Canal Perch — Chop! Chop! The King! The King!

I've seen a phenomenal thing. Mucky stuff chucked in a swim. The results are a particle, the captures remarkable. That mucky old stuff in a swim.

Chop! Chop! The King! The King!

Good grief I always knew it was very good but never realised how fabulous this filthy finger blackening mush could be. But I was about to see...

You get a load of expensive to procure lobworms (and I mean a fishing shed load). And they are expensive one way or the other whether you dig them or purchase if you are going down this route with them. Buy or create a set of multiple opposed blades. Then you must commit the most ghastly of murders.

Finding a likely swim you sit down, then ladle the mutilated, mangled, and still twitching body parts in. You proceed to wait just a little while. But within no time at all you proceed to reap the whirlwind of your horrible deed.

Nothing I have ever come across in my fishing life is anywhere near so repulsive. It is foul stuff. And yet nothing I have ever come across is so very attractive. Fish. All fish. No matter what fish or which fish. Just cannot resist it.

And then when you've got them interested. And caught one or two. You must do the dirty deed again. And again, And again. And do it again for just as long as your bait box lasts. And that will not be for very long.

Danny reckons, 'It's a drug'.

"To the fish and the fisher, both", I'd say.

We met up very early yesterday morning for a perching session at my far flung venue. The one that was kind to me a while back. The conditions were straight out the perch fisher's textbook 'wish' list. Mist on the water, sun low in the sky, a tinge of green but good clarity, and us fishing long before the first whiff of sizzling bacon drifts down from the nearby boats.

Didn't exactly succeed at first. Well, I excelled in catching each and every small perch in a mile of water. What with my pole n'all, I was so very adept at catching these tiddler fish that Danny thought me in very real danger of turning out in decked in blue within the week and forging a promising and lucrative career in match circles.

Just seconds after my remarking that we hadn't seen one yet — he caught a daddy ruffe. A great admirer of pope is Daniel Everitt, who once a year goes to Suffolk armed with suitable equipment to get his fix of monstrous ones. I think he was more impressed with my recent multiple captures of these pretty little ugly things than my success with the perch.

It wasn't really going to plan and so after a couple of hours we moved along. To a nice looking space between boats with an attractive water feature to ponder far bank. We were in for a rare treat.

I fed a little chop beneath the stern of a boat. Danny fed a fistful just off the near shelf in open water. I had a skimmer first put in. He'd sat upon what seemed a dead peg because my next put in produced a perch near two-pounds, and then another of similar stamp that was lost while his float steadfastly refused to sink from sight.

However, he'd injected a much heavier shot of 'gear' into the vein than I had...

Over the next hours Danny's synapses were on fire. He simply could not stop them coming. Just a short pole length to his left I was now facing a deserted swim ( canal 'swims' are just a yard square!) as all the dope heads in the area queued up in his. And what fish they were. All around the two-pound mark, and one an ounce over. And these weren't repeat captures either. Each was released 100 yards left or right.

It was quite unbelievable. But the best moment of the day was yet to come... 

He'd fished a sleeper rod with a small deadbait for zander and was getting quite a few of them as his perch sport peaked. Then he decided to jig a drop shot over a crayfish corpse he'd kicked in earlier just to complicate things. He then had a run on the deadbait, missed it, when his worm float vanished and he hooked what we knew was going to be the best perch yet. But somehow he'd also hooked himself in the crotch of his pants with the deadbait rig!

It really looked like it might go three-pounds as it came to the surface. And there's Dan gingerly playing the fish, not because he's afraid to lose it, but because he's in danger of spiking himself in the nads should he get off his seat! I performed the netting honours as instructed.

After such a run of like-weights who'd begun to look smaller and smaller as the day progressed I think we were a little overawed by the sight of this future brute. It wasn't quite the three-pounder we'd thought. It was the same weight as my opening capture last week at 2lb 6oz. But with a very different body shape.

The conditions were straight out of the perch fisher's textbook 'don't bother' list. Bright cloudless sky, sun overhead, the water as brown as bacon breakfast tea, and us fishing through lunchtime. Yet Dan hadn't ceased hooking, sometimes losing, but mostly banking these large perch for what seemed an age. I fluffed another fish meanwhile and did land a small zander of about a pound and a half on the worm. When I butchered and pitched in all my remaining meagre supply bar two kept back for bait, I hooked up again and banked myself an exact 'two'.

By noon it was becoming very busy. By 1 O'clock a chain of boats passing through every few minutes with passers-by a constant stream behind us. "Caught much?" many would ask. "Yeah, we've had a few tiddlers", was Danny's deadpan repeat reply. And the more often repeated the more comical that phrase became.

We'd both overstayed our allotted time frames by two hours. Then he had the shock result of a half-pounder... Things were coming to a close! But I'm sure if we'd stayed on into the late afternoon and evening we'd have caught all day long. We finished with eleven perch between us. If I'd dug another fifty worms and slaughtered most, then it may well have been twenty or more.

I didn't mind one little bit my banking only two good fish when Danny had nine. It was a great day's sport and a session to remember for the rest of my life.  In my canal fishing experience it has to rank in the top three eye-openers. Those sessions when you realise that these tricky venues where many struggle to succeed are often stuffed with special fish that you can catch regularly if only you have the guts to put in the graft to firstly discover them, and the nous to figure how to.

My mind was agog at the sheer volume of large perch we'd sat down on. You have to understand that prior to this season the average catch of perch local to me would have amounted to a sum weight of two or three-pounds and the best specimen I'd ever caught just 1lb 7oz. Today I'd seen ten perch to beat that and had exceeded it twice myself. And if you know anything about my perch fishing history and its painful perplexing defeats then you'll know why this session will be such a memorable one.

Perhaps the best feeling was that of knowing that the next bite would be from a really worthwhile fish. Seemingly, there were no small ones there to catch. But nor were there any really impressive ones.

Of course all that will change by next weekend when we plan a return.

But for better or for worse...? 

We'll, I don't think either of us really care, either way. Canal fishing is never so predictable. The next day seldom the same as the last.  

Canal Perch — Signal Success

There's a popular stretch of canal way beyond walking distance from home where I'd heard a few independant reports of decent perch fishing. Lots of them available apparently. And the occasional specimen in the net, so I heard. Local news I always take with a hefty pinch of salt. But large perch reports are not like large roach reports which are invariably about hybrids mistaken for roach. I thought them strong enough to make it worthwhile biking out a few extra miles to investigate. 

Chopped worm is mucky stuff!

Glad I made the effort because the short session was to become rather fascinating...

Choosing a likely spot I sat down on the grass with whip in hand. Nipped on a worm and dropped it on the near shelf. And then proceeded to make chopped worm. I don't move a bait so very often with a rod and reel once in place but for some reason with a pole or whip I find myself jerking it about constantly. 

Frequently I'd snag upon something. And I was frequently snagging upon something all over the place. The hook always came back clean, but often the worm had gone. Curious. Very curious...

I kept twitching the bait about. Then I did snag a large twig so I thought I had a rotten branch out front and should probably move along elsewhere. 

But then one of these 'twigs' moved off at the 'brisk' pace of a very big and determined specimen of that carapaced pest that I'm seeing far too much of lately. Heavy is what it was. And deliberate. I could not easily shift it against the elastic but anyhow, the hook pinged out before I could try harder. 

No great loss there. A large 'signal' is hardly that!

A River Blythe signal crayfish with a claw span of about a foot

However. Despite having not only a branch in my swim but possibly a horde of crustaceans too, I couldn't help feeling that something was not quite right. Often these sensations of 'snagging' felt much like hits from predatory fish. And besides that, I've yet to see a canal crayfish anywhere near the scale of the lobster-like beasts of the River Blythe who grow twice the size of the average canal specimen and who would be resistant to being hauled off the deck on a whip.

So I stuck around a while just to see what might occur should I...

Introducing the chop and fishing straight over with a still bait, the response was instant. The float dragged under very slowly and I struck into another of those 'crayfish'. Only this one seemed just a tad faster than before and when it began swimming mid-water, pulled out a yard of elastic, and then fought back hard and fast I wondered what the hell I'd hooked because it sure didn't feel like a perch... 

But it was! 

Two-pounds and six-ounces of perch to be precise. Easily the largest I've ever caught from a canal. And I have no doubt whatsoever now that that first 'crayfish' was none other than the self-same fish or more likely its like-sized shoal companion. 

Clearly I'd sat down right on top of them. Of course I hoped for more and better but in hindsight I should never have put in the chop because I truly believe you should never feed over the lucky find of a shoal of already feeding fish till they won't bite again without it. If only I'd known better, All it achieved was the undesirable effect of drawing hordes of small perchlets, tiny zanderlings, and later lovely little yellow ruffes, of whom I had four specimens on the trot around dusk.

Nevertheless. A more than satisfactory result. A new personal best for the canal. An interesting and valuable lesson learned.

And no red signal to halt me on the track when I go back! 

Avon Perch — A Change of Sky

Our regular Thursday evening sessions over the last month have seen night draw closer and closer to afternoon and now arriving at the river means hitting dusk running rather than taking a leisurely stroll up the bank toward it. Martin has toughed it out for that monster barbel 'with his name on it' and I've persisted trotting bread for roach. Neither successfully.

Chub, I like. But catching little else for what's seemed like months on end with every approach employed resulting in more and more forces a rethink. A worm crawls out the grass of the towpath verge during a damp dog walk and she/he gives me an idea...

What better fish for the short autumn evenings can there be than perch?

I'd clean forgotten how engrossing this form of fishing can be but I'm reminded soon enough...

Flicked into the eddy of the pool the float ambles about a while. You'll wait ten minutes sometimes, twenty or thirty often enough, an hour or more if they're lazy but they'll come by. Dip, dive, bob and slide. The wait is rewarded within minutes.

The dithering bite sets me on the edge of my seat. It's missed. That's fair enough. It won't bother perch. Sure enough the next bite up comes a specimen a tiny fraction of the size I'm after. But at least it's not a chub!

The worm threaded up line not down the throat is rehooked and sent out once again to do its business. Ten minutes later the float performs that unmistakable dance. When to strike, when to strike? It's been said you should always give them enough rope but how long is long enough rope to hang a billy?

I don't know!

Often perch are right under our noses but they're so sensitive to depth you might never know they're there fishing too high, too low. It's eight feet deep right under the reeds, ten a few yards further out, but I feel I'm fishing too shallow in it.

The worm lowered a foot to hang the same from the riverbed creates an immediate reaction and from then on in it's never much longer than I can bear to wait hung on tenterhooks before it's nabbed. Between approaching dusk and inky darkness a series of five strapping perch around and over the pound mark are banked.

I haven't done such a thing since boyhood but after dark a stationary torch is set to shine a beam across the water to illuminate the float...

Drifting on the lazy current in and out of view, one minute bright as a beacon, the next almost invisible but never quite lost from view, modern contraptions may have made such a thing anachronistic practice but it still remains a fabulously exciting way to fish!

A better specimen is lost. Powerful enough to be a convincing chub if it wasn't for that jangling head shaking sensation transmitted up the line, I'm at least assured that next Thursday evening I might have my reward with a perch to gorge on the pounders I've had tonight.

Last bite and along comes a surprise!

Odd that none are reported for what must be a year then three come along in separate blog posts from different people in the last few days....

The first ruffe I've had in ages and the only one ever caught from a river.

Transition

The canal is in transition. Winter approaches, and the fish know it all too well. I have been out testing the waters for roach potential but have to report that the zander and perch season is far from over and so lobworms, the canal-in-winter specimen roach bait par excellence, are simply not going to stay on the deck long enough for the roach to home in before one or the other of our prickly friends gets to them.

The Pope, in Coventry?

I got out this evening for a spot of ruffe fishing. Out of the four fishing challenge participants, all of whom are currently racking their brains, trawling the net, phoning a friend and generally wasting their time in pursuit of them.

Ruffe Justice

I went up the cut last night for an hour or two just to snatch some fishing hours as I am now forced by last minute commitments and a family wedding in Essex over the weekend coming to cancel or postpone all my angling arrangements

Popetastic! Monster Ruffe Rocks Specimen World!

Midlands big small fish specialist Jeff Hatt has finally landed a fish to ruffle the feathers of the specimen angling world. Jeff's campaign for huge canal ruffe began in earnest during the winter deep freeze that had the whole country locked in its icy grip, but has now paid off with a record worrying big 'pope'! The capture of the monster fish, which fell to a maggot and caster cocktail, marks the culmination of many months of difficult fishing, plagued by nuisance roach to two pounds, in often arduous and life threatening fishing conditions on a top-secret-rock-hard Midlands venue, just up the road from Jeff's house.

Jeff, of Longford, Coventry, who'd had a smaller ruffe earlier in the week from the same spot, spent his lunchtime fish spotting and witnessed big fish rolling by an overhanging tree. "They had to be ruffe" he said "only ruffe roll at high noon". An evening session was planned and Jeff's mate Keith invited along to partake in what Jeff knew could be an historic occasion. Both anglers cast baits over carefully baited pegs. Jeff used his own groundbait concoction consisting of Londis's finest breadcrumbs mixed with Sensas Ruffe Justice and a top secret squirt of a "commonly available household fluid".

"We'd just sat back to await unfolding events" said Keith, who then hooked and lost the first fish of the session, "It felt a biggy, probably one of the huge ruffe that Jeff had spotted at lunch time" he continued. The two friends fished on regardless, enjoying the lovely evening and the bloky banter which "had only just switched from the incidence of intersex roach to the retro-evolution of the three-spined stickleback" when Jeff's float dipped, and disappeared from view. He struck into solid resistance and after a tense ten second fight, during which the big fish made numerous darts for the safety afforded by the numerous bags of drowned kittens that litter the canal bed, numerous numbers of which were caught and released during the session, brought the exhausted specimen to hand.

"I couldn't believe my eyes" said Jeff, "and I couldn't believe his eyes either" said Keith.

The fish was carefully placed upon a Preston Innovations ZERO-GRAV Monster Tiddler Total Fish-Safe Unhooking Mat/ Weigh Sling, to avoid any unnecessary damage, and then measured carefully against the back of Jeff's hand. "It brought the scales all the way down from the tip of my middle finger to the root of my thumb" said Jeff "and that's precisely five and a half inches, give or or take a dram or two, easily the largest ruffe I've ever seen in the flesh, beating my previous personal best by a whole thumb knuckle!" The 'pope' was then 'plugged' by sticking a wine cork onto its spiny dorsal fin, a fine olde English tradition with roots running deep into the mists of time, but still practiced with due diligence by all serious ruffe anglers, and released to fight another day...

Indeed the fish is just one quarter of a thumb bone short of the current British Record caught by Ronnie 'knuckles' Jenkins in a Cumbrian Lake in 1986, a record previously held by legendary big small fish expert Dennis Flack, who at one point held no fewer than four British rod caught records at the same time, for bitterling, stickleback, bleak, and of course tommy ruffe!

"Dennis has been my mentor, hero and inspiration in the past few months" said Jeff. "everytime I got a bite and only hooked yet another pound plus roach I thought of his shining example, and when things were really tough in the ice and snow, always remembered the immortal words of Alwyne Wheeler"

'The ruffe is like a golden perch with a big head, but not quite, and much smaller, unless it's really a big-headed small golden-coloured perch of course, in which case it's a perch after all, but I've not seen the like, as yet'

Jeff kept his tackle as simple as possible "I'd been looking at using all kinds of modern super tackle, and was toying with the idea of undertaking a second degree in applied rig construction at Warwick University, thinking that only such gear and specialist knowledge could put fish on the bank for me, but due to my parlous financial situation, what with the credit crunch n'all, I had to abandon these ideas and use an old fashioned rod, reel and line attached to a hook via a float with some split shot strung up the line, and unbelievably, in today's high-pressure-high-stakes angling environment, it worked!"

The fish seriously undermines the position of the Great Ouse as Britain's premier big fish venue. "Ouse the Daddy Ruffe now !" quipped Jeff as his centre pin reel fell from his rod and into the canal, only retrieved by his plunging his arm up to the shoulder in the cold dark waters watched by a horrified, but highly amused Keith.

Asked what his ambitions were now, Jeff replied "well, now that I've probably reached the pinnacle of Modern British coarse angling with this great fish there's nowhere to go, I mean I could target big roach, but I don't have a beard, don't want one particularly, and anyway they are a bloody pest to me, so where's the fun in that?

"Quite so", said Keith " What's the point in targeting a species that the French charmingly refer to as 'the beautiful fish', but who are actually fish that hardly know, or even care! whether they are boy or girl, and then go have delinquent sex with close Cyprinid family relatives just to wind up those bearded fools who catch their bloated but thankfully sterile offspring? No thanks, retro-evolved three-spined sticklebacks are where it's at right now - a proper hard fish, for proper hard times..."

Ruffe Stuffe...

I went up to the Lake District over the Easter weekend, for a wedding. Came back with a most vicious dose of flu that put me on my back for a few days and has left a legacy in its wake - a cough from hell that simply won't clear up