I cast out for what must have been the thirtieth time. Despite the strong wind that blew across me from right to left, the rig flew true and landed in pretty much the same place it had been doing on previous casts. Give or take. It’s quite satisfying you know, when you really feel like you are doing things well, like deep down you know you will be rewarded with a bite. Eventually. I was still waiting for that first bite of the day, you see, after slab sided bream on a Cheshire Lake. Conditions were not ideal for bream fishing by any stretch of the imagination but I have caught them from here in similar conditions in the past so my confidence wasn’t too low.
Of course, sitting in such beautiful surroundings helps matters a fair bit, especially when its more than a little slow, and because bream bites are usually pretty slow and steady, you can afford yourself more than a fleeting glance at something other than the quiver tip. The shimmering trees, with sunlight cascading off their healthy green leaves, or perhaps down into the margins, where clear water makes it easy to spot all manner of creatures. Swan mussels, water boatmen, whirligig beetles and of course, plenty of tiny fish. There was even a small jack pike, either hiding under the stage or on the blind side of an obstruction, whilst the fry fish shoaled, out of sight, on the other. A game of cat and mouse, of survival, perfectly and simplistically playing out in front of me.
But of the bream there was no sign. Three hours had flown by without so much as a line bite. I had started fishing with corn, a good visual bait that can pick up a quick fish or two, but this time it seemed gaudy was not to their liking. Double fake caster was my reserve bait choice, tough enough to withstand the attentions of the many tiny rudd and perch, but tempting enough for an old bronze bream. They usually love casters on here too, and I had fed a fair few of them by now, but still the swim was devoid of fish. Maybe it was time to try a pellet?
After six hours and with my bait now nearly gone, I had my first action of the day, a savage line bite that immediately dispelled any thoughts I had of blanking. The bream were here. They had found the bait and were currently chomping down mouthful after mouthful of crunchy casters. It would only be a matter of time before one of those mouthfuls picked up my hookbait. I re-cast and sat back. Poised. Alert. More than I had been all day. Five minutes went by. Five that turned into ten. Then twenty minutes. Time to re-cast. But still nothing materialised. The tip simply refused to ‘do its thing’. On the opposite bank, a golden scaled common leapt clear of the surface, smashing up the lilies upon re-entry. It grabbed my attention quite easily, and for a few moments I was transfixed, by the concentric circles now growing larger and beginning to fade, much like my dreams of bream.
But not before I began to imagine a bream bite starting to play out, quiver tip pulling round slowly into a pleasing arch, and that when my gaze once again fell upon it, I would have all I wanted. It did no such thing. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked back at all.
Thanks for reading and until next time,