I can’t remember the experience in detail now, but I do recall that I had been striking at thin air all morning. My mum’s boyfriend was regularly throwing handfuls of sweetcorn that landed with little plopping noises around the orange-topped waggler, and in my youthful enthusiasm I kept thinking that I had a bite every time the float so much as bobbed on the chop. Then, something different happened. The float went dead still and abruptly disappeared from view and when I struck, there was wriggling life at the end of the line. I don’t remember playing the fish or it being netted, but it was a rainbow trout of probably just under a pound and I recall that I wanted to eat it but for some reason I wasn’t allowed to. I have a picture somewhere of me holding the fish. I was probably about six or seven years old.
Another eight years or so on and I’m stood on the bank of a windswept lake, only small, perhaps an acre or two. The water may not have been big, but it was packed with features including two small islands, multiple reed beds, and a lot of variation in depth. Its proximity to the sea also meant that the scenery to the west in the near distance was dominated by sand dunes; a pretty unique vista for a trout lake! It was early in the year, maybe April, and I’d decided to fix a sinking leader on to my floating fly line to help the weighted fly trundle along the bottom. The fly was a self-made creation, loosely based on something called a Zug Bug: a pattern that features peacock herl as its main ingredient (I am among the many anglers who have found that peacock herl has almost mystical trout-attracting qualities). I remember casting out and leaving the rod lying on the ground for a while whilst I did something else. When I picked it back up and began to retrieve, the fly literally made only a foot or two’s progress before the line drew tight as a bowstring and I was connected to something heavy that slowly began to shake its head. I was fishing off to the side of one of the islands and I remember that the trout powered past me through the narrow channel between the island and the bank I was stood on, and the battle continued on the other side in open water. Thinking back now, my vivid memory of the hissing of the submerged flyline being dragged through the water reminds me of the scene in Jaws when they get the first barrel on the mighty shark and it steams past the stern of the Orca, barrel in tow. The fish stayed deep and I never saw it until right near the end when a big flank sporting a vivid crimson stripe sandwiched between silver and gold surfaced, beaten, and was guided to the net. The rainbow weighed 11lbs 12oz and, although I’ve caught bigger, it was definitely the finest-looking one I ever landed. The lake owner reckoned that by his memory of the stock, and the trout’s perfectly-proportioned muscular body and flawless tail, that it had lived in the lake for a good year or two without being caught. He even asked me if he could keep the fish himself to have it smoked, and I was more than happy to agree as I hated the taste of trout by then. I have only two pictures of me with that fish and, already at the age of fifteen, the ‘smug’ smile that I am sometimes berated for is well in evidence.
Maybe ten years later, I’m stood on my local beach threading a frozen sandeel on to a 3/0 Aberdeen. I’ve got a brand new Penn bass rod and Abu multiplier and I’m about to embark on the first bit of bait fishing for bass that I’ve done in perhaps eight years or so. Sure, I’d fished with lures for them sporadically in that time but I’ve never been that successful with the plug and this, to me, feels more right, like the way that I really want to fish for them, rather than the way that’s currently all the rage. I ping the rig and sandeel about thirty yards into the narrow gully and stand back with the rod held high and the line between my thumb and forefinger, ready for a bite. That bite, when it comes, is unmistakable: jag, jag, and then a solid pull as the bass makes off with its meal. The rod sweeps up and after a short struggle, a schoolie of about a pound nestles in my hands, its dorsal and gills bristling furiously. I feel a sense of wonder, like I did when I caught that first trout. It’s like I have rediscovered fishing again and, in a sense, I have, as this is the start of the rekindling of my love for shore fishing that only strengthens with the passing of time.
A few years further down the line and I’ve left my home under cover of darkness and driven to a north Cornwall surf beach to fish over the low tide for small-eyed ray. The hour’s journey was made to the tune of a ‘90s Motörhead album; either ‘Overnight Sensation’ or ‘1916’, I can’t remember which. As I rounded the corner and rolled down the hill towards the beach I could see that the surf was not much more than a gentle turnover and the full moon was shining starkly on the water. I drove on to the sand and parked the car at the top of the beach and as I got out, I could feel the light wind coming out of the north. All signs pointed to a poor session, but despite that, there were a good few anglers already fishing as it was the night of an annual bass competition.
I remember little about the first part of the session other than the going was slow and the lack of action meant that I was starting to feel the cold. I can recall being sat there on my seat box, legs and arms crossed, watching the rod tips with the moon shining down like a beacon. I could clearly see the little frothy tables of surf, and although the tide pull was quite strong, I didn’t feel that there was enough life in the sea to encourage fish to come into the shallow water to feed under such bright moonlight. I recall that I had a very modest ray sometime before low water, and evidently the fishing was not great for the other anglers too as by the time the tide slacked at low, there was only one group of anglers remaining on the beach, way off to my left.
It was just after low water that one of my rods arched over and yanked down hard. I was swiftly on to it, feeling the fish drawing away which I responded to by walking back a pace and bending the rod into a hefty presence. The sensation was of something large and ponderous on the other end; at this point, I had no reason to suspect it was anything other than a sizable ray. For the first few seconds, I just stood there with everything locked up as the fish banged powerfully against the rod. Soon, I felt it begin to yield to the pressure and I started walking backwards, easing its bulk landwards. As the fish entered the surf tables, it began to move laterally, swimming left along the beach and this was the first cue for me wonder if maybe I had hooked something other than my target species. The fish switched direction and steamed off to the right before turning and allowing me to draw it into the shallows. I carried on walking backwards, easing the beast further and further in until everything went solid as it beached. By this point, I was a good fifty yards or so back up the beach from where I initially made first contact with the fish so, reeling in all the time and keeping the line tight, I hurried down to where I could see the line ending. The vision that confronted me as I drew close will live with me forever. As I looked down to where I still half expected a ray to be, I was instead met with the sight of a cavernous mouth gasping on the sand, and the reason for the fish’s un-ray-like behaviour became instantly clear – this was no small-eye, this was an absolute brute of a bass! I gazed at it disbelievingly for a few seconds, it’s silver-plated flank seemed pornographically enormous and I could not even begin to put a weight to it as I had never seen a bass anywhere near these proportions before. I stooped to pick the fish up by the jaw and carried it to my seat box in a daze. My good scales had recently met an untimely end courtesy of a Bristol Channel boulder, and the only set of reasonable scales I had left were a small spring balance that weighed to 15lb or so. I expected the fish to go something in the region of 10lbs so I was totally amazed when it bottomed out the little scales and the only thing I could think of to do was walk up to the other anglers some 80 yards away and see if they had a better set. It turned out that these guys were members of Camelford club and had their official club scales with them. The bass made 14lbs 4oz on these and after calling a few mates, I hastily packed up and drove back to Newquay where we all gathered at Mark Reed’s place. The bass made the same weight on another set of scales and over celebratory tinnies and cups of tea, I recounted everything I could remember about the capture. As the post-midnight time flew by, we stood in Mark’s front garden talking about big fish like excited children, before gradually coming back down to earth and heading our separate ways.
I come to. I’ve been stood in the garage for some time, thinking, not seeing; completely lost in a sequence of indelible memories. The photographs that triggered this reverie are held loosely in my fingers and I glance at them again, fragments of the experiences popping back into my mind’s eye. An hour ago, I had been consumed with frustration after a poor session, but now I feel on the way to being replenished, having relived these fleeting moments of perfect fulfilment. This is part of the power of photographs. They’re not just trophies or evidence of fish that I’ve caught, they’re moments in time, preserved forever and there to remind me of my journey in angling.
I keep many of my pictures pinned up on the wall in my garage. There’s a good few on there, stretching back over the last eight years or so. I don’t tend to contribute to it as often as I used to; only if I catch a really good fish or a photo comes out particularly well. The earlier years, however, are well-represented and are where a lot of my really priceless memories come from. There’s pictures of my ‘firsts’ of many species, photos from my first visit to the Bristol Channel, photos from Chesil etc. Sometimes if I’m feeling negative about something to do with my angling or I’m having a bad run, I like to sit for a while and look at these early pictures. The rush of memories they bring back helps me to get back some perspective on exactly why it is that I follow this path in life. It’s not just about the catching of fish; if it was, I could invest in a boat and a net and I would probably do a whole lot better. The true value of angling is the whole experience, including everything around and leading up to the captures. Something in my subconscious remembers this, even if my conscious mind sometimes forgets. When I revisit these memories, there’s so much more than just the fish; the silence of an early morning estuary, the smell of smoke from a beach fire, the sight of a pod of dolphins passing by on a glassy summer evening. Fishing has given me the opportunity to experience some incredibly precious moments that nothing else would have given me reason to be present for. My photographs serve as a reminder of this when I need them to, and for that reason, they are amongst my most treasured possessions.
Another eight years or so on and I’m stood on the bank of a windswept lake, only small, perhaps an acre or two. The water may not have been big, but it was packed with features including two small islands, multiple reed beds, and a lot of variation in depth. Its proximity to the sea also meant that the scenery to the west in the near distance was dominated by sand dunes; a pretty unique vista for a trout lake! It was early in the year, maybe April, and I’d decided to fix a sinking leader on to my floating fly line to help the weighted fly trundle along the bottom. The fly was a self-made creation, loosely based on something called a Zug Bug: a pattern that features peacock herl as its main ingredient (I am among the many anglers who have found that peacock herl has almost mystical trout-attracting qualities). I remember casting out and leaving the rod lying on the ground for a while whilst I did something else. When I picked it back up and began to retrieve, the fly literally made only a foot or two’s progress before the line drew tight as a bowstring and I was connected to something heavy that slowly began to shake its head. I was fishing off to the side of one of the islands and I remember that the trout powered past me through the narrow channel between the island and the bank I was stood on, and the battle continued on the other side in open water. Thinking back now, my vivid memory of the hissing of the submerged flyline being dragged through the water reminds me of the scene in Jaws when they get the first barrel on the mighty shark and it steams past the stern of the Orca, barrel in tow. The fish stayed deep and I never saw it until right near the end when a big flank sporting a vivid crimson stripe sandwiched between silver and gold surfaced, beaten, and was guided to the net. The rainbow weighed 11lbs 12oz and, although I’ve caught bigger, it was definitely the finest-looking one I ever landed. The lake owner reckoned that by his memory of the stock, and the trout’s perfectly-proportioned muscular body and flawless tail, that it had lived in the lake for a good year or two without being caught. He even asked me if he could keep the fish himself to have it smoked, and I was more than happy to agree as I hated the taste of trout by then. I have only two pictures of me with that fish and, already at the age of fifteen, the ‘smug’ smile that I am sometimes berated for is well in evidence.
Maybe ten years later, I’m stood on my local beach threading a frozen sandeel on to a 3/0 Aberdeen. I’ve got a brand new Penn bass rod and Abu multiplier and I’m about to embark on the first bit of bait fishing for bass that I’ve done in perhaps eight years or so. Sure, I’d fished with lures for them sporadically in that time but I’ve never been that successful with the plug and this, to me, feels more right, like the way that I really want to fish for them, rather than the way that’s currently all the rage. I ping the rig and sandeel about thirty yards into the narrow gully and stand back with the rod held high and the line between my thumb and forefinger, ready for a bite. That bite, when it comes, is unmistakable: jag, jag, and then a solid pull as the bass makes off with its meal. The rod sweeps up and after a short struggle, a schoolie of about a pound nestles in my hands, its dorsal and gills bristling furiously. I feel a sense of wonder, like I did when I caught that first trout. It’s like I have rediscovered fishing again and, in a sense, I have, as this is the start of the rekindling of my love for shore fishing that only strengthens with the passing of time.
A few years further down the line and I’ve left my home under cover of darkness and driven to a north Cornwall surf beach to fish over the low tide for small-eyed ray. The hour’s journey was made to the tune of a ‘90s Motörhead album; either ‘Overnight Sensation’ or ‘1916’, I can’t remember which. As I rounded the corner and rolled down the hill towards the beach I could see that the surf was not much more than a gentle turnover and the full moon was shining starkly on the water. I drove on to the sand and parked the car at the top of the beach and as I got out, I could feel the light wind coming out of the north. All signs pointed to a poor session, but despite that, there were a good few anglers already fishing as it was the night of an annual bass competition.
I remember little about the first part of the session other than the going was slow and the lack of action meant that I was starting to feel the cold. I can recall being sat there on my seat box, legs and arms crossed, watching the rod tips with the moon shining down like a beacon. I could clearly see the little frothy tables of surf, and although the tide pull was quite strong, I didn’t feel that there was enough life in the sea to encourage fish to come into the shallow water to feed under such bright moonlight. I recall that I had a very modest ray sometime before low water, and evidently the fishing was not great for the other anglers too as by the time the tide slacked at low, there was only one group of anglers remaining on the beach, way off to my left.
It was just after low water that one of my rods arched over and yanked down hard. I was swiftly on to it, feeling the fish drawing away which I responded to by walking back a pace and bending the rod into a hefty presence. The sensation was of something large and ponderous on the other end; at this point, I had no reason to suspect it was anything other than a sizable ray. For the first few seconds, I just stood there with everything locked up as the fish banged powerfully against the rod. Soon, I felt it begin to yield to the pressure and I started walking backwards, easing its bulk landwards. As the fish entered the surf tables, it began to move laterally, swimming left along the beach and this was the first cue for me wonder if maybe I had hooked something other than my target species. The fish switched direction and steamed off to the right before turning and allowing me to draw it into the shallows. I carried on walking backwards, easing the beast further and further in until everything went solid as it beached. By this point, I was a good fifty yards or so back up the beach from where I initially made first contact with the fish so, reeling in all the time and keeping the line tight, I hurried down to where I could see the line ending. The vision that confronted me as I drew close will live with me forever. As I looked down to where I still half expected a ray to be, I was instead met with the sight of a cavernous mouth gasping on the sand, and the reason for the fish’s un-ray-like behaviour became instantly clear – this was no small-eye, this was an absolute brute of a bass! I gazed at it disbelievingly for a few seconds, it’s silver-plated flank seemed pornographically enormous and I could not even begin to put a weight to it as I had never seen a bass anywhere near these proportions before. I stooped to pick the fish up by the jaw and carried it to my seat box in a daze. My good scales had recently met an untimely end courtesy of a Bristol Channel boulder, and the only set of reasonable scales I had left were a small spring balance that weighed to 15lb or so. I expected the fish to go something in the region of 10lbs so I was totally amazed when it bottomed out the little scales and the only thing I could think of to do was walk up to the other anglers some 80 yards away and see if they had a better set. It turned out that these guys were members of Camelford club and had their official club scales with them. The bass made 14lbs 4oz on these and after calling a few mates, I hastily packed up and drove back to Newquay where we all gathered at Mark Reed’s place. The bass made the same weight on another set of scales and over celebratory tinnies and cups of tea, I recounted everything I could remember about the capture. As the post-midnight time flew by, we stood in Mark’s front garden talking about big fish like excited children, before gradually coming back down to earth and heading our separate ways.
I come to. I’ve been stood in the garage for some time, thinking, not seeing; completely lost in a sequence of indelible memories. The photographs that triggered this reverie are held loosely in my fingers and I glance at them again, fragments of the experiences popping back into my mind’s eye. An hour ago, I had been consumed with frustration after a poor session, but now I feel on the way to being replenished, having relived these fleeting moments of perfect fulfilment. This is part of the power of photographs. They’re not just trophies or evidence of fish that I’ve caught, they’re moments in time, preserved forever and there to remind me of my journey in angling.
I keep many of my pictures pinned up on the wall in my garage. There’s a good few on there, stretching back over the last eight years or so. I don’t tend to contribute to it as often as I used to; only if I catch a really good fish or a photo comes out particularly well. The earlier years, however, are well-represented and are where a lot of my really priceless memories come from. There’s pictures of my ‘firsts’ of many species, photos from my first visit to the Bristol Channel, photos from Chesil etc. Sometimes if I’m feeling negative about something to do with my angling or I’m having a bad run, I like to sit for a while and look at these early pictures. The rush of memories they bring back helps me to get back some perspective on exactly why it is that I follow this path in life. It’s not just about the catching of fish; if it was, I could invest in a boat and a net and I would probably do a whole lot better. The true value of angling is the whole experience, including everything around and leading up to the captures. Something in my subconscious remembers this, even if my conscious mind sometimes forgets. When I revisit these memories, there’s so much more than just the fish; the silence of an early morning estuary, the smell of smoke from a beach fire, the sight of a pod of dolphins passing by on a glassy summer evening. Fishing has given me the opportunity to experience some incredibly precious moments that nothing else would have given me reason to be present for. My photographs serve as a reminder of this when I need them to, and for that reason, they are amongst my most treasured possessions.