Catching pike. Chasing ghosts. Net loss

      Thursday, it's damp, a bit foggy, cold and very little wind for a change. Perfect. Frozen baits are removed from the freezer just in case it isn't possible to catch any fresh bait, the gear is in the car and with lunch out of the way away it's a drive out into the mist and damp of the fen. It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop, certainly you can hearths plop of water dripping into the drain from the nearby willow trees.
      With the arrival of the shorter days these afternoon sessions seem to get shorter and shorter and in reality if it is a really gloomy day I only have two and a half hours before the light goes.

      A short while later a run, and the bait is dropped, I'm sure it's perch that are picking up the drifted dead roach. Soon after the series of phantom runs the first pike is taken and it's a typical bite; the bait is cast out, the line tightened and slackened to set the float, the rod is positioned then I look up and the float has disappeared. Not a huge pike but all pike are welcome and after a serious staying deep tussle the fish was in the net.

      Another chunkier pike followed a short while later then the phantom bites started all over again but finally after changing to a much smaller bait the phantom bites are converted into perch, not big perch though, but half a dozen or so more of them put some life back into freezing fingers and another hour slipped by into the early evening darkness as I was catching them and missing runs and takes.

      Friday and the weather is just like the day before, Bure Boy is arriving at 12.30 and after a cup of tea we're going to try an area where I have caught pike and perch before, the trouble is I always think that recommending a good fishing venue is a bit like raving on about a restaurant or pub you've visited. You get caught out by your enthusiasm and critical recommendation when there's an off-day.

      When we arrived at the venue my heart sank, the reeds had been slashed back, lilies had disappeared, at least two feet of water had been pumped out and in the last couple of months the drain had been dredged. In simple terms it was shallow and bald offering no cover whatsoever, after a couple of casts using my favourite wobbled dead roach method I knew it was a waste of time.
      The little green house that looked as if it had been sawn in half was interesting though.

      Back down the bank to Bure Boy was suffering similar frustrations and we decide to head back to the village and home waters. Sadly and predictably the frustration continued, I had one tentative run from what I presume was a pike and Bure Boy had one take on his second cast and that was it for the afternoon. Nothing moving or chasing, all quiet on the West Norfolk front, so while the pike float remained stationary I amused myself catching roach and rudd under the rod top. Then to top it all off Bure Boy had left his landing net on the drain bank too, not that we were in desperate need of it.
      Had we both caught pike I'm sure Bure Boy's hour plus drive home wouldn't have seemed so onerous, I know I felt guilty about having only a mile to drive home.
      The good news is that the Boss and I drove via the 'empty' drain on Saturday on our way to the farm shop buy our vegetables and nobody had found a bonus landing net.
      So at least we did land a landing net.