Complicating Matters

The modern angler of today has a relatively easy time, in many cases having access to a vast array of quality tackle, most match anglers having several poles, rods, reels and a massive selection of terminal tackle, this of course being a good thing, or is it, I can only offer a story for analysis and you should take from it what you will, as any writings can only be deciphered by the person whom reads it, as individuals, every person looks through their own window of life and with their own perspective.

It was the 4th match in the north east Drennan league to be held on the tidal river Trent at Dunham bridge, I was looking forward to it as is always the case , having had a constant love affair with this river for years , even though I did not feel on top form having had some sort of virus for the past week I still had that pre match buzz at the draw, that was until I realised that the peg that I had been allocated was not so good and a fair walk to boot, never mind, the best of a bad draw and all that was spinning through my head as I loaded my barrow with even more tackle and marched of into the horizon , a little while later at peg 161 I stared down to the bottom of the rocks realising that I had forgotten my rock climbing gear and Sherpa, it was going to be one of those days , little did I know what was in store for me, I clambered down the rocks and started to arrange my tackle, as you do, when faced with a peg of such a description, just managing to get sorted before the whistle, It was to be a ground bait feeder attack with hemp and caster feeder as back up, I had even taken some steak and mince in case of exceptional difficulties because you can always catch the odd chub on this method even when there is little or no chance of a bite, “Well there goes that theory”, Out went ten balls of ground bait laced with casters promptly followed by my light feeder set up .8mm match team hook length to a 22 B611, “oh” I neglected to mention that it is the middle of July but it feels like a cold November with a biting wind in my clock, I tend to go through the same routine on the feeder, timing the first half an hour baiting and casting every 5 minutes, depending on bites of course, 10 minutes in the second half hour and 15 minutes being the maximum time that the bait is left, in the first 10 minutes or so I noticed that in the peg to my left a waggler was being thrown out, one of those shop bought jobs carrying about 6AAA it was making its way down to my peg waving about like an old bottle would, bobbing and weaving like Frank Bruno showing at least 5 inches of tip, you have no doubt seen the set up somewhere on your travels, but however crude, this chap had a bite, striking like Zorro and casting with the pin point accuracy of scud missile he hauled in a 2-3oz chub, commenting that it had swallowed his size 16 hook, any minute now I thought, within the first 35 minutes this chap had a chub a perch and two roach, I scurried around setting up a light waggler which I fished for the next hour feeding a little hemp and a few maggots every other chuck to no avail, trying different depths and a whole manner of baits, as you do, still nothing, back on the feeder I went, single maggot, single pinkie, single caster, single grain of corn still nothing, a vision of home in a nice warm workshop whipping some eyes on my new bomb rod with a hot cup of earl grey flashed through my mind, I took some more pain killers, wiped my running nose and pondered my next move, A fresh approach was called for, a long chuck to the far bank with steak and mince, yes that was the obvious solution, so re rigging one of my feeder rods to suit I did just that, for 45 minuets I fished without even a tremble, I sat with head in hands “woe is me” what would I have to do to get a bite, everything that I had learnt throughout my years was swimming through my thoughts sending me into a tackle frenzied whirlwind of indecision finally left jerking a lobby about in desperation,” please, please” let there be one of those most bold of fighting fishes, that I used to read of as a lad, a magic footballer with stripes across its back and eyes of darkest black, “Ti-------me, ”came the call, “oh no”, I stood motionless for a moment listening to the moans and groans of those around me, the chap next peg explaining to his team mate that he only had six or seven bites and only four fish, I remember thinking how lucky he was to have had at least one bite, I sank into the undergrowth trying to pack my gear up as quickly as possible without being noticed, but it was not to be, down came the scales man “anything to weigh mate” he exclaimed with a slight grin on his face upon seeing my keep net as dry as dry can be upon the bank top, “Err!!!  No mate” I responded in a soft voice, “oh what team is it then”, he questioned raising his eyebrow, “Brigg Whizzo” I answered, “OOPS”! Came the reply.
 I wanted to pull my head back into my shell like a turtle when faced with an embarrassing situation, I continued to pack up my gear hoping that was the end of that, but alas as three anglers passed by one of them turned to the others pointing a finger and exclaiming, “That Brigg Whizzo guy blanked”, I cursed myself for a while for this was the first time in as long as I can remember that this had happened to me on this river, It was now glorious sunshine, such is the great British weather, I trudged back to the car with my tail between my legs trying to forget the uneventful past hours, continuing to persecute myself .

Conclusion
 

When you fish a match for yourself it is not of paramount importance to do so well as you are only letting yourself down but in a team event you are fishing not only for yourself but also for your team mates and it just so happens that the team were doing very well at this time winning the league up to press with several points clear from the second placed team, so the dismal performance from myself could be a very important factor, later that night however I was graciously informed by another team member that the team had some star results to keep us in first place even though we had suffered two dry nets, this cheered my spirits somewhat, but a lesson had been learned which I will not forget in such a hurry, All of the fish that had been caught around me, I say ALL as a pound would have given me good points, were caught in the first half hour mainly coming to waggler tackle, which I had not set up (not being renowned for taking a long time to get sorted of course ha ! ha !) so in one respect it was certainly this factor as to why I had a dry net at the end of the match, not being one to give the usual excuses the blame lies firmly on my own shoulders but the river was not fishing as it should for this time of year for if it had of been I am sure that the approach that I had settled upon as my main attack would have stood me on firm ground not only in my section but also in the match as I am sure that the fish are there, of course we can only speculate on the reasons why they did not feed as they should, perhaps the air pressure was not as it should be, there was certainly a low cold whether front over the river and the recent rains of late had not done us any favours, to round things up I think in a situation like this sometimes the simplest of approaches can often be the best and too much wisdom can only serve as a hindrance, too much tackle and many different baits can only confuse the issue in hand.

This brings me to an interesting comment I once heard when working in a tackle shop from a well respected captain of a very proficient team, when explaining the weekends events on our local river Ancholme, he stated, “I did not have a bite all match there was not one fish in my peg”, “I don't think there is one fish in that entire section”, I leave you to ponder this statement, Fact or Fiction ?, maybe they were all at the pub or on holiday.

 tight lines

 Tomo.