A lesson in urban trouting

'A polished car and a screaming siren, pneumatic drill and ripped up concrete...' , Paul Weller's musings of city lifestyle reflect perhaps my own cynicism of the concrete jungles that led me away from the stifling atmosphere of South East England. And yet here I find myself, striding through throngs of busied shoppers, dawdling café dwellers and self-assured businessmen. Perhaps it's paranoia that leads me to see their looks of distaste and surprise as I do my best to keep my head down and slide past. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm wearing full body waders and clutching a 7 foot 3 weight fly rod. 

Okay so I'll come clean, Truro isn't particularly urban by many peoples' standards, yet for one living in simple solitude with more fields than people for neighbors, is seems more than enough for me. But Truro is also home to a delightful pair of little known rivers, made all the better by their juxtaposed location, the Kenwyn and the Allen. After departing from an all too brief meeting with friends, we parted ways: they for London, I for trout. 

I'd just clambered down the wall of the park, stripped a few yards of line from the reel and trotted my go to dirty water nymph in front of my feet, when a finger length brownie kindly came to the hand. The sun was now warm on my back for the first time in several days, and I was feeling the light relief of being free to pursue a small adventure in the outdoors. All of a sudden, I became aware of an angry voice shouting behind. On the bridge over the rolling water was a short haired lady, leaf blower in hand and high vis jacket wrapped ungraciously around her frame. After exchanging some inaudible remarks, I reluctantly climbed back out of the rich water to ask whatever the source of aggravation might be. 

A beautiful miniature trout.

The full conversation will not here be recounted, for though it is quite humorous it feels a tad petty. It apparently was of great concern that someone might be standing in water reaching 2 feet in depth, risking their delicate life in the raging torrent of the gently passing water, inadequately prepared with studded wading boots and full body waders. Being one for trying to involve our communities in valuing the natural riches that we have, for the sake of our own wellbeing and their protection, I did my upmost to explain positively and kindly as to why I was there, and why we really should be seeing more people in the river. And yet this fell onto an individual apparently so stubborn and disagreeable that I recorded her as being an 'unripe plum' in my logbook. Happily knowing that this river was public land and seeing the conversation going nowhere I headed back towards the river, which of course resulted in Miss disagreeable calling the police on me. It's not all bank robberies and knife crime for our law enforces it seems, sometimes one must step up to the mark and remove an unruly catch and release hippy at risk of maybe getting a touch damp and/or chilly should they slip. Rock and roll. 

Wanted: trout terroriser on the loose.

Happily, the police didn't further waste their time, and I continued to make my way up the life-filled water, whilst a certain figure hung around petulantly standing 50 yards away, huffing and occasionally sweeping some leaves. It is an absolute disgrace not only that we are increasingly disconnected with our natural world, but that this attempt to spend an afternoon soaking it in was met with outright irrational conflict. Recent surveys have shown that one in three British adults cannot recognise our perhaps most quintessential tree species, the oak. It doesn't seem all that far-fetched to suggest that this disconnection to the sights, sounds, smells and intricacies of our complex outdoors, and replacement with loud simplification and instant gratification of our LED screen coated modern existence, could go some way to explaining decline in our ability to focus and be fully aware of our situations. Public health hits the news almost daily (when the trifle of Brexit isn't greedily smearing it's way over again) for the tremendously sad rise in mental health illness and obesity in the UK. How can we even begin to break the exploitative cycles of the mod-cons that exploit our latent biases, to have an active and aware wellbeing? Perhaps it is worth considering whether treating our 'Nature deficiency disorder' will go some way towards this, with oases of urban rivers offering real fully immersive encounters with our charismatic British flora and fauna. I for one will be taking this medication, twice if required. 

Anyway, the fishing. The rest of the afternoon rolled pleasantly by, with the yarn indicator consistently stopping, dropping or pulling forwards to reveal a trout taking a liking to the red-tagged jig nymph. Whilst some of the culprits were mere fingerlings as per the first, there were a good handful over the 10-inch mark- a respectable size for this river. One particular pool will sit in my memory for a long time. Shuffling through a tunnel that carries the river under the pavement, I found myself before this pool, perhaps five or six meters long, bracketed on either side by large dominating road bridges. On the left, the river reached no more than 2 and a half feet deep, while the churning back eddies of the righthand side belied a depth that could be guessed at in the muddied water. Up above me mothers chatted hurriedly as they tried to still squirming children in pushchairs, whilst the dull rumble of engines and tires on tarmac hinted at the busy road traffic. But here sandwiched beneath it all was my slice of heaven. 

I was particularly taken by the number of spots on this individual, and it's no surprise that he spotted that nymph!

Short casts were made with the nymph up into the head of the pool, trying this back eddy and that, under a tree branch and then into the shallower rapids. I was happy to complete a trio of wild brownies from the pool with a particularly plump 10.5” individual which gave a merry little dance in the deep water of the pool before sitting proudly in my hand. Not willing to yet give up on the pool I made another cast at the head, watching the indicator struggle in the turbulent water. Though it had worked this far, I wasn’t quite happy with this set up- in the quick flowing river it felt that even a heavy nymph would struggle to reach bottom with the added hinderance of the indicator. Yarn removed, I cast again at the same spot- making sure to keep slack to a minimum and stay in touch. Pluck, pluck. I struck- good fish on! Almost immediately this fish rushed to the surface and made a spectacular leap, one that revealed the identity of its performer. I was hesitant to jump to conclusions, but something about the forked tail and silvery flanks seemed to just fit the bill for a sea trout. Without a net and using a barbless hook, the fish was played most gently to avoid a gutting loss, and despite a couple more spirited leaps, it too met the embrace of my palm. I was giddy and trembling a little, my first sea trout- and from a small urban Cornish stream at that! Released back to the depths of the pool, I continued to wander up the river, delighting in each precious twist and turn that it made on its course. 

By no means the biggest one out there, but absolutely brilliant to see! Here's hoping that it makes many return spawning trips over the years. 

There’s a glorious natural world out there to explore, and it doesn’t have to consist of tropical megafauna. Right in the bustle of a small city, a remarkable migrant was seen on its quest to spawn, and its watery home understood just a little bit better.

Ups and downs of Autumn bass fishing

Since my last post I have been out fishing quite a lot, although unfortunately not managed to write anything up. Now that the winter swell and storms have made coastal fishing unsafe and impractical, i'll be trying to catch up on the backlog of unwritten tales.  

The second half of September was pretty good and almost every session yielded some fish, bar that week of awful stormy weather where I didn’t bother to lure fish. 

Sadly, I forgot to give my Sustain any attention after submerging it in a rockpool the day before that storm set in. A week later the winds subsided, and I went out to fish, only to realise at the mark that I could not turn the reel handle- it was totally stuck fast. Some frantic switching of the ant-reverse freed it up and I managed to get it turning, sadly sounding very rough. Didn’t want to send it away for a service as I’d miss out on valuable fishing time in prime season. I did however replace the line roller bearing and carry out some basic maintenance and cleaning so it’s not quite as rough now.

Dan and I managed to get out on a weekend camping trip to the far west, (detailed in his last post) to explore some new ground and hopefully find that elusive 60cm+ I’ve been looking for. We managed around 25 bass over the weekend but nothing bigger than about 52cm. Dan had his first on a soft plastic and a good number on the tailwalk; a tasty looking resin jig that casts like a missile and wobbles like a wounded sandeel on a straight retrieve. Replacing the standard treble with a decoy plugging single managed to convert the hits he was missing, something I'd definitely advise doing to any metal lures when targeting bass. 

I also had a first, in the form of a bass on a freelined live-bait. As there was so much bait in the water, I feel like the bass were so spoiled for choice (countless mackerel/scad/sprats/sandeels/launce everywhere) and weren’t so keen on taking lures. The other issue was that the bait fish would take any lures, I think I managed about 20 mackerel on the 140mm Patchinko in late September. One morning when surrounded by a feeding frenzy of mackerel and sprats, I sent out a mackerel on a circle hook into the fray and was soon rewarded with a nice plump bass! I tried again straight after and had a take, but sadly didn't hook up. It's definitely a technique i'll be experimenting more with in the future. 

We also noticed that there would be two very distinct periods of feeding, one at sunset till 19.30 and the other around dawn till about 8am. In darkness the sea has seemed totally dead in usually productive areas. I'm still wondering why this was the case. Perhaps the mackerel are most active at these times driving bait shoals around, and it’s the most efficient time for the bass to feed? We also came across mackerel driving sprats ashore, so took advantage and collected some to eat- delicious when coated in flour and fried.

Fresh sprats driven ashore by mackerel and bass

The week after our trip the conditions were suitable for one of my favourite stretches of coastline so made the most of them and fished 4 times. Headed off after lectures ended at 4, the sea was calm and could see plenty of signs of life. Lots of gannets both close to shore and far out, the odd seal and a few cormorants harassing sandeel shoals. Things looked promising, and a bass cautiously inspected my patch 100 on the first and second cast. I then cast a savage gear seeker out far to where the cormorants were working, and promptly hooked a schoolie. A couple garfish and launce followed. As the sun was still fairly high in the sky the bass weren’t too active, had a few half-hearted swirls at surface lures but nothing really committing. Once the sun dropped a bit the fish seemed more active and I hooked three small bass in quick succession (taking the tally to 100 bass since coming back to Cornwall in September!) and then a decent wrasse which took a fancy to the savage gear seeker.

A quiet period followed, but as the sun started to set the fish were becoming a lot more active. Most casts would result in either a mackerel/gar/pollack or small bass. Eager to find some bigger fish I opted to move on, to a shallower rougher area. First cast with the patch 100 and I was into a small bass. Next cast a slightly better fish at 45cm. Then another at 48cm. I then took another cast, and realised the lure wasn’t working properly, a small crack that I had previously fixed had reopened so water had flooded the lure. I quickly changed to the big patch in the same colour and cast out. Almost instantaneously a fish swiped at the lure and I instantly knew this wasn’t a schoolie which usually just thrash about on the surface. Would it be the 60cm + bass I’ve been searching for so long for? I managed to guide the fish into a gully and slide it onto the rocks, with some tense last-minute head shaking in the shallows. A beautiful gold flanked bass lay before me. On the ruler it went 57/58 cm, so not quite there but the best I’ve had this year.

So close, a fin-perfect unit of a bass which I hope to catch again next year! 

The light was fading fast now, and from the past weeks experience the fish would switch off once the light faded so hoped to get another cast in. I cast out to a similar spot and was hit again almost instantaneously, with this fish feeling even bigger than the last. I was convinced this would be over 60, but it turned out it was just a very fit mid 50’s fish. I had some more casts into darkness, but it was if a switched had been flicked- nothing was active, not even a small pollack. Very pleased with the session I went home feeling elated, and already planning my return visit.

I think that was possibly the high point of my season, from then it’s all sort of gone downhill. I returned to the area later in the week with a friend and we each caught 6 or so bass up to 52cm in daylight, even having a couple of double hook-ups. Just before sunset when anticipating a bigger fish, I got hit by what I’m sure is the biggest bass I’ve ever connected with. It took a burst of line from the tight set drag as I’m aware how shallow and rough the area is, and that was it. I was cut off above the leader. I have caught a fair few bass but have never been snapped off by one ever, so I was gutted to lose this one and my only large patchinko. I hope the fish managed to shed the lure as it was rigged with barbless hooks.

Double hookup's on surface lures with Robin

With conditions remaining favourable I decided on another trip the following day. Again, I managed to catch 4 bass in daylight, and as the sun started to set put on the patch 100. What followed was incredible, 15 casts with 14 of them resulting in either a mackerel/bass/pollock or garfish taking the lure. I wished that I still had the big patch as it’s a little harder for garfish to take it and gives the bass a bit more of a chance. I cast out for a 16th time, slightly to the right of where the main action had been taking place and saw a few fish swirl near the lure and then suddenly it all went slack! I wound in and found the fluorocarbon leader clean cut- I can only presume a bass swiped with its gill plate and cut the line.

This was a particularly sad moment as this lure was rather special to me. On my first lure fishing trip in Cornwall when I moved here 4 years ago I found this patch 100 in a rockpool. 

It was already a well used lure, with a fair bit of hook rash and the previous owner had replaced the original y-w77’s. I changed the rusty hooks and the next session out I managed to land my first Cornish bass on that particular lure. From then on it has always been my top lure, certainly catching me in excess of 100 fish. It’s been to Tasmania and New Zealand and lured Australian Salmon, hooked small tarpon in Panama and been worked across the great barrier reef. It developed cracks, lost both eyes, but kept holding off buying a replacement. I just hope someone else finds this lure and that it’s just a lucky for them. (A few days I also lost some other lures in an unfortunate accident involving a wave and an open lure box...)

One of the last bass this ledgendary lure caught

Gutted to lose my last surface lure I stuck on a 7.5 inch sluggo on an 8/0 and twitched it back across the surface, which resulted in a 52cm bass and three nice pollack around the 50cm mark. The sun had fully set now and the bass switched off, but the pollack seemed to stick around this evening and I caught a few more, replacing the sluggo for a 6 inch senko.

This week I then went out to explore a new stretch of coast but annoyingly slipped whilst crossing some rockpools and somehow managed to break my rod. Again, I’ve had it 7 years, taken it all over the world and caught countless species with it. I once chipped the insert of a line guide but aside from that it’s always been fine. I guess I just hit a spell of bad luck? I headed off to Wadebridge later that week to browse the selection of rods at The Art Of Fishing and found a suitable replacement so I could continue my quest for the 60+ once the storm passed. 

By this stage it really felt like a quest- every day I would wake up and check the conditions, and find a way to get out in any free time I had. Often i'd prepare my gear to be able to leave just after lectures ended, or head out at dawn to be back on campus for 9am. I felt like I was in a constant state of exhaustion, from lack of sleep and spending up to 9 hours a day out fishing and walking the coast path. Surely I'd come across the big bass soon?

A few days passed since buying the new rod, and set out one evening hoping that the water clarity had improved and swell dropped enough to be fishable since the storm. I had been down at Porthleven that weekend to see the swell smashing into the breakwater and showering the town in spray.. 

I arrived at the spot to find some very lively conditions, lots of white water and thankfully little floating weed. Some sets were huge, meaning I had to fish back about 5 metres from the shore which made things a little tricky. 4 casts into the churning water I had a solid hit, the first bite on the new rod. As i was unfamiliar with how the rod would perform I opted to back off the drag from my usual setting as it felt a little more fragile than my previous rod. This was probably a bad idea as this fish stayed deep and kited to the left, peeling line. Although I knew it wasn't a schoolie I couldn't really judge how big it was, but pretty sure 55cm+. Ended up getting it in close but to the left of me, and as I tried to move to get into a better position to try and land it with the help of a wave the line must have gone slack and I lost the fish. Pretty gutted, I carried on and a couple casts later had a very fat 48cm fish as a consolation. Considering how much easier it was to land this fish, I wonder if the lost one was the 60+ i'm still searching for.. 

The rest of the session was very productive, nothing huge but 13 bass up to 52cm and a modest pollack in under two hours was good fun! Mostly used the westin salty 18g and a white shad on a 12g /16g jighead, but also caught a couple on a new metal I picked up in Wadebridge. Interestingly, as soon as the sun set around 18.45 the action died off completely, as has been the case everywhere I had fished throughout September and October. 

After that action packed session, something changed. I headed out around the 18th October for a dawn session in what i'd call "perfect" conditions for bass fishing, full of confidence. I arrived at the mark before dawn, and as first light approached I started to make some casts. Fully expecting to get hit on my first cast I was surprised that nothing had had a go at the lure. This continued for some time, and I couldn't quite believe it. I should have had about 8 fish by the time I made a move to another spot as the tide was pushing up. In about 4hrs I managed to catch only 2 very small bass, a single garfish and a solitary mackerel, it all felt very strange. 

Since the 19th October I have only caught 4 bass, all of which were smaller than 45cm. I am usually eagerly awaiting November's arrival as I have had some of my most productive sessions at this time of year, I remember the late autumn of 2016 being particularly good. 

Perhaps it's been the relentless storms and cold winds, cooling the inshore waters and forcing the bass to head offshore to find stable temperatures, to allow their eggs to develop before spawning in the spring? Perhaps the baitfish were swept away from the south coast by the notherly and easterly gales? Were there too many garfish denying the bass a look-in at my lures? Were the bass gorging themselves on the abundant squid shoals ? Some even speculated that the bluefin tuna may have been eating the bass..!  It's almost impossible to know which natural  variables caused the bass to vacate the coast so early this year, and i'm pretty sure that they did. I had numerous outings in "perfect" conditions, to just blank time and time again, in places there should have been fish. One thing for sure though, is that despite there being increasing effort to protect bass stocks, irresponsible and illegal commercial fishing still takes place. Although it has recently been banned to use fixed nets to target bass, inshore fishermen still have an "unavoidable by-catch allowance", creating an easily exploitable loophole. As it's impossible to prove someone was deliberately targeting bass, nothing can currently be done about a net being set close to shore, killing migrating, pre-pawning bass, which can then LEGALLY be landed and sold. How is this legislation protecting bass? On many of my trips this autumn, I saw many nets set in areas inhabited by almost exclusively bass, with the odd pollack and wrasse thrown in. It's so disheartening to arrive at the cliff top, full of excitement, and to then look at the water you're about to fish, only to see two markers outlining a net stretched out in-front. I often wonder how many of the 156 bass I had over the past three months will survive till next season. 

I urge you, if you haven't already, to head over to "www.saveourseabass.org" and have a read of their blog, and perhaps send an email to your local MP to put pressure on the decision makers to choose the best possible legislation to ensure our fish stocks have a chance to recover. By removing fixed nets from inshore waters, we not only help conserve bass, but also seatrout, mullet, pollack and a plethora of other species which so often end up as dead bycatch or discards as a result of a the monofilament curtain of a gillnet. 

I imagine I won't be targeting bass again till late spring now, but looking back in my diary shows that there's still good fishing to be had before then for other species. I'm hoping we'll have some opportunities to take the kayak out in february and march, to see if I can finally catch a herring and find Dan his first ray. After Easter, we then have the start of the trout season to look forward to, and the wrasse fishing will start to warm up too. We'll also try to get out before the new year for a river session for pike/perch and chub over in Essex, something I grew up doing but haven't had a chance to go for a few years now.

Looking back, it's been a fantastic year of fishing, with many a great session in the company of  friends, as well as a whole array of new species both at home and abroad. Hopefully 2019 brings more the the same! 

Bass Drunk

The kettle bubbles over followed by a satisfying click, the crackling of the woodburner becomes apparent again alongside the whizzing of the fan atop. November howls against the thin walls of our caravan. Nested cosily in the armchair, I'm musing upon the glorious passed summer that we've enjoyed and the nostalgia of the trips that are now passing like the sycamore leaves outside. One in particular stands out, the sentiment of which is disclosed below...

It was approaching the end of September, neither Stuart nor myself had been graced with particularly respectful sized bass yet this season, and academic commitments were set to pick up over the following weeks. Driven half mad, half in awe, by the sight of a large bass breaching a foaming pool of water in the dawn light a week prior, narrowly dodging the trebles of the big patch topwater, we found ourselves travelling west in the evening light, with only one target in mind. The rear seats of the car had been removed, replaced instead with a plethora of rods, tent, lure boxes, and just enough carbs to compliment the inevitable mackerel that would intercept our otherwise intended lures. We chatted giddily, musing over marks that we had spotted on OS maps over the week, the blazing pink sunset over our head.

Arriving at our usually empty mark minutes before dark, it seems things were slightly different from previous trips here. Whilst the gravel and fragmented brick track is almost always all but empty, we struggled to find a space to squeeze the Skoda into (our home for these few days). We gathered from a couple of anglers wandering up that word had got out about quite the frenzy going off over the beach, and there was talk of each angler having had 4+ bass each, even on crude tactics, and one particularly greedy angler waddling under his load of two bulging carrier bags of ~80 mackerel. Running down to our selected mark, clutching our rods and lure boxes perhaps more precariously than we ought, we began to flick our offerings into the gently rising surf. But after perhaps three casts each, disillusionment crept into our conscious under the now dark clouded night. Where was this frenzy, we'd each been here with far more activity going on than to deserve such attention on this particular evening. After ten casts we were still coming up blank, and I wandered over to Stuart, this was not the way we anticipated beginning our weekend epic. Our empty reward for arriving late was evident; on the tide line, in amongst the usual strand of kelp, smoothed branches and less savoury items of litter there was a gleaming band of thousands of sprats, apparently pushed up onto the beach, escaping now unseen assailants. We ended up pitching the tent around the 22nd hour of the day under the sea wall of the beach, rods leaning over us. All we had to show for our efforts was a solitary mackerel for Stuart, which he was fishing the head of in the surf whilst I succumbed for the night.

The form of Stuart casting towards the unknown, silhouetted simply by moonlight.

Silver jewels washed up in the surf.

Stuart with the mackerel that saved a complete blank, incidentally we have very few photos of mackerel, perhaps it's time we looked anew at this common yet magnificent scombrid. 

The next morning started at 5am, a veritable lie-in given that we just had to slip out of the tent and grab the rod, no fears of needing to muster the concentration for an early drive. I started by blasting out a new lure for my box, a sea trout lure made by Tailwalk that had been kindly gifted by Ben of The Art of Fishing. It looked like the absolute ticket for this steep beach, casting far out into the surf and wobbling seductively through the column on the retrieve. When the steady rhythm of cast, retrieve, walk ten yards, repeat, had been carried out ten times I looked instead to paddle tail shads- perhaps this would give the pulsing of the tail was what was needed to trigger any solitary fish to take a look. It wasn't until the first glance of rising light upon the horizon some time later that things were looking in our favour. Maybe three hundred yards along the beach, there was a great wailing cry of tens of circling herring gulls and the odd black headed gull.

Shouldering my sandhopper covered pack, I ran, part waddling, as well as I could in wellies and with a long, fragile rod of carbon in hand. Placing my pack down into the sand, hopefully above the surf line. Looking down at the rising waves racing over the shingle, hundreds of small silver sprats were twitching, exposed from their watery home. Adrenaline was now coursing through my blood, reaching my giddy hands, reaching for a small 15g metal to match these baitfish. No sooner had this offering been twitched back towards the feeding shoal, than a series of rapid punches on the line were converted to a take with a sweeping rise. Unsurprisingly, the culprit was found to be boisterous mackerel, now embarrassed out of the feeding crowd.

One that went a little too far.

This was soon followed by another, and another, a fish a cast, the lure barely time to sink to the bottom. Switched to the Frosty topwater, more mackerel. The tailwalk, you guessed it: yet more mackerel. In the desperate bid to find bass in amongst this feeding fray I tried clipping a 25cm slug intended for Norwegian cod, funnily enough this was left well alone by everything. Meanwhile, further down the beach Stuart had his brain well engaged to what was going on under the surface. With all the frenzied behavior of the mackerel near beaching themselves in the waves in pursuit of the sprats any economically minded bass would be picking off the larger distracted mackerel rather than bothering with smaller sprats. So out he sent a livebait mackerel back into the tussle, circle hook perched between its jaws. He was rewarded for his thinking here with a veritable barrel of a bass, a real fat individual, stuffed with so much baitfish a pin might have burst it like a balloon, the tail 10 inch livebait poking out of its gob like the cigar of a certain overweight historical British Prime Minister. 

One very plump bass and one very happy angler!

I mimicked this move, but soon after, as the morning sun began to rise higher, the feeding balls were drifting further from the shore and disbanding for another day, the prior chaos only distinguished from a wild fantasy by the litter line of many thousands of sprats along the beach. Not wanting to follow suite in the greed of certain anglers the night before we decided to settle for four fine mackerel, two for breakfast and two for the coolbox. We also made good use of all the hard work put in by these mackerel, gathering perhaps a hundred or so sprats fresh from the sand for dinner later, before allowing the wheeling gulls to perform their tidying role. A simple breakfast of mackerel and sea beet boiled in seawater went down most pleasantly, before we packed the tent, rods and packs, and set to head further west.

An obligatory trip was made to Penzance Morrisons, and we skulked through the shelves of food like an excited pair of misbehaving schoolboys, knowing how we stuck out from the usual shoppers in our already bedraggled state. Essentials of doughnuts, flour, bread, and oil were soon packed into the car as we set out to a stretch of coastline that we had fancied during a scan over OS maps. Sliding the car into a layby, we made our march towards the coast. Soon a trickle of sweat was making its way steadily down my back, as we stepped out from the fence of blackthorn that had guided our way, into a plateau of heathers, gorse and grasses. Out before us appeared the representations of the map in actuality, a steep shoulder of granite tumbling towards the sea with a playground of rocky pinnacles dispersed about it. We made our way over amongst a company of fell runners, overtaking some along the uphill in our eagerness to flick a lure into the sea, and once at the head of the cliff began the technical descent. Digging heels into hooks of the granite, passing the rods between us for more risky pitches and no small dose of bledding shins from brambles woven into the gorse eventually gave way to a gloriously tumbled stretch of coastline. We each took our positions, hopping atop boulders to reach the water ahead.

Stuart sight fishes a soft plastic for wrasse through a gully.

With a steady flow of current pushing around from the right and a cutting wind from the left, casting the lure into the pockets of boulders was no easy feat and seemed to me more akin to fishing the powerful flow of a river than the usually open expanse of sea. Plop, the lure lands behind one pinnacle of rock directly ahead, perhaps two feet from the dragging fronds of attached kelp. The steady rhythm of the sea washes up the rock, causing these fronds to dance in submission, as I steadily twitch the lure backwards towards me. The Frosty topwater lure is retrieved with steady taps over the reaching grasp of kelp forests below, hiding a multitude of crevices and gullies, mind racing at great silver predators waiting in ambush below for any baitfish unfortunate enough to get disorientated in the washing machine of water. Bringing the topwater right up to my feet, my mind is still stuck on the beast of a fish that caught me off guard a week earlier right under the rod tip, dodging the poised hooks. This cycle is repeated, to this pinnacle and that, until a splash signals interest less than a foot from the lure. A couple of small taps are given to stimulate another attack, while holding the lure in the danger zone. Bang, fish on! Steadily playing back my first bass of the weekend, I’m delighted to see even this small individual slip into my reach. Stuart has just rounded the 4 metre boulder to check on my progress as the fish had been unhooked, taking the obligatory photos before slipping it back unharmed to the marine forest below. 

The first fish from a new mark is always special, regardless of size. Incidentally this ragged shirt is perhaps my favourite for all the stick that it has gardened from a perpetually more shabby state, pushing the boundaries on what constitutes 'worn'. I'm sure it'll still be in use next season. 

This cycle is repeated a few more times, until with a groan and sigh, the inevitable struck. Pulling in hope, the lure clip knot proved itself the weakest member of the team, Frosty still visibly hooked into a tail of kelp on a far exposed rock. Not willing to forfeit the Frosty with much of the weekend yet to go, eyes were fixed upon the rock as I stripped down for the rescue mission. In truth I’m an avid sea swimmer, and this was just a good excuse for a bit of gentle adventure, as the cool water sent adrenaline rushing through my veins and heightened my senses. Pushing through the dense kelp, it was easy enough to find my precious Frosty and the offending strand of kelp. Planting both feet firmly upon the rock to steady myself from being raked against limpets and barnacles, the holdfast eventually gave way. Disentangling myself from the groping knots of kelp, I swam victoriously back towards shore, kelp grasped in my jaws like a well-behaved canine returning a stick to its owner. All this was used as a good excuse for a spot of lunch, as I dried in the gentle warmth of the Cornish autumnal sunshine.

 

Success!

Although we wandered a little further along the tumbled stretch, no more bass were hooked before the next mark beckoned us. We both agreed that a little more water, perhaps an hour or so later with the rising tide, would surely bring this spot to life. Even so, the location had been proven with one small bass, and we make note for a return visit. The car, now quite the state of disarray ,was trundled a little further along the coast, slung into a quiet layby that has the very definite smell of urea, perhaps a favourite benighting location for cheap campervan inhabitants? In the dipping light of autumnal early evening we made our way down steep grassy slopes, planting our feet in holes of soil as steps that we pray will hold. Hold they do, and before us the slope reveals a steep rocky platform, with great tongues of waves pushing up the sides even in this low swell. Wind had now dropped to a meagre 3-6mph north easterly, with the cliff offering us perfect shelter even from this.

The mighty Pudwell soon hooks into his first bass, giving a nod of assurance over this mark that he had previously scouted. He soon has another, and then yet another. Taking note of the 15g 4 inch shad doing the business, I switch over to copy this as closely as I may. Stuart lands another bass, my retrieve returns empty. By the time Stuart has had his 5^th bass casting into the very same water as myself, I can’t decide what I’m feeling: half delighted by this ridiculous state or half mad that I can’t seem to buy my way into the action, but certainly not feeling any bites. After a few words from Stuart on the theory on the ‘sink and draw retrieve’, something I had thought that I’d been practicing in my fishing to this point, it was time to think hard, really visualize how the lure is moving through the column, the movement imparted by each maneuver of the rod. Studying the motions of Stuart’s Nasci, I keyed into the steady pressure and feeling of the lure, keeping in touch with the fast downwind before a steady sweep of the rod. 

Jammy sod and a great angling mind.

Tap. Finally, a sign of some action. Cast again, tap tap, bang. Fish on and worked back towards the rocky shelf, a little teamwork is employed between the two of us to see it in. I have few times been so happy to see a fish in the net, and of course after a photo it is slipped back to the cauldron below. This fish is soon followed by a few others in quick succession, now that I have keyed in on the critical technique. Stuart, now on his 10^th bass here and eager to punch through to some bigger fish, has deployed a live bait once again, hoping to repeat the morning’s proceedings. Meanwhile I’m keen to crack the hard tailwalk bullet, knowing that there were fish in front that would surely respond positively once I worked out the most seductive retrieve. A straight retrieve, much like that favoured for a metal over a sandy beach mark, brought consistent bites from mackerel. Meanwhile, jigging it deep over unseen gullies of rock brought several snatches from pollock, far too many of which were lost before reaching our casting position. Examining the treble attached to the rear and placing its dimensions within the strike of a theoretical predatory attack, it seems that this hook is rather undersized for the lure, and a larger single plugging hook would not only more likely give a decent hookup but would also make leverage off once hooked more difficult. Switching to this arrangement with a 3/0 decoy plugging single, the bullet is let fly towards the horizon. A definite switch occurs, with the percentage of registered bites converted to takes and number of fish successfully banked shooting upwards. Alongside some half decent pollock, our usual friends, the mackerel, manage to nail themselves on the single hook. 

'I think this'll be the last cast, it just seems to be a mackerel and pollock catcher... Stuart, good fish on!'. A larger fish has dead slammed the tailwalk as I retrieve with a jerky sink-draw and is now holding its own, taking the fight over to the left, pealing the odd couple of yards of line from the spool. Not wanting to get excited before the fish is fully landed, great exclamation of relief was given as Stuart kindly grabbed the leader for me and swung the fish up to more stable ground. While still by no means a monster, this fish of 49cm was a stamp above the other fish we’d caught that evening. All the more, the single hook was lodged with a bomber hook hold square in the upper engulfing jaw of the bass. As the light dipped deeper down, the pollock came out to play with Stuart christening a Fiiish Crazy Sandeel with a few nice fish. Even here though the action began to dim with the fading sun and breaking through of the night’s first twinkling stars. Bubbling in discussion of the success of the evening, we stop only to admire the bumbling form of a badger roaming though the low heathland vegetation, passing just before us.

At last! The oxygen rich foaming water seemed to give all the bass we hooked into an extra level of strength, we were both guilty of over-estimating the size of fish before they were landed. 

We make camp for the evening in the lee of a small village church, crunching endless freshly deep fried whitebait with great hunks of bread as plates. Though essentially nothing more than homeless, we are never more truly at home, enjoying one another’s company all the while drinking in the rich wine of the glorious nature that has challenged and welcomed us. A couple of hours prior, any walker on the coastal path would have simply passed over us, unaware of the splendor of marine life we were enjoying, and now would just pass us off as a pair of purposeless vagabonds. Perhaps they’re right, I suspect not. 

The final morning came with no less anticipation than those before, we were to try another mark on route east and were trundling down narrow empty country lanes. Despite washing down a strong brew of coffee, we still found ourselves reversing long sections to rectify missed turnings in the dark. It’s a blessing that there are no other users on the road at this hour, you’d be forgiven for pulling us over as those having been turned out after last call, except for the apparent lack of pubs or indeed other buildings nearby. Happily, we found ourselves parked in yet another layby (a blogpost reviewing the laybys of Cornwall is perhaps well overdue) and away to the coastpath in mere minutes, our routine now very well-rehearsed. Perhaps fifteen minutes into walking and the signal is given for our headtorches to be turned off, we approach the mark with a level of serious subtlety. Other senses now heightened, the damp rich humous releases an intoxicating aroma of the fruit of summer, while browned bracken crackles delightfully as we jump from cold stone walls blocking our vector of travel. Taking up positions on a spit of rock, Stuart opts to fish the point with soft plastic shads while I take to the marginal water, casting the faithful and now redeemed frosty towards the murky shadows of rocks. Twitching this backwards, the glistening moonlight reveals slacker water of current, shrouded in the ethereal mystery of pre-dawn fishing.

Overhead the silhouettes of gulls soon appear in the first cool glow of morning light, leaving their overnight roosts. For any who haven’t journeyed at this time of day, or at least for some time, I urge you to immerse yourself in this otherworldly land, preferably alone or in quiet company, and drink in the riches that nature has for you to offer. To ignore such a time is to pass up a free treasure, easily there for the taking. 

The morning came like many others, and quite predictably the first light of dawn woke up the bass, Stuart again taking the first fish. That session saw Stuart land another six bass and a few for myself, alongside a smattering of good pollock hanging around this same ground. As the light was beginning to gain strength I opted once again for launching the tailwalk towards the horizon in pursuit of the drifting feeding activity. A couple of sudden taps were swiftly followed by a hard slam, as I landed a bass of 47cm on the tailwalk, our best for the morning’s efforts, and again with a bomber hookhold in the top lip. 

A brilliant brisling predator and my last of the trip.

By 08:30 we were back on the road, heading back east; tired, dehydrated and delighted. The car now resembled a mixture between a tackleshop and a particularly messy boy’s bedroom den, and the looks received at the petrol station to fill my enamel mug with coffee were a reassurance that we looked (and perhaps smelt) in such a state ourselves, unwashed and sleep deprived. As the name of this blog suggests, the opportunity to solely focus on angling for a day or more is a rare treat and I’m ever so grateful for this one. A defined lack of large mature bass is still a worrying sign of the crippling effect of commercial bass fisheries and locations remain undisclosed in our hope of holding off unscrupulous inshore netters for one more day. Get out there and enjoy the full living experience of Cornwall’s quintessential marine predator, don’t just be familiar with some washed out fried fillet. 

Conditional Angling

The average university student's laptop typically has a multitude of tabs constantly open: email, timetable, various social media, unread journal articles and other symptoms of procrastination. In addition to these, the browser of a typical piscatorial student will have three in addition to these: Windy, Metoffice weather and the tide forecast.

It might be said that one of the beauties of angling is it's variability, that there are so many natural factors at play that conspire to make or break that surging success of a 'fish on' moment. Learning to tame, or at least read these variables dramatically improves not just the enjoyment of each trip but can also help to bring a greater intellectual satisfaction; being in tune with the rhythms of nature and responding to the footsteps of it's ever changing dance.

That said, on the 18th of August, having finished a day of work, I foolishly rushed with my plans without consulting the thoughts of the sea. Planning to fish a shallow reef from the low tide (at least I'd checked the time for this), I found the water to be a sedimented soup, driven by the stiff onshore wind. Blast! Stubbornly I headed to the corner of a cove where the wind cut to my side and a Frosty surface lure could be worked reasonably well in an arc as the wind dragged and bowed the braided mainline, mind perplexed amid a mental crowd of voices offering solutions to the issue at hand. After about 10 casts, a small bass leapt at the reasonably paced lure, and soon returned to nail it as the lure was left dead to hang. As if a seal of completion on this mark, a new plan was then settled, though success not guaranteed.

This will be quite the reef predator one day if it goes on with such optimism in prey size!

Ripened blackberries, browned cow parsley and tall nettles formed a late-summer blur lining the edges of the Cornish lanes that were being raced upon for the destination. Watch checked, there should be just about enough time to make it. Another cove faces out of the wind that had plagued the prior mark, but is only accessible for an hour and a half either side of low tide, even in the neap tide conditions. Car parked, rod in hand, rucksack slung on, I jog awkwardly in my oversized (but free!) wet sandals towards the destination through familiar steeply falling woodland and wind-swept grassland, making note to return for some horse mushrooms spied on route, before a short scramble along the cliff brings me to my final point. Watch checked, about 40 minutes left before the tide cuts me off.

Hands pace with nervous energy through my backpack to find my box of soft plastics and a 4" pumpkinseed minnow is clipped on with a 3g nose weight. With a gentle swing the lure makes it's way over a shallow bay of kelp and mixed boulders. With the gentle lapping of the rising tide this tumbled forest comes alive, as ruggedly armoured furrowed crabs emerge from their rocky lair and nervous blennies dart from crevice to crevice, changing colour within minutes to adapt to each new location. And most importantly of all, pugnacious ballan wrasse swim across to take advantage of this newly exposed platter and take up their high-tide territories. Rod tip is held high to register any subtle plucks as the lure is slowly dragged across the bottom, dull drag affirming that it is riding where it needs to be: right on the deck. Within half a retrieve a sharp fast pull confirms that the water has been read correctly, and with the retrieve stopped and a touch of slack applied the perpetrator returns with more vigour and a series of characteristic nips are converted to a hookup.

A thin weedless hook firmly in the top lip of a small yet colourful ballan wrasse.

Wrasse are awesome fish to fight, and they play dirty. Palming the spool, the strain pushes the limit of my trust in each knot in the connection as the angry wrasse piles hard for the rock and kelp below that would help it free itself from my troublesome lure. After this first dive though the fight is largely won, and with a few more spirited runs a nicely sized wrasse is subdued and admired. Vibrant strawberry red flash on the throat with spotted mottled green on the sides, what an awesome beast! After slipping this robust individual back to it's watery realm, kicking it's paddle like tail rebelliously as it goes, an excellent 45 minutes of fishing followed (I never can contain myself to leave before wet feet become a necessity). Despite the wrasse playing their usual games, chomping and pulling off the lures whilst avoiding a hookhold, a grand total of 11 wrasse meet my feet.

Cornish wildlife at it's best.

Sadly this trip all occurred several weeks ago, and as I awoke this morning my home fields were covered in a thick fog and hurricane winds are set to move in. Yet there shall be plenty of fishing to do before the Cornish winter sets in with full force, my eyes look towards the storm beaches. Great fishing can come by luck, but this luck is all the more increased by an attentive study of the realm and conditions by which our finned friends live.

September so far

Since returning to Cornwall I have been fortunate to be able to fish every day in the run up to term starting. The addition of a car has also allowed an exponential increase in trips to distant marks that would have previously been totally impractical to reach by foot alone. 

It’s been great exploring new areas in West Cornwall, in addition to revisiting marks I haven't fished for a while. Shortly before leaving for Tasmania I walked a decent stretch of the South West Coastal path. Whilst walking, I noted down likely looking spots and have really enjoyed fishing them hard these last few weeks to work out under which conditions they produce.

I’ve had pretty good success, catching about 70 bass since the beginning of September. Unfortunately, none of any real size, most averaging mid 40’s and a couple just over 50cm. I’m not sure why I can’t find any larger fish. As there are currently so many mackerel about, I wonder if the larger fish are just full and not bothering to chase lures as there’s so much bait around? I hope as Autumn progresses I’ll connect with some better fish. The thought often crosses my mind that the years and years of commercial pressure on the Cornish bass stock has left next to no large bass in the inshore waters, but I remain hopeful of finding one. 

A fin-perfect bass of about 50cm

Something I have recently realised is that I have become quite addicted to fishing surface lures over the past couple years, which has possibly limited my chances of catching fish. I used to think that if fish were present they would happily come up and take a top-water, and if I wasn’t getting any interest then the fish just weren’t there. Wanting to test this theory, I’ve been focusing a lot more on fishing the whole water column, starting at the top and working down before moving on. This new approach has resulted in me catching a lot of fish that I previously may have just walked on past when stubbornly fishing surface lures.

Well conditioned fish from a new mark

I have also spent more time focusing on using long casting lures to reach currents and other features. I enjoyed making the most of the last spring low tides to fish far out on some rocks that can’t be reached unless it’s a real low tide. The brisk onshore wind meant that surface lures couldn’t really reach a current line that I thought fish would be positioned in and metals would surely snag on the shallow kelp beds. Fortunately, I had a lure that could cast far and work close to the surface- the Westin Salty Pattegrisen 28g. It cuts through the wind and with the rod tip held high works just below the surface. For about 30 minutes it was almost a fish a cast, out in the current. Had 8 bass several garfish and a handful of mackerel. Once the current died down towards low water the fish moved on, but still managed to catch a couple more at the first of the flood before making a retreat to higher ground.

Long-range bass on the Westin Salty

The past week I had some friends and family visit and decided to camp further from home to save driving so much and explore some totally new ground. Was a very successful trip, managing 3 sessions per day on average and managed to put a good mate and my dad onto their first lure caught bass. Routine was pre-dawn to breakfast, then a midday trip, and finally an after dinner into darkness session, almost always on different marks. By the end of the week we were all exhausted, having been running on minimal sleep and food for a while. We caught bass at most places we fished, however it was often very hard to get through the mackerel. Almost any lure you put on at times would be taken by mackerel, I lost count of the amount I had on the big patch! The most successful tactic was larger soft plastics, fished below the mackerel. We also managed some alright Pollock on a couple of the evenings which made a nice change. I’m taking this weekend to rest up and reorganise some of my gear, ready to fish hard in the coming week before lectures start up again the following Monday!

A decent pollock from a deep water shore mark

Bass on the Beach

Headlights beam through a dusky country lane, speeding along west. Lure rods are rigged with clips and slid into the space between us as we talk, it has been a year of Stuart’s absence and there is much to discuss. Comparing tales of New Zealand trout and Truro urban trouting, gilthead bream and bass marks to investigate over the coming year and the occasional non-piscatorial question. 

Prowling along a shingle beach, the waves crash against the steep gradient with a surge. We choose our mark and clip on lures. Calf deep in the rushing sea water, a simple metal lure with a single treble is clipped on. Blasting this horizonward, the line peals from the reel just shy of the backing. An uncomplicated affair, this is allowed to sink till a bump is felt and the lure then retrieved straight and simply. Doubt fills my mind, used to fishing obvious features and elegant lures with less than constant success, surely this is too simple to work in modern angling? But the scene is too serene to care, crimson light fills the sky and company to my left is a refreshing change from a year of solo trips.

Tug. I stop retrieving, leave the lure two seconds. Retrieve resumed. Pull on the line, the rod raised in an affirmative strike. Calling over, I hope to share this moment. There are no snags below to worry about, the fish is played carefully in a relaxed manner despite rushing adrenaline. A silver gleam behind the crashing wave, a bass on the line. Lifting it towards me, it has other plans and makes a last rush back to the open expanse of the open sea- with the American continent the next land mass in a straight line. All at the wrong time, as the drag of the outgoing wave multiplies this effort and causes the hook to pull free. That one was not to be. 

A few minutes later Stuart is beaming in the dim evening light, as a schoolie has hit his surface lure. Though a small fish, it is a most welcome catch and is swiftly returned to continue smashing unsuspecting sandeels in the marine plain that belies the waves. There is something wonderful in the feeling of seeing a friend succeeding in catching, a buzz of knowing what that must mean to them and being able to share in the post-catch discussion, what depth, speed, distance, lure, ect had been used to bring such success. Another moment, a friendship again solidified.

My turn came next, as a series of nips was followed by a slam- stripping a few yards of line from the reel before beginning to work the offender back. The sun now dipped below the horizon at the time of 10pm, the splashes and swirls of this fight were illuminated by the mingled glow of the long-wavelength afterglow of the horizon and the steadily rising moon. This special light lasted long enough to be reflected in the perfect silver gleaming scales of a small bass, held happily in the flowing waves at my feet. Stuart had spoken of how bass caught from this mark take on a gilt colouration compared with the black of those we more frequently caught from rock marks, but in this pale light there seemed the blended coldness of night and yet the reassuring warm glow like that of dying embers from the now almost absent light of day. 

As the sun receded, so too did the bass. In the midnight hour, we turned back to call to return through the lanes to the sleeping Falmouth. Through this journey we spoke again at lengths, each of us having high hopes for the coming year of trips to make, species to target, specimens to attain. Though I suspect that not all of these will be met, some might never bite, some might be lost in the surf at our feet. Here’s to casting in the dim light though, hoping to land a few of these opportunities, emboldened by the reassurance of company.