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Tuesday 23 October 2007

Shitty Day on the Nene...23/10/07

It’s funny how things happen. After months and months of Bucketboy and I not managing to get together for a fish this week it finally happened. Being only a hundred miles or so apart we are practically next door neighbours. It all started with Pete’s PM: “Now that we have had our first frost, if the weather stays like this, I'm going to try and get a decent pike on static dead baits next week, are you coming?” Now, what he didn’t realise was that next week was half term and nicking the car for a day wouldn’t be such an issue as normal – so my response of “good-o. So, what size pike we after? twenties?” doubtless caught him off guard. And so after hard bargaining with my wife I left the house at 8:30 on Tuesday night for the drive to Peterborough in the kingdom of Cambridgeshire, nestled on the edge of the lands of the fen-folk. Loading up in the dark and in the narrow alleyway behind the house I managed to snap my new fishing rod as well as leaving myself with a yak that had to go on the roof with the stern pointing towards the front – not that it seems to make any difference. Nipping back in I cut, spliced and superglued the rod together, loaded it into the car and set off for the 2½ hour drive, armed with my google map print off and Pete’s directions – none of this fancy GPS malarkey for me, I have the instincts of a pigeon you see.

The drive went well, not too many hold ups and I made good time until the pigeon went to sleep and I ballsed up two miles from Pete’s. I don’t know how many of you are familiar with Peterborough but if you aren’t I suggest keeping things that way. It’s rubbish. Half an hour late I pitched up on his drive and received a warm welcome and a cold beer. Probably relief I wasn’t a Jehova. Anyway, we nattered, planned and what have you and then got our heads down ready for an early start.

Dawn rose…as it usually does…and an hour or two later we decided it might be an idea to go fishing. After a couple of coffees and some toast. The launch spot would be amongst the dogsh*t that constitutes much of Ferry Meadows, cleaned up neither by the owners of the dogs nor the many jobsworths in pickups that roar around with nothing to do.

We did the usual unloading and tackling up etc in the car park and started to walk to the lake when I noticed the sweet scent of dogsh*t wafting up into my nose. I’d stood in some and my Chota Mukluks where now Shitsa Mukluks and I was not a happy bunny. Unable to find a Labrador or its owner to wipe them clean on I made do with some grass and muttered on towards the lake. Pete wanted to circumnavigate half of the lake before launching but I persuaded him that as we were two it was easy to carry the yaks down to the jetties and so it proved to be fortunately. So, we launched and started off towards the river, lines already out. Pete had told me that he’d get runs every 50 yards on a good day so the first zzzzzzzzz was of no really surprise. Of course, if Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed and I therefore paddled back to the sunken tree that had swallowed my Super Shad Rap. Of course, good things happen in threes and warden Jobsworth screeched to a halt and shouted across the lake that I couldn’t fish because it might set a precedent and they were having trouble with local kids and it would be dangerous and other balls. I think he feared that local chavs/hoodies would (if they were up at such an early hour) see me and go out and buy fishing kayaks, lures and rods and put somebody’s eye out or something. Of course, I reeled in and behaved but Pete was somewhat scathing in his regard of the fool.

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So, having been shit on, hooked up and nicked all in the space of twenty minutes I was already enjoying the calm relaxing magic of the River Nene.

We paddled down the channel into the river itself and I stuck out a couple of Super Shad Raps – a Gold Shiner and a Redhead, both good lures that have taken decent fish and ideally situated to the 8-10 feet we were trolling in. Pete was getting fish all over the place on his finder and I saw two myself. I guess he had wired his up wrong and was in demo mode or something. Up past the boats we went, right up to the weir and although Pete had a run from a small jack nothing was happening. Not even maggots were tempting bait fish. So after a while we headed up a side channel into a spot Pete regularly does ok in. Anchoring up in 2ft of clear water we stuck some deadbeats out and had a couple of sarnies and some flapjack before heading off again to try and find some action downriver.

Trouble is, I found it very difficult to find a spot that I would regard as a pikey feature, by Broads standards. Finally finding a spot I figured might be worth a try we anchored up and I stuck some baits out. There was a bit of a current so I couldn’t keep them in position unless I put weight on which I didn’t want to do (didn’t want to spook the fish) and the baits were drifting along but this is no bad thing generally. The RAM holders were proving themselves to be pretty d**ned good though and far more suitable to river fishing than the Danicas had been.

Picking up my repaired match rod, fitted with my trusty Scarborough reel (a free-spinning centrepin) I tried my luck with maggot for some fresh bait fish. It was slow fishing all right.

Then the float dipped

It didn’t really register.

It dipped again and I took note

The third time I struck, and was in. Fish on.

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Hmm, it was a disappointing fight. I’d expected more on the Scarborough and this rod, being a very thin and long bit of carbon fibre. Maybe I expected more?

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Oh, it looked a tidy fish though

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and a rather fetching one too

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in it came and I got a good look at it, thick lips, solid thickset body, I hand landed it and had a good look at

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My first ever chub. Around half to three quarters of a pound and with a gold sheen to its flanks I decided that it was really a very nice looking fish and I was pleased with it. I decided not to use it for bait – it was too good a fish for that – and gently returned it. A few more casts resulted in nothing and then a canal boat came along and I had to move in to the bank, tangling my pike lines in the process – enough to make me get the scissors out too. So off we went.

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We seemed to spend most of the day chasing a heron about

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Now, here was a feature that might have been worth a few casts

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but I was more hopeful of finding a weirpool or something – whereas he was getting fed up being followed

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while these were just swanning about and being ignored

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Now, this place was quite promising. Pete had a run on a zander, so we stopped off to put the baits out and have a break

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I reached into the back for a tub which after being on my lap etc went back again after I had stuck some groundbait down and we set about our lunch. I was getting peckish and eating my sandwich - out of the bag it was in - I could smell dogsh*t again. Quite strongly as it happens. In the middle of a river miles from the nearest place it should be. I couldn't work it out. Until after a few bites I realised the coincidence. Yes, you guessed it. I had dogsh*t on my hand. Great, how? I'm in the middle of the river aren't I? Oh, it's got on my hands from my lap, which happens to be covered in dogsh*t, as is my shirt. Problem solved. Except that I don't know how a dog has crept onto my lap, in a kayak, in the river, miles from anywhere to sh*t on me. Of course it was more simple than that - some considerate soul had let their dog sh*t all around the car park and not bothered to take it with them. My groundbait tub had picked up a nice lump of it while unloading the car / loading the kayak and i'd managed to load this into my kayak - which incidentally was also covered in dogsh*t. For those who haven’t read Pete’s take on it, I quote:

“No fish but what made my day was listening to snappers muttering, (sorry for the pun, you will understand when I explain ) the conversation with himself went something like, I don't f***ing believe it. How the f*** have I done that. Dirty f***ing b***ard. F** me I'm covered in it. It’s all over my f***ing T shirt. How, I'm in a kayak in the riddle of the river, for f***sake. Aaarrhh, all my f***ing maggots have escaped now!!!”

yeah, the maggots were now all over the rear tankwell, no doubt smearing the sh*t about even more.

I quote from the same thread my recollections of the ‘conversation’, and for those of you who have already read it I make no apology as you’ll enjoy it just as much again. It deserves to be archived for posterity:

“There I am eating a roll when I get a whiff of dog sh*t. f**king dog sh*t in the f**king middle of the f**king river. For f**ks sake, I'm trying to enjoy a f**king roll the Cu*ts. So, I look around. No f**ker around. I still smell dog sh*t. I eat again, can smell f**king dog sh*t again. Not realising that the f**king stuff is on my f**king hand! Luckily I am holding the roll in a bag. It's also on my f**king lap. And the f**king maggots are making a dash for it as they've escaped while I'm trying to find the f**king sh*t which is on my f**king groundbait tub as well as, I discover next, on my f**king t shirt. f**k! FOR f**kS SAKE! f**kING f**kERS! I want to f**k those f**king f**kers up, the f**ks.”

I mean, what kind of a backward f**king place is this? Oh, I see:

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Well, it was time to start heading back to the start point. I cleaned off as much as possible in the river and started to paddle away. I got to the stone bridge again and put down some baits while I awaited mr lazy in his electric speedboat when lo and behold I saw a sight I never expected

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He was paddling!

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So we paddled on next to each other, chatting and just enjoying the river (didn’t have much choice, couldn’t enjoy the bloody fishing could we)

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Now, for all those who call the Big game a barge I would like to point out the effortless ease with which it can be moved through the water:

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Up we paddled, through stretches I’d have expected to have plenty of pike and perch swimming around in

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we even annoyed old matey again

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and then came the fork in the river to go back to the lake. I was all up for a last run past the boats but Pete had spoken to a guy on the bank who hadn’t had a bite all day and so he headed in. I tangled my lines again, cut off again and decided to head in as well.

Pulling up alongside the jetty, I began unloading everything (I wanted to clean down the yak) when I managed to do the following:

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it wasn’t as bad as it looked, the blood didn’t gush until I pulled it out. I’ll let Pete describe the event:

“For f*** sake don't touch my yak, ( not that I wanted too, it was still covered in dog sh*t ) why?....I've got a f***ing hook stuck in my hand now. Do you want me to have a look?.... No, f*** off, its in past the f***ing barb the f***er. F*** me that’s got it, that b***ard f***ing hurt.”

Then Jobsworth turned up and told us about the big fish that people were catching in the lake last week (cheered me up that did) while I photographed the state of my Trident. Dogsh*t and maggot cocktail:

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Dogsh*t, weeds and maggot cocktail

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More maggots, and my YELLOW compass! Purposely tarty that one:

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So, emptied off a final departing shot before giving it a clean up and trolleying it back to the car.

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Funnily enough, we got onto the track and I saw some woman with her dog. The dog was having a sh*t. I suspect she heard my swearing, cursing, muttering and threats of what might happen if she didn’t f**king clear the f**king dogs f**king nuts from the f**king path before I f**king killed her and her f**king dog slowly through suffocation by f**king dogsh*t because she did in fact remove it, bless her.

So, back we went to the cars, loaded up the yaks and headed back to the café for a cuppa. It was closed and while Pete headed back to the cars and before we headed off I went to the toilet. Thinking about it in retrospect I should have just sh*t on the path like the rest of the world.

1 comment:

  1. Why do I get the feeling this is an automated spam posting rather than a post by someone who's read this page?

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