Gagging for It...

A few days ago I was offered a place in a syndicate controlling a nice water 'somewhere' in Warwickshire. This morning I declined the offer, respectfully acknowledging the glaring fact that I wasn't a suitable candidate. The reason was one of publicity, or rather the fact that I'd have to exercise a total lack of the same in order to retain my investment in terms of cash outlay, once in.

The Wrong Gold Fish

What a difference a couple of days makes when there's not a degree of difference in it, eh? 

Wednesday it was 13°, Saturday it was 13° too, but Wednesday the last gasp of Winter and Saturday the first breath of Summer. Same place, same swim, I thought we couldn't fail to bag one of those big rudd I'd convinced myself of...

Bludgeoned

Last time I'd gone out on a limb to catch this particular fish was way back in 2011 when involved in a local angling blogger challenge involving catching the record weight of each of 15 coarse species, and right here I'd secured that point on the scoreboard for them in just half an hour with a catch of six... as had all the rest of the competitors!

"But, would they be such easy meat today?"

That was the burning question as we entered the fishery gates — parked up in what I dimly remember as 'not quite the right place' — then yomped across field and ditch in search of our water.

Commercial Perch — The Effing Difference

The venue? A local lake and one of the most pleasant 'commercials' I know of. Neat, tidy and very well run by a stickler for good behaviour who ejects miscreant breakers of the tight rules governing his domain; consequently there weren't any so we'd the place to ourselves. The weather? Finest of the year thus far and possibly the finest in recent angling memory: neither warm nor cold, hardly any wind driving what little chill remained made for very pleasant fishing. The target? The outside chance of a big close season perch.