A mild and sunny afternoon, little or no wind and not a ripple on the drain's surface which is almost mirror like, it all looks idyllic almost perfect. The drain is teeming with small roach, rudd, skimmer bream and perch, everything looks perfect and in ten minutes I've caught enough fresh bait for the afternoon and the kingfisher continues to splash into the water catching a small fish with every dive.
Everything appears to be perfect and its a pleasure to be out on the fen when conditions are like this.
Look a little harder, get past the idyllic setting and you notice that that the countless fry aren't being harried and there isn't a splash to be seen. Never mind, confidence is high so get that fresh bait out. An hour passes and not a touch. The bait is twitched back, drifted, fished hard against the rush and reed on the far side, under my feet, fished deep and fished shallow. Nothing seems to interested.
A perch of about twelve ounces takes the dead roach and adds fifty per cent to its weight instantly, I suppose it is one way of packing some weight on quickly. The perch is a lovely coloured fish and the markings and colours positively glow, yet again I promise myself that I'll dig some worms and have a perch day during the week leaving the pike tackle at home. That will take some will-power.
Another forty five minutes drifts by and the kingfisher continues to catch, he's like a match fisherman so great is his catch rate. Time for a cup of tea, float adjusted to over depth, cast out and settled into position, then just as the tea is being poured the float is away and the tea spilt.
The fish is a single figure pike but a beautifully coloured and marked fish, the barbless hook is quickly removed and back he goes into the drain. A new fresh bait is cast out again in the same area right in the middle of the drain and as the tea is being poured away goes the float, the tea is spilt yet again but at least it warmed my hand.
I fish on and watch the kingfisher going for a personal record weight but the pike are not playing ball, the sun was setting so I decide that it was beer o'clock.
As I drove away the kingfisher was still going at it like a metronome, I hope he doesn't get so full he can't fly.