Angler’s Mail – July 09, 2019

28 | 9 JULY anglersmail.com

MAURICE PLEDGER

The acclaimed artist and traditional angler shares his love of

wildlife and the great outdoors in this vibrant mini series.

MAURICE PLEDGER

The acclaimed artist and traditional angler shares his love of

wildlife and the great outdoors in this vibrant mini series.

MINI

SERIES

1

984. Nothing strange in
     that, but by mid-afternoon
     on this particular day, even I
     would have admitted to there
     being a surreal Orwellian feel
     in the air. My tench fi shing with
     Scotty and Dave had been
     unceremoniously put on hold,
     courtesy of a stay in hospital
     with viral meningitis, and
     although I felt extremely weak,
     I was desperate to carry on
     where we’d left off.
     Peter Stone’s fabulous
     book Gravel Pit Angling had
     me by the throat, and having
     read it on publication in 1978,
     I found it hard to believe that
     the characteristics of gravel pit
     tench differed so greatly from
     those of Mr Crabtree’s familiar
     traditional ponds and lakes that
     we’d been so used to.
     This was clearly apparent
     with our two club waters in
     Turnford, the large, clear-water
     gravel pit where we’d been
     fi shing the past season and a
     half, and the smaller one next
     to it. No doubt they’d once been
     joined but, for whatever reason,
     the path separating them had
     other ideas on how the tench
     would behave.
     The water in the smaller pit
     had become more coloured,
     and its more intimate, closed-in
     feel pulled at the little boy in me
     more than the larger windswept
     one a few yards away.

Tench are just the tonic

Having said that, we’d

stumbled upon a swim that we

eventually opened out to fi t all

three of us, which looked out

to a large bed of amphibious

bistort, maybe 25 yards in front

of us in clear, shallow water. It

was from here, casting against

the edge of the weed in the

blistering heat of late summer

mornings, that we caught

wonderfully large tench of up to

just over 7 lb on swimfeedered

maggots and sweetcorn. As

the days wore on and the heat

increased, they just seemed to

enjoy it even more.

My footsteps were beginning

to drag. It was becoming

obvious that I wasn’t going to

make it to our swim on the far

bank of the large pit that we’d

named ‘Shrews’. The resident

family of miniature pygmy

shrews would have to forego

their breakfast of maggots this

morning. I would reluctantly

have to fi sh on the small pit. The

choice of swim was out of my

hands, quite simply, it was the

nearest one I could make it to.

Settling down halfway along

a long narrow arm that we

called ‘The Strip’, I was faced

with fi shing a very secluded

swim absolutely choked

with Canadian pondweed.

Fortunately, given my love

affair with these more intimate

surroundings, I felt more at

home with things. Threading my

fl oat and bait down into isolated

pockets of clear water amongst

solid banks of weed was more

akin to the tench fi shing I’d

become accustomed to.

The sun was beginning to

show, but as the water level

was several feet lower than

the surrounding fi eld, the

gloominess of the immediate

area lasted a little longer than

it would have done on the open

water of the large pit.

Float fi shing small bunches of

maggots in a clear spot about

8 ft deep, one rod-length out, I

managed to catch four or fi ve

lovely tench of around 3 lb. They

were willing to come out of the

weed to pick up the bait, but

each had to be dragged through

the thick weed bank at my feet.

As the morning progressed,

it was obvious that these tench

were more traditional in their

behaviour. As the light-meter

values increased from around

30 F4 to 60 F8, they became

more shy, being less inclined

to venture out from the weed. I

remedied this by changing my

end tackle to a light fl oat-leger

rig, whereupon I could just lower

the bait right on the edge of the

weed, rather than pulling it back

a few inches into clearer water

to cock the fl oat. Fishing this

way, I managed another three

tench.

Things began to slow, the

periods of inactivity between

bites now increasing, so I began

to enjoy the opportunity to sit

back, relax and do nothing. The

mist was burning off and the

early morning sun was warming

the back of my neck. I smiled

at the thought of the tench in

the large pit waking up and

wondering where I was.

Idly looking at the solid

bank of weed at my feet, I

noticed it begin to swirl and

sway chaotically, heaving

and churning as a huge,

uncontrollable force turned the

whole area of weed at my feet

into a nightmarish, monstrous

apparition. It continued for over

an hour, calmed for a while, then

started again.

At one point, I tried to part

the weed with my landing net

to see what it was, but quite

frankly it had such an affect

on me, I became so frightened

I just had to pack up. As I

write, 35 years later, I have no

explanation whatsoever, but

being in the presence of a huge

and mysterious unseen creature

right by my feet remains with

me to this day.

It’s been absolutely

wonderful writing this

series for Angler’s Mail.

We hope you have a

great summer.

Until next time,

Maurice and Mouse

I used a little

antique Illingworth

reel and equally

antique rod to catch

splendid tench.