailed. It feels that way as I hand him the rod, but again it just falls off almost straight away, as the boy stands there holding the rod instead of bending in. “Why did I lose it Dad,” he asks. “Because you played it like a total fanny,” I snap. “I told you to keep the line tight or it would come off.” Tears smart in his eyes as he goes back to his Game Boy. I know I’ve gone over the top. It’s only fishing. I start explaining the finer points of playing a fish as we bung breakfast on the stove. Then one of my alarms goes, I pick the rod up and give it a good whack. “See, you need to keep the line tight all the time, bend into ’em hard like this,” I say as the line goes slack and the hooks fall out. I’m not sure what else to add, as I rebait and lob it back out again. We’re just tucking into a couple of cans of Pasta LaVista when my rod goes off again. Pull into it hard, the rod kicks round, there’s a great big swirl and this one’s off as well. The air goes blue. “Goodness me, this certainly is an unprecedented occurence losing four fish one after another, I simply can’t offer any explanation whatsoever as to why this has happened four times in a row,” I say out loud. Or words to that effect. “Dad, I think I might know why you lost it” a little voice pipes up, as I put another mackerel tail on the hooks and blast it out to the gravel bar. “It was it cos you played it like a total fanny..” Oh, Why Didn’t I Have a Day Off?
I’d meant to have the day off work. There was a fish I fancied catching a mate had nabbed a few weeks beforehand. It was pencilled in somewhere, on the back boiler. Several other mates were also up to speed about the fish and the spot it seemed to prefer, where it had put in one or two previous appearances. I’d even thought I should have had this particular day off as I looked at the river out of the newsroom window and the low sun sparred with the clouds scudding in off the sea. Three hours later and we were knee deep in the usual mayhem which makes a newspaper. There’s been a murder, a train’s narrowly missed a lorry on a level crossing days after the Reading rail disaster, all four phones on the newsdesk are ringing and I when grab the nearest one, it’s not a reporter ringing in with the latest angle or some other contender for the front page – it’s big Phil. “Bish, guess what,” he says. “I’ve just had a 27.8 off the river.” Phil’s sacked the fish while he gets his breath back. A fish like that deserves a decent picture, we agree. Lunchtime’s looming so I lob the cameras in the car and pop down for a butcher’s. I spot Phil’s car off the bridge and manage to get there in one piece – despite the furry Exocet better known as Phil’s labrador Jake, which bounds down the bank and launches a flying head butt straight at my wedding tackle as I walk up the floodbank. I’m already wishing I’d had the day off when I look down into the big carp sack and see a tail like both my hands together rippling through the mesh. Phil’s not a small bloke by any stretch of the imagination. But when he holds her up, she seems to go on forever as I squint through the camera. I’ve photographed plenty of pike before, but this is one of the most beautiful fish I’ve ever seen. Near mint, its fins are perfect with a reddish sheen and while the scales bump down to 27.8, her belly looks half full and we know we’re looking at a potential 30 come the back-end. I’m waxing lyrical as I click away, green with envy. “I wish I’d caught that, what a fish.” Phil takes it all on board in his usual casual manner. I doubt anything ever phases Phil, he’s one of the most laid-back blokes I know, who just gets out and does his own thing. The reeds lining the bank twitch as he slips her back and she heads off for a quiet spot to sulk. “I had a bit of shopping to do, then I came down here, chucked some baits out, had a 15, then I caught it,” Phil offers almost apologetically, shrugging off the capture. I’d have been turning cartwheels on the bank if I’d caught that. I’d be reliving the rod going over as I pulled into it for weeks, savouring every surge and headshake before I held it in my arms. I drive back to office on a perfect piker’s day. Walking back through the town centre, the knees of my work trousers stained with peat, I clock Phil’s mate Mike in the High Street, also in his work clothes. He shakes his head and smiles. “Yeah Bish, yeah Bish – I know,” he says. “He’s just rung and told me you been out to photograph it.” “Spawny bastard,” we chorus in unison, both wishing we’d had the day off, before I go back to my murder and my mayhem. |
