Although all fishing trips are fun, or rather they should be, there are some that can be enjoyed just that bit more than others. For me its escaping the usual routine for a few hours, either early in the morning or after work, and with minimal tackle revisiting places fished in the past, when my shoes size was smaller than it is today. There’s something almost other worldly about such trips out. A mixture of nostalgia and re-discovery. Buried memories flung back into the present to live alongside the now.
My visit was to a small farm pond, where the margins were thick with broad leaved pondweed, and the rudd were easy to spot. I set up where the rushes were least thick and set my float so the small pellet I would be fishing would just touch the bottom. Ideally I would have loved some casters but this was an impromptu session so the ever available pellet won over. It didn’t take long for the delicate tip to confidently sank from sight and after a short scrap the first of the days fish was in the net. A little crucian. A dubious little crucian, having more than a whiff of brown goldfish about it, but for the sake of this story, this was a crucian.
It was just like I used to catch. Though I remember them being much bigger. Probably something to do with my hands being smaller then. Or maybe it was because at the time I had caught precious few ‘crucians’ and each one looked absolutely incredible. And boy can they fight! For little fish, not even threatening half a pound, they can strip line from a centrepin when hooked with such ease. The session wore on. The fish kept coming. When I caught ten crucians I placed a split shot in a spare container. Easier on my old brain than counting singularly like I used to. For a change a small perch made and appearance and then a small rudd before I hooked into something a little more feisty than the rest. A pristine brown goldfish. Confirming my suspicions that these little ‘crucians’ are not little crucians after all. Still, they are more crucian than not, and I was having a fine old time.
In all honesty the fishing was easy, a pinch of pellet every now and again kept the fish in a most obliging mood, the float never settled for more than a minute before it was pulled under. If anything time passed too quickly, but with four split shot in the container, along with a smattering of rudd, roach and perch, I was happy to call it a day as a storm began to rumble behind the trees. Time to make a hasty exit. More memories to gather dust in the corner of my brain. For another ten years or longer but there ready to surface when the time is right.
Thanks for reading and until next time,