To The North - Danny Taylor

 The night sped by. The hours passed by. Onward I drove the only company the neon cat’s eyes. To the north I was bound in pursuit of pike, a new water had been discovered and its mysteries and treasures where there to be plundered.

The rain now came, at first big random splashes on the windscreen which soon built into a driving wall of water, the wipers now at full speed beating furiously at the incessant deluge, trucks lumbered passed on there business sending up columns of spray. I cursed the weather and changed the CD, Onward I drove, alone, but with thoughts of pike burning bright.

 

At last the motorway came to an end but my journey hadn’t. On into the night the road snaked and even though I couldn’t see the landscape I knew it was changing, deep into the countryside it went, rising and falling, twisting and turning, the road goes ever on. Concentrate! Tiredness cloyed at my temples and my eyes burned, the smell of caffeine was heavy as I drank. Opening the windows to let in the fresh night air the smell of fresh pine trees wafted into the car I drank deep intoxicated by the fragrance I smiled as I turned up the stereo and accelerated into the bend.  

The world of the piker is strange. In pursuit of a creature from another realm. A creature that captures the imagination of all who cross her path, but what is it about Esox Lucias that leads us anglers across this land, driving through the night through atrocious weather over countless miles? Will this trip be just another wild goose chase or will the many snippets of information and rumours, just once maybe will turn into something tangible, but what will the prize be? Will it justify the many sacrifices that we as pikers often make? Is it this chase, this game that we crave more than the fishing itself? 

Id liken it to a puzzle whereby the rules are always shifting always changing. For the lucky ones fishing is an innocent past time a chance to escape, to relax. A fine line however exists and to cross it means to delve into a place where the lines between sport and hobby become blurred. To those which cross this line it becomes more a way of life, possibly an obsession. After time the years flash by, friendships and lovers come and go, the true ones will stay loyal even though the chase, the game goes on, hunting the hunter. 

At last after hours of driving the miles on the sign posts become less and I know that I will be nearing my journeys end. I pulled the car into a lay-by switched off the engine and got out, stretching my arms out and making some strange growling sound I took the fresh cool night air deep into my lungs and enjoyed the silence after hours of artificial noise. I made a quick check of my kit, rucksack, rods and freezer box. The bare minimum, discretion was the name of this game and I had half a mile to trudge before I reached the lakes dark waters. I like walking on my own at night your senses tune in and you pass by undetected by the world a rare kind of solitude in these increasingly congested times.  

I clamber over the dry stone wall feeling the damp mosses and lichens under my fingers crossing the open field I notice stars pepper the sky between scurrying clouds. Another wall is negotiated and I descend into the depths of the wood. I join the path walking until I come to my marker telling me where to go in the dark. Once again trees are all around me there trunks and boughs darker shades against the night. The wind sighs and the trees whisper and creak, twigs crack and branches whip my face as I force my way on, not far now and I would be there. The trees grow sparse and clear as I approach the water. I hear it before I see it waves rhythmically lapping the shore, I cringe as a flock of crows leave there roost chattering raucously in protest at my invasion giving away my position. Silence replaces the commotion and I’m now here.  

Still under the cloak of darkness I prepare to fish, the rods where already sett up and all I needed to do was clip on the traces and attach the leads. Once cast out I began to wait, there was no dramatic sunrise instead the night gave way to a lessening gloom and the new day heralded a rising wind, Scots pines bent and flexed on the opposite shore and the woods around me began to moan. Waves increased, charging ashore a cavalry of white horses, there was a chill in the air and I hankered down behind a knar led and weathered beech tree.

Angling is many things to many people for me it allows me to get close to nature to observe the changing rhythms of the seasons. As anglers we are often privileged to see wildlife and natural spectacles that would over wise pass the general public by. The winter had been dramatic this year with Atlantic storm systems relentlessly pounding the British Isles one after  the other. A long with the wind and rain temperatures where unusually mild, around me the woodland bore evidence of this as snow drops carpeted the ground like a quilt of fragile glass pearls. It was early January and these plants tend not to appear until well into February. 

A movement caught my eye a hare lolloped along the waters edge oblivious to my presence as I sat still and quiet. The hare is an enigmatic creature steeped in legend bound up with old mythology, witches and the full moon. It was believed in times of old that they held supernatural powers. This one however simply went about his business and disappeared into the undergrowth. 

The growing wind brought with it squally showers that where beginning to turn wintry in the chill air. Hail stone hissed on the water like a venomous snake.

At 10:30 I had a clip out and the billy screamed. I slowly walked to the rod turned off the alarm and watched the braid, very slowly it moved over the front alarm. I picked up the rod checked the clutch, wound down and pulled the rod over my shoulder hard. The rod compressed to its maximum and just held, at first I thought I was snagged but a few sullen thumps transmitted down the braid, I was in! Whatever was on the end felt heavy, very heavy, I kept her coming towards me pumping and lowering the rod reeling in the slack. She stayed deep not doing much until she built up some speed and pulled the rod down forcing me to adjust the clutch and give line. She kited to the left which I countered with side strain. I turned her and began to once again draw her towards me. This is what I live for as an angler bent into an angry fish against the back drop of wild countryside. She came to the surface and thrashed her head, I lowered the rod in order to coax her down. She was a big fish certainly a twenty, she took line again but not as before and I began to dictate the battle bringing her towards me. I threw the net into the margins as she neared the margins it was here that she lunged skyward half in and half out of the water gills flaring. She was huge with a massive head, I uttered the word thirty and noticed that I was trembling. Concentrating I drew her over the net but on lifting I couldn’t fit her paddle in, I acted quickly and threw the rod down and grabbed the net with both hands and shook her into the net the water exploding into foam.

Un-clipping the trace I rolled the net up and staggered up the bank, bloody hell she was big. I opened her jaws and it was like I could have popped my head in. The bottom treble was quite far down each time I tried to turn it I felt her body tense up trying to shake free of my grip. In through the gills with the side cutters and the hooks where cropped and simply fell free keeping her clean. She was a handful to weigh and photograph all 28Ib 8oz of her. 

I held her in the margins of the lake waiting for her to kick free. Pure angling magic not my biggest pike but certainly my best. 

No more runs where forth coming but I cared little . I repeated the old adage “you only need the one run” I was content a warm feeling burnt within a feeling only anglers know. As the afternoon wore on the wind eased the sky cleared and the sun dipped low burning in the west heralding the coming frost. To the north there truly be dragons. 

The Secret Mere - Danny Taylor

The Secret Mere.

I came across “the secret mere” a few years back whilst doing some woodland clearance and coppicing work for a customer. Whilst taking a break I had a walk around the estates grounds and stumbled upon paradise. On the edge of some woodland at the south of the grounds lay a small lake of a couple of acres, the water was gin clear with deep shelving margins. Sedges and wildflowers grew around the lakes banks and in the water aquatic plants thrived.  

Dragon flies hovered and hawked and the only sound which shattered the lakes spell was the mew of a hunting buzzard in the distance. The lake looked undisturbed, no trodden banks, no litter and no sign of another living person. 

 I searched the water and as I walked along the northern bank my pulse quickened and my eyes bulged when a group of three superb common carp ghosted into view. They were not fat, bloated specimens but long lean and powerful looking fish. Was this a dream? Had I fallen asleep on my break? This didn't seem like reality but if it was I had to make the most of it. An opportunity like this could only come once in a lifetime, if at all. 

I contacted the owner to enquire about the lake. I was told that the place had not been fished for years. He was unsure about fish stocks but was more than happy for me to fish there providing I returned all the fish I caught and left no litter.

That very evening I returned, so keen was i to discover more about this hidden gem, armed with a rod, net, rucksack and a tin of the yellow peril. I felt like a child at Christmas; it was like being part of an angling adventure written by the likes of Yates, Hearn or B.B.

The evening was overcast yet with a sultry heat. I stashed the tackle in the long grass and took a bucket of corn for company, searching along the margins looking for tell-tale signs where fish could have fed. A handful of corn here, a handful there. I made my way around the water. On returning to my tackle, I sat down in the grass and pouring a drink from my flask, I took in the atmosphere of the place. The lake was still and all around hung the smells of summer.

After a welcome brew I made my way back around the water rod in hand, checking if any "visitors" had taken up the offer to dine on the golden kernels. The first few spots lay undisturbed but on checking the next baited area I froze stiff as a small common was feeding confidently. Not the hoped-for monster but the first fish from a new water is always memorable. I began to bait the hook. A movement in the water caught my attention, the grey green shape of a Tench moved into view. Now this was no ordinary Tench, this was simply breathtaking. Words like enormous and monstrous ran through my mind. I was aware of nothing else, only that this Tench (a male) was bigger than the carp!

The Tench moved around the bait and then dropped down, tail-up, feeding on the corn. The water began to cloud as the fish competed. I snapped out of my trance, this was my chance. The float was cast beyond them and drawn back. Time stood still until the inevitable happened and the float jagged under, the Tench bolted to the right but the common remained writhing and battling, attached to the hook. DAMN!

After a spirited scrap in the deep margins the common slid over the net. I wouldn't usually weigh such a fish but i had to get an idea what the Tench could have weighed. On the scales the fish weighed 10lb and ounces. Things had now turned very serious - I was fishing on a lake I had to myself which contained a double figure male tench! 

I couldn’t get the image of the Tench out of my mind. A truly awesome creature. All I could think about was the mere and its inhabitants. Time dragged on and the real world and work got in the way. Finally I managed a trip to the water it had only been a couple of days but it felt like a lifetime. As I made my way through the woodland and stepped out onto the banks of the mere, all thoughts of work, relationships and commitments drifted from my mind, it was good to be back.

Nothing had changed, it was as if I had never left. The day had been hot and sunny. I did a few laps of the mere searching the margins but there were no signs of the Tench or for that matter any carp. I baited a couple of margin spots then sat and scanned the water. Out towards the middle of the mere a thick weedbed grew. It was here that i noticed the dark blue shapes of basking carp. Lazily they enjoyed the last of the evening sunlight. There were some good carp present, some looked over the 20lb mark - no monsters by today's standards but to me these were special carp. Had they ever felt the sting of metal or the touch of human hands? Unspoilt golden-scaled commons, they cruised in and around the weed sucking at the foliage.

I made up a PVA bag containing floating dog biscuits and a small stone to give it some weight. I catapulted this upwind and let the mixers drift down towards the carp. They never so much as flinched as the biscuits passed over them. I've notice this before with wild carp that are seldom fished for; it's as if they do not recognise floating baits as food and therefore ignore them.

All very frustrating, the evening wore on and all too soon the dark fingers of twilight stretched over the landscape and it was time to call it a day. I checked the baited margin spots but they remained untouched. There was no sign of the big Tench.

That week the weather turned for the worse and some big south-westerlies swept across the country bringing with them wind and rain. There had been substantial rainfall and when I returned to the mere the usual clear water had been coloured by the rain. Stalking wouldn't be an option. I opted to use some watercraft and headed for the windward shore; there had to be fish here, the wind was hacking into a corner and it was here that I baited with a good helping of hemp and corn.

I set up an Avon rod with a float, fished lift-method, and baited a size 10 hook with three grains of corn. Settling down, it wasn't long before tell-tale bubbles began to break around the float on the water's surface. The float bobbed and swayed as fish began to rip up the bottom. The already coloured water began to turn a darker shade around the float as the fish really got on the bait. My heart pounded with anticipation, any minute now, any minute now I said over and over to myself. In the blink of an eye the float lifted half its length and then buried. The rod hooped over and the reel yielded line as the fish went on a turbo-charged run.

The fight was long and dogged which is often the case in deep water, my arm began to ache which is always a sign of a good scrap. With some relief the fish was netted and peering into the mesh there lay a magnificent common carp; long, powerful and lean. I set up the camera and took some self-takes amongst the buttercups. 

 Cradling the carp in the net I carried it away from the swim and released it. Returning to my pitch I baited again with a good dose of hemp, then poured myself a brew and let the swim rest.

I flicked out the float and soon the odd bubble broke the water's surface. The feeding did not seem as frenzied as earlier but without any warning the float just disappeared. If the last fight was good then this was in a different league, as the unseen adversary was relentless in its struggle to evade capture. I failed to stand my ground and ended up grabbing the net following (or is that being dragged) down the bank. After some time the fish tired, wallowing on the surface coughing water. Into the net went the carp, 22lb of power, a memorable fish.

Tired but happy I did the self-takes more than content with my evenings sport. The weather remained settled and after banking the two commons I was gagging to get back and try for the monster tinca.

  I had to come up with a game plan. I decided that I would continue to target the margins and only fish when I could find and encourage the Tench to feed on its own. Two weeks passed by without a sighting of the Tench. I was averaging three trips a week to the “mere”. On most occasions I could get one or two of the resident commons to feed but they where mainly small and I refrained from catching them in fear of alerting the Tench to the possible danger of my carefully cultivated margin traps.

Had I dreamt that I had seen the Tench? Was it merely a figment of my imagination? No! I had seen this fish clearly feed alongside a carp which was caught and weighed. This beast was fact, not fiction, and I vowed that it would be mine. The one thing that did perplex me is that no other Tench seemed to be present in the Mere. Was this the reason why this Tench had attained such an impressive size? I could only second guess as to the reasons for this and it only helped to fuel the mystery that surrounded the Mere.

It was dark as I picked my way through the wood, eerily quiet, not a sound. I emerged by the banks of the Mere as the faint light of dawn crept in from the east. It wasn't a classic angler's sunrise, no mist-clad lake, steaming and glowing in the rising sun. Instead the lake was calm, slate grey in colour and the sky was laden with cloud. However the air was warm and the atmosphere was expectant.

With the settled conditions the water clarity had returned. Five margin spots were primed with a liberal helping of hemp and a pinch of corn. I set up a base camp where I would keep my tackle and every 40mins I would do a circuit of the Mere and check my baited spots. The trip would last from dawn until dusk. I began my lonely vigil in the only way possible and fired up my stove for the first brew of the day. Morning turned to afternoon and the light values had changed little, almost like a perpetual dawn. Afternoon slowly melted into the grey of the evening, the sky changing little. The Mere and surrounding woodland and pasture had remained unnaturally quiet. Not a bird nor animal stirred, no fish rolled or jumped, not a breath of wind ruffled the surface of the water. The atmosphere was oppressive, electric like when a storm is building; it was as if the place was holding its breath.

I set off on what seemed like the hundredth circuit of the Mere, now more in hope than expectation. The first spot I had baited was just off the edge of a small shrub growing in the margins. As I approached the spot I dropped to my knees and inched closer, peering into the waters edge - and there it was, the Tench! It's huge paddle-tail tilted up, wafting and furling, it's mouth buried to the gills as it searched and sifted through the silt for the shiny black seeds. Classic pin-prick bubbles slowly rose from its gills and burst on the calm water's surface. This was it. My hands trembled and my temples pounded with the beating of my heart.

Baiting the hook I made an extra long cast beyond the fish and drew back the small crystal float. I watched as the corn sank agonisingly slowly towards the feeding fish. The Tench carried on busily feeding, unaware of my presence. The first battle was won.

The fish righted itself, it's beady red eye focussed on the corn, and in one movement tilted down and sucked in the hookbait. I struck but instead of the expected power-driving run, the Tench turned on its side and wallowed up to the surface. In one swift movement it was engulfed in the net! The fight was an anti-climax but the sight that greeted me when I peered into the net took my breath away.

No words could ever do this creature justice or convey to the reader how immense this tinca was. Its flanks were unblemished, fin perfect, never before touched by the hands of man. It's huge stone protruded from its belly, a male! On the scales it weighed in at eleven and a half pounds. A PB never likely to be bettered. I took the pictures and at that moment I felt like the proudest angler on the planet.

With respect, I released the creature, packed up and left the Mere, never to return. 

Danny Taylor

Opportunity Knocks

Danny Taylor

 

Pike are a fickle fish. Some days they can be mad on the feed and almost suicidal when hunting. On other days they can be frustrating to say the least: skulking, digesting food, waiting for some kind of primeval force or other “trigger” which will spring them into feeding mode. 

As pike anglers, we hope that our days sport will coincide with the pike embarking on such a feeding frenzy, but more often than not, it is seldom the case. However every now and again external factors and human influences collide to provide us pike fishermen with a session to remember.

 

The winter of 2010/2011 was savage. The country was gripped by plummeting temperatures and cruel winds from the eastern continent. Snow fell in droves and our waterways where clad in an iron grip of frost and ice. For weeks the ice lingered, and up and down the country anglers suffered from “cabin fever” as they longed to angle once more. 

These Siberian temperatures mattered little to old Esox. Under the ice, temperatures would have stabilised and once accustomed, the pike would be quite at home marauding prey, free from human intervention. In fact the pike would have thrived, under the lid of the ice, where little light would penetrate, in that eerie twilit watery world the pike would be at an advantage. Creeping around in the gloom, using its amazing senses to ambush and attack its prey; which would be grouped tight together, like cryogenically preserved embryos. 

On the canal that I fish there are a few boatyards and marinas dotted along its length that have no access for anglers. I have long come to the conclusion that big old pike have learnt to seek refuge in these areas and seldom roam far, preferring to linger in these man-made havens. These urban pike have waxed fat on easy pickings free from the pressures imposed by anglers. As the winter intensified and the ice remained these “queens” began to forage and hunt further from their lairs, their confidence grows due to a lack of angling pressure. They would venture from these boatyards, basins and marinas and enter the main canal system. At home I watched the weather forecasts with a keen eye. I studied the long range forecasts on the internet. Eagerly, I awaited the thaw, as I knew that this would be a golden opportunity to meet up with one of these urban myths. Come what may, when the ice receded, I would be there ready and waiting for the predator to become the prey.  

At last the temperatures grudgingly lifted. My window of opportunity approached and I knew that within a couple of days the ice would thaw. I had a short period of time where I knew that these big pike would be susceptible as they would be out in the “open”. This was a unique opportunity. Traces where made, bait stocked up and tackle prepared, I was ready! Friday was to be the day. Being self-employed I pulled some strings and loaded the car on Thursday night ready for an early start the next day.

That night I couldn’t sleep my mind was in overdrive and eventually I got up, made a brew and prepared a plate of England’s finest.

It was still dark when I left the house on that January morning. Stars glinted in the black sky and the car was coated in a layer of frost. It was still hit and miss if the canal would be frozen or not so I had a couple of other possible locations to try. I raced to my first spot. I wanted to have the baits in the water for first light, I love driving at this time of the morning the roads are quite, the only company being the tunes blasting out.

The first area I looked at was frozen, as was the second. The sun was now up, had I missed my chance? Defeated I drove home, and I looked in on one more spot, more out of hope than anything else. I couldn’t believe my luck it was ice free! If only I had tried here first. I felt that I may have missed a prime feeding spell but I was still going to give it a go. The canal here had not seen an angler for weeks, I had a day off work and a full flask if nothing else it would be nice just to soak up the weak winter sun and relax. Out went the baits, a sardine, joey and mackerel tail. I settled back pouring myself a brew, the drink hadn’t touched my lips when in the corner of my eye I noticed the float creeping along the water’s surface, “I see you” I said under my breath. As I moved forward the float bobbed twice then slid under the surface moving steadily away. I paused momentarily then reeled down and heaved the rod back keeping the rod bent until I felt the thump and shake as I connected with what lay beneath. The rod held round and the fish stayed deep, always a good sign. After gaining some line she loomed up through the water all green, blue and silver. She shook her head, gills flaring crimson as she came to the surface. The water exploded as she sounded and I gave her line letting her run. With the rod held low I applied side strain and turned her, then pumped the rod back. The net was readied and as she wallowed heavily on the surface I drew her over the net, she was mine. All that anticipation, waiting and planning and it was all over in less than 10 minutes of arriving at the water. The pike was a superb specimen and at 24Ib 2oz she was a rare pike for the “cut“.

I admired her solid thick set frame and her silvery yellow “leopard” spots decorated the flanks. The only blemish to her armor was a wart like growth on her side. It gave her character which made her even more unique. She was a true “urban queen” a pike that will always mean a lot to me, she remains my best pike from my local canal. A canal that I have fished since I was a kid and have come to know intimately. I lay on the towpath holding the pike by the root of her tail feeling for the strength to return to the fish’s body. The outside world was far away even the sounds of the morning rush hour seemed muted as I gazed down at the pike, the hunter and his quarry, the only sensation I was aware of was the stinging cold of the water. The pike’s gills pulsed and her fins began to furl as power once more built within her. With a flick of the tail she was gone, disappearing into the icy water. Jobs a “good’un”.

Keep an open mind as these “windows of opportunity” are there to be exploited by the thinking pike angler.

A Manipulative Opportunity

We all know pike as the sleek, fast killers of the freshwater world. But the pike is much more than that, as an apex predator, it has evolved over millennia to adapt to any feeding opportunity that comes its way. Pike will exploit the most unlikely of food sources one of the pikes favourite prey items are dead and dying fish. Big old females don’t want to waste energy hunting and chasing fit and healthy fish. Instead they much prefer to scavenge and scour the lake bed in search of the “departed” We as pike anglers have long realised this and we can manipulate this behavioural trait of the pike to our own advantage. By regularly baiting an area with chopped fish we can condition and influence the pike to feed confidently. The pike will overtime associate the baited area with food and begin to make daily visits to feed on these easy pickings. 

This is a method that I have long considered trying but for whatever reason had not got round to it. An opportunity arose for me to use this method. I had struggled to get into my piking and had not ventured out as much as previous seasons, I had recently moved house and had to leave my old bait freezer behind due to a lack of space. However I had a glut of dead baits that would go to waste so what better than to begin a mini baiting campaign. Now I’m not going to profess to adopting a precise and calculated baiting programme. Instead I could see that due to predicted frosts my local canal would freeze over. I decided to tip the lot into a favoured area, allow the “lid” to form and return in due course having hopefully left the pike to dine in peace.

It had been a week since I had applied the prebait, the ice had thawed a couple of days earlier and I now felt that it would be worth giving the area a go, just a short evening session of a couple of hours to gauge the baited areas potential.

It was a perfect pike angler’s day. The January sky was cloudless and as blue as the ocean, a good stiff breeze ruffled and creased the canals surface and the air felt chill and fresh. I soon had three baits out and the orange tipped floats bobbed and rode the choppy water like fiery beacons.

This area of canal was quite peaceful and rural compared to some of the more urban areas that I fish. Nature was all around that day, a sceen of geese “V ed” across the sky, Mistle Thrushes busied themselves in a nearby hedgerow. It seemed like it was a day for the hunter, a piercing whistle announced the arrival of the kingfisher and a sparrow hawk ghosted along the towpath - silent death. 

The atmosphere was electric, it was one of those days you just knew something would happen and happen it did as one of the floats moved against the wind ruffled water and disappeared from view the resulting strike met with nothing and dejected I sat back down. It had been my first “run” in sometime and I had missed it, however I knew as with all angling that there would always be another chance.

The low winter sun dipped towards the west turning the dead rushes a fiery gold and the sky turned red with the promise of a “Sheppard’s delight” for the coming morning. 

As the shadows lengthened I began to tidy my tackle away as usual leaving my rods to last. One rod had been wound in when I noticed the float nearest to me lift slowly out of the water and tip flat before slowly trundling off. I crept over to the rod keeping low as any sudden movements could alert the pike to my presence causing it to drop the bait. The strike was met with solid resistance followed by some violent headshakes, the pike moved fast towards me and in the clear water I could see her dark frame. As the pike came along side it opened its cavernous mouth again shaking its head, I could see she was a good fish, but noting that she was barely hooked. I then did something stupid and tried to net her too quickly forcing up the net when she was half in and out. CRACK! The net handle splintered and she surged away, I now resigned myself to the fact that I’d lost her. Lady luck must have shone down on me that day as I managed to bundle her into the net. Punching the air I knew I’d got a 20lber, 23Ib to be precise, she was as fat as a pig excreting evil smelling grey matter all over the mat. Like a dragon jealously guarding its treasure she had probably sat over that pre-bait all week devouring it. It was now dark and I quickly took some pictures of my prize. She was a lovely golden coloured pike and she seemed to glow in the cameras flash, the air was now cooling rapidly and my breath steamed, it was time to release the pike and get home for a welcome shower and hot brew. Piking is something that is in my blood and I live for these winter days chasing Esox against the backdrop of an English winter.

Tight Lines one and all and be lucky.

Danny Taylor

Snig Hunting

Danny Taylor

Eels have always fascinated me. They have an amazing life cycle, travelling thousands of miles from the Sargasso sea in order to enter our river systems, with some finding there way into the most unexpected of places. Ponds, lakes, reservoirs, lochs, drains, ditches, canals, park lakes, mill lodges etc. It is this that really interests me about the eel, you never know where they could turn up. Often no one even knows if Eels exist in a given water and the only way to find out is to target and capture one. Like most other predators big eels thrive on neglect so there could be a water close to you with no previous form for producing Eels that could just be harbouring “snig” that have grown large left undisturbed for many, many years. Growing fat on all manner of aquatic creatures. They are a powerful fish, demanding strong tackle. They often prefer to feed at night and are rare and elusive creatures all of which only helps to add to there mystery and appeal. To me they now represent the ultimate challenge in freshwater angling.

Last summer I was at a bit of a loss as to what to target, but after watching an excellent talk by top Eel angler Barry McConnell I was well and truly inspired to have a bash at these enigmatic predators. But where should I start? What venues where worth trying? What bait should I use? How would I cope with handling and unhooking Eels. I had a “thousand” questions but this is what I wanted a challenge! It was like starting angling again from scratch and it breathed fresh life into my fishing.

I began to soak up information like a sponge. I Joined the N.A.C and read everything I could get my hands on relating to Eels and Eel fishing (which did not amount to much). Eventually after a few practice sessions catching “bootlaces” on a local “cut” I felt a little more confident with rigs and the handling and unhooking of Eels. It was now time to hunt for a specimen “Snig” but where?

There are a couple of key points to consider when it comes to choosing a venue for big Eels. One of the most important factors is pressure. Has the venue been netted in the past? Has anybody targeted the water for Eels? If the answer is no then the water is worth considering. The next and for me one of the most important factors is the age of a water. The older the better. As the Eel is such a long lived creature it stands to reason that the older the water is then there is more chance that Eels have found their way in at some point and if left alone will have had time to grow big. Another interesting thing to consider is the phenomenon of “prison waters” As eels can easily find there way into the most unusual of waters they can often quite simply just leave. Occasionally they will enter a water where they become trapped - a “prison water” these are classic big eel waters. Waters change over time and just because you think that it would be impossible for eels to get in there, it may not mean that they are not present. If the water is of sufficient age then anything is possible. Couple this with sufficient fodder fish and you have the perfect ingredients for creating the ideal habitat for big eels.

After a bit of homework I was lucky enough to come across such a water and it ticked all the right boxes. Situated within an urban park was an old boating lake in excess of 100 years. Mature trees towered over the lake and marshy reedbeds encroached the water. The water had an old island with knarled and cracked willows which where collapsing with age. There twisted and torn roots probing into the water. It was fished by pleasure anglers and a few lads who targeted the handful of big carp which the water held. When I did some “digging” as to the presence of Eels most looked at me as if I had two heads, the common response being “nay lad thas no snigs in ere”.

I walked the perimeter of the lake but couldnt find no obvious points of entry for eels. But there was something about the place it just screamed “EELS!” It just felt “right” only one way to find out, I would go with my instincts.

As with all the best laid plans there will always be hurdles to overcome and the boating lake had a few. Firstly it was not the most pleasant place to fish. Looks can be deceptive, although the lake looked inviting the surrounding area was, lets say………………ROUGH. Like fishing on the set  of “Shameless” Gangs of “feral” kids and “smack heads” roamed the park after dark drinking, fighting, thieving etc. The walkway around the lake was used as a short cut by drunken pub and club goers from the local town. So as you can see it didn’t exactly lend itself to a comfortable nights Eel fishing. 

Oh! I forget to mention it, there was no night fishing. Great! But I wasn’t going to let a small detail like this spoil my plans. The water was rarely bailifed at night, after all who would be mental enough to want to fish there. On the other hand I didn’t want to draw attention to myself so I decided that discression was the best form of valour. I decided to fish in the swampy reedbeds. They reached above head height and gave perfect cover, it would be muddy and uncomfortable but I felt it would be the perfect place to fish from, remaining undetected. I would only approach and fish the water as darkness fell and then leave like a “thief in the night” as the sun rose. Nights where short at this time of year so there would be no need for bivvies and beds. Just me a seat and the rods. Real night fishing for only the “hardcore”. I love to fish like this, sat by the rods in the dark, awake not sleeping, my senses truly tuned into every night time noise and movement.

 

Tactics had to be considered. I had a feel for the lake as I had previously fished there for the carp. It was very shallow and incredibly silty, any weight greater than an ounce and the lead would “plug” in so deep that it would take the full TC of the rod to budge it. The water also contained hoards of hungry “bait” fish which meant that using worms and maggots was out of the question. I opted to fish a very light running ledger (¾ ounce) on 15Ib line to a 15Ib wire trace and size 4 single hook. Bait was to be small Rudd as fresh as I could get them. I didn’t want to take any unnecessary equipment to the lake so this meant “snatching” a few baits from a small pond on the way to the lake. For bite indication an alarm and “carp style” bobbins where used.
    

I had the Friday off work so I began my assault on the Thursday night. It had been a nice bright, warm day with gentle southerly winds which eased off to nothing as dusk descended. I arrived at the lake to find a couple of pole anglers and a gang of teenagers fishing who where more intent on “smashing” in a crate of booze than catching fish. I left the gear in the car and sat on a bench cracking open a can myself. I surveyed the water, Roach topped, Grebes dived and a Carp “boshed” by the island crashing down sending ripples pulsing outwards like a watery crop circle. It felt good to be here despite the waters reputation. I imagined what awaited me tonight and as the shadows lengthened and the sun began to sink in a blaze of crimson reds and pinks my excitement grew. This was the unknown, something that I crave for in my fishing and something that until now had been lacking for some time. Dusk crept across the park, the last of the anglers packed up and left, now was the time. I grabbed the gear and made my way round to the reedbeds, I disappeared into them undetected, like entering a tropical jungle, I pushed and sloshed to the waters edge. By the time I got there I was sweating in the sultry evening air attracting swarms of biting mozzies that had a taste for blood.

Rods where pocked through the reeds, one towards the island, one down the margins and a third just off the island. I settled down in my chair poured tea and took in the nights atmosphere. Time trickled by but the anticipation remained. Another hour and the doubts like nagging demons began as i questioned myself. What was I doing here? Where there even Eels in here? This is shite, BBBBEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPP! Left hand rods away, a strike and nothing. I stood there numb, there was  not long left of the night, it could have been my only chance. Gutted! I only had half a small bait left due to some mis-casts, so with the last hope impaled on the hook I sent it out to the extreme left by a submerged snag branch. It was only a foot deep here but something told me to put it there.


Slumping back in the chair I zipped up my fleece as the night air cooled. The water was still like black steel. The world slept and the sky turned from black to a deep blue as the last of the nights stars burnt out as dawn approached. The first notes of the dawn chorus had begun when the recently re-cast rod went into meltdown. No preliminary bleeps or warnings. The line just tore off the spool as the alarm let out a single one tone, piercing the still dawn air as the bobbin tried to smash through the alarm. Picking up the rod I knocked off the bait runner and the rod pulled down hard as an un-seen force took line from the reels clutch. At first due to the ferocity of the run I thought that a carp had picked up the bait but as I pumped the fish back a strange thumping sensation transmitted down the rod telling me that this was no carp.

 This tug of war lasted a  minute or so but steady pressure soon had the fish on the surface. There in the half light a snake like form writhed and thrashed churning the calm water to a frothing foam, this Eel was massive and my head and legs went! I got it to the net but I just couldn’t get its body over the drawstring. Twice I lifted the net putting the rod down thinking the eel was in and twice more the fight began from scratch. I was now a mess convinced I had lost the fish of a lifetime. Finally I heaved its head almost up the net handle before I saw the Eels tail collapse into net. Relief and adrenaline flooded my body.I had done it on my first night! Resting it in the net I couldnt believe its size. At first the Eel was well behaved, probably exhausted from the fight. I took the opportunity to flick the hook out which was perfectly impaled in its lower lip. I popped my prize into a sack and then set about tidying the swim and sorting out my camera and weighing gear. Once all this was done I retrieved the sack from the margins, one thing that will always stick in my mind from the night was just how warm the water was. It really was a perfect morning, plumes of mist rose from the waters surface in the soft morning light and birdsong filled the air.
 

Un-zipping the sack I now took time to admire my prize. The Eel was in perfect condition, unlikely to have ever felt the touch of human hands. It had a lovely two-toned coloration. Various shades of brown merged into a beautiful silvery pearl underbelly. I gazed into its jet black eyes trying to imagine what events had befallen this fish during its strange almost timeless existence. “As old as the hills”.


On the scales the Eel pulled the Reubens round to 6Ib 10oz. An awesome fish and one that will burn bright in my minds eye for many years to come. I set up the self-timer on my camera, cradling the fish, I captured its image a very personal moment for me. Just me the Eel alone on a perfect summers morning. As I slipped the fish back into the muddy waters of the lake I wondered if it would ever be captured again? Would it die? Or would it leave the water in search of pastures new. Who knows ?....... that’s Eel fishing more questions than answers.