Last Sunday morning my daughter and I had a three hour slot before lunch to try and catch ruffe on the canal at Ansty. We both fished with poles into the boat track and fed earth and pinkie groundbait. After a biteless half hour she went back to the car to listen to the radio. Within a further thirty biteless minutes I'd joined her. The endless boats and water movement without so much as a dither of the float weren't conducive to pleasurable fishing. We called in at a supermarket on the way home and bought a big fruit pie and a tub of ice cream. We ate the pie after an autumnal dinner of sausage, mash, peas and gravy. The only positive from this is trip was that the morning outdoors made the food taste great.
On Tuesday evening I went to the Avon at Wasperton after eels. I fished feeders opposite the fallen tree above the swans neck where I'd caught eels last year and this time used either maggot or worm on the hook.
In the field on other side of the river a herd of beef cattle made their way slowly in an upstream direction. There were calves amongst the group and in between eating grass they would sporadically start running and chasing each other around. Joyously mucking about. Jumping, jostling and barging into one another. The parents looked up now and then but didn't look like they were going to join in at any point. The calves reminded me of my children who are forever making video-game-themed courses in the back garden which they race around. I get dizzy just looking at them. It made me wonder at what age cows - and humans for that matter - stop gambolling? I couldn't answer my own question on behalf of the cows but I reasoned that us humans never really stop. I certainly haven't. Fair enough I can't remember the last time I did a cartwheel but find yourself in front of me in a race up the stairs and be prepared to have you ankles grabbed. Totally contrary to my 'don't play on the stairs!' ruling.
I had two bream about three pounds each as the sun went down.
After sunset the clouds broke up and moon shone through illuminating the landscape in a blue light. It was bright enough to cast shadows and for me to walk back to the car without the aid of a light.
Yesterday I had the day off work to fish for predators on the Avon. I was weighed down with a heavy cold which had serious motivation sapping powers. I didn't catch any predators. My excuse is water tight. The water was so clear even the fish eaters were taking shelter, from fish eaters of the same species bigger than themselves. To provide evidence of the water clarity: I could see the stony river bed all the way between the top weir at Lucy's mill and the larger bottom weir. That's a first.
Two blokes were up from Banbury bream fishing and optimistically had two keepnets in the water as both times in previous years they'd filled them. When I walked past them as I was calling it a day they'd had four between them. Abnormal.