freeline-23 - Page 87



Made In England
I’d had a quick walk around that area
the previous week and was amazed
at how overgrown the banks were – it
was like the bloody Amazon rainforest! The reason, obviously, was that
almost everybody uses boats nowadays, so the banks are rarely trod,
hence the resurgence of undergrowth
– it was lovely. I declined Adam’s offer
of the boat and picked up the plumbing rod instead and after an hour or so
had found a couple of areas that I was
pretty happy with, so despatched a
bottom bait and a buoyant 360 out to
them, along with fifty or so baits. The
third rod was more of a rover as it was
difficult to find anything clear enough
to present it on; a pop up straight off
the lead would have to suffice.
To cut a long story short, we caught
nothing, although we did see carp in
front of us on both evenings, and as I
was leaving on Tuesday morning a
couple more showed right on top of
Adam. After I’d left he’d had a single
bleep on one rod, but nothing further.
A few hours later, as he was packing
away, he went out in the boat to
check out the area he’d been fishing,
and where he’d had the bleep. Peering over the side he sought out the
single washed-out bait he’d lowered
onto the edge of the clear patch, fifteen feet below, but he couldn’t see it.
Tracing the line from the rod top he
returned to the spot and found the
bait a couple of yards into the weed.
He’d been using a five ounce running
lead and had received a single bleep.
How on earth do we catch them?
It was a great couple of days, fishing Wraysbury for the first time in
almost fifteen years. The planes were
still the same, but that had never
really bothered me too much, and
Penning is such good company that
you tend to overlook insignificant
stuff like traffic noise. We were even
joined by Jim Foster on the second
evening, and the combination of a
huge Chinese meal and some weird
and wonderful conversation made for
a remarkably fine evening, made even
more amusing when Adam, who had
berated Jim roundly for knocking over
his wine... knocked over his wine! Oh,
how I laughed!
Since then I’ve not been angling,
until today. It’s the first of December
and I arrived at Ashmead at eight
o’clock this morning, to find it empty
– glorious. To think, this time last year
we were just about to experience one
of the worst winters for decades, with
the temperatures barely reaching
above freezing, but here I am a year
(Top) Mark Coward with his second
PB in as many hours – the Brute at 54.
(Left) A glorious dawn in the River.
FREE LINE 87

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