The Tench Lake (Blast from the Past)

July 2007

Following on from last week's 'thoroughly enjoyable session' I felt a change of scenery was in order, so I decided to do something a bit different. Having located another of my new clubs' water I snuck off on Friday evening for a few hours targeting some rather elusive, although pleasantly sized tench. My source in rumour control (or the local tackle shop, if you prefer) stated that the fish were a good average size, with the smallest fish usually starting at about 6lb. However, catches were few and far between with one or two fish in a short session considered to constitute a good day.

So setting off in high hopes I found myself, and after an unpleasantly long walk in muggy conditions, ensconced on bank of said venue, a smallish, but mature, gravel pit. It was going to be difficult - clear water, overhanging bushes, heavy weed, an awkward wind and a stiff breeze meant that catching would be tough.

To cut a long story short, it was. The first hour passed easily enough fishing the waggler with corn or maggot to the side of a large set of lily pads, but bites were not to be forthcoming. So, plan B, the pellets 10metres off in the right hand edge which had been producing so many promising bubbles, was employed, nothing there either. This was closely followed by plan C, the tactic of chasing the bubbles under the tree to the left, this, unfortunately, was also met with a similar result.

So rotation was the order of the day, when suddenly out of nowhere the float went down, a sudden strike, a faint moment of resistance and the waggler suddenly propelled over my right shoulder by the straightening rod. Slightly encouraged it was time to persevere, re-feed, re-focus and re-examine the waggler as it settled in the surface film with the promise of more action to come.

Then in happened, the float went down, the strike, a firm contact, and then, that moment of delight that spurs us on, that promise of a personal best, the one that got away, that childhood dream, a record, a picture in AT, a gorgeous green flanked beauty was, hopefully, making its way towards my landing net. The fish had other ideas, it decided it was going to be a three ounce perch and no amount of visionary thinking was going to change its opinion on the matter. I was devastated.

In fact, I was to be devastated again, and again. And a short while after that, again. In fact over the next hour I proceeded to be devastated a total of six times, before a combination of insect bites, from midges with fangs to match Esther Rantzen's, and failing light led to the termination of my short session chasing these less-spotted tincas.

I will be back. If only to see the kingfishers again, and once hopefully to see one fishing rather than the usual high-speed glimpse of electric blue as they skim by with effortless grace. Or maybe to see the 'one way warbler' that kept flying by from right to left - how does that work? And why never from left to right? Or maybe to dream further of those olive-skinned beauties and soak in some of that rare British countryside that had eluded me that evening.

I will be back.