On the road for nomadic perch

      I packed the car, had some lunch and deliberated about where to fish. I'd driven past one drain a couple of times during the week and the images of the drain in my mind were becoming a powerful magnetic pull and I convinced myself that there would be perch there waiting to be caught. Ah, the power of your imagination.
      I arrived at the mentally selected venue and the sun peeped out from behind the clouds lighting up the drain in a way very similar to that scene in the church in The Blues Brothers. It's an omen for the perch thought the eternal optimist.
      Three hours later and not a touch on any of the baits, lobworm, roach or plug. Not a touch, bump or even a bob of the float. It's time to break the gear down get into the car and head for another drain that is an absolute dead certainty. Or not.
      After another half hour and although the whole area looked perfect the perch are elsewhere and that could easily be described or defined as where I'm not. Time for the nomadic perch fisherman to get on the road again.

      Another venue closer to home, the  worm is out against the far bank with the cheerful red float and a watery sun appears and disappears, the float bobs and runs away. Fish on, and a perch is netted, this time I have definitely cracked it there may only be an hour of light left but there'll be a lot more perch in that golden hour. Ever the optimist.
      A gentleman enquires over his garden fence how I'm doing, I give him the story of the afternoon and he says come through the gate and fish off my little jetty, nobody ever fishes here. The water is quite deep when I plumb the depth so I fish under the rod top with a large worm, at this point I remember I've left my net on the other side of a briar mountain next to his fence and I decide that I'll land any fish I hook by hand. Ever the optimist again.

      As the light is fading into twilight the float sails away and the rod bends nicely my benefactor who had seen me struggling from his window turns up with a net he uses to remove plastic bottles and litter from the river.
      By the time I'd packed up and walked back to the car he and his family had gone out so I think I'll just have to drop him a bottle of wine in for his kindness and to oil the wheels for a return visit.
      You see the sun does shine on the righteous.
      Or maybe the Devil looks after his own?


Bureboyblog said…
Cracking stuff TT. The light in the scenic shot is spot on. Once my back has unseized it self I'll be putting a tub of lobs in the boot of the Charabanc. I want one or perhaps two of those big fat perch.

BB, I have seen perch swirling at fry that were way bigger than the four pound one I had the season before last. I am now at the sad stage where I curse the pike... Yeah, I know I need therapy. That is what obsession is though those two were both around two pounds or more probably just under but there are some monsters there. John
Brk Trt said…
Those are sizable perch. And your desire to get out is awesome.
Are the perch table fare?

Years ago when I would ice fish we would cook up a half dozen right on the lake. Lemon and cocktail sauce with some hot coffee and life was good.
Alan, the biggest I have caught was just over four pounds but I have seen bigger hunting fry. They were just under two pounds -ish but my goodness it was cold. I've eaten them hot smoked, smaller ones in the Lake District, and they were delicious. Regards, John