The Great Groundbait Experiment

All the best experiments happen by accident. Except maybe in science, and other things. All my best experiments happen by accident.

Last month I had a good day float fishing on the River Culm. I had wanted to catch some Roach, and catch them I did, using a tip I’d picked up from an old friend, the Internet. Apparently Roach like Coriander, so much so that mixing it with a bread crumb groundbait will lure them in like… And not just Roach either, there were also Dace and Gudgeon drawn to my swim.

It wasn’t Roach I was setting out to catch today. I was after Chub, in particular I wanted to catch a Chub on a lure. Unfortunately it’s November already, though I’m not sure how that’s happened, and it’s cold. Ever the realist I mixed up some coriander and breadcrumb, filled my bait box with maggots, and set off for the river. Halfway there I realised I’d left the mashed bread groundbait at home, and so the experiment was born.

I was going to find out how much of a difference groundbait, and coriander, makes.

The answer, as you may have guessed, is quite a lot. I found myself a good looking spot, where the river’s current was a little slacker and some overhanging trees provided shelter. I rigged up my Allcock’s Lucky Strike and Aerial centrepin, and started fishing.

There is something about fishing with a float that is deeply pleasing. I’m a fly fisherman most of the year but I try to keep alive, in part, some of the spirit of the all rounder. I enjoy the challenge of stalking trout in gin clear streams, but if I did nothing else I fear I’d appreciate it less. There are some who consider fishing with a float to be a lesser thing (is there much difference fishing beneath a float and fishing a nymph beneath a dry fly?). Not for me. A float is borderline magical. It exists partly above, mostly below, the water’s surface. For someone who is fascinated by the underwater world it provides something of a bridge.

When the normal drifting of the float is interrupted and it bobs, twitches, or quivers with the attentions of a fish, hands tighten their grip on the rod. The anticipation builds as you wait to see if the float will dip, slide or disappear. Waiting for the fish to make up its mind. To either take the bait or let it go. And who knows what sort of fish it might be? What species or size? The promise is infinite. That is a moment I could live in.

Today the promise delivered Minnows, and one Dace. I actually like the humble Minnow. They might not grow to any great size but they were the first fish I met close up. None of these fish came close to my personal best. A monster at least 4 inches long, caught on free lined bread and a garden cane.

The bites stopped coming. The Minnows were either full of the free offerings that go alongside the hookbait or something else was at work. The good thing about being an all rounder is that you often come with more than one approach in mind. I switched the centrepin to a fixed spool reel and flicked out a small copper spinner. A Mepps Aglia. I had barely turned the handle of the reel when a Jack Pike grabbed it. I let him recover in the net and think about what he’d done.

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The Fly Fisherman In Winter

Although the rivers close for trout fishing on 30th September there can’t be that many anglers who put away their rods until the hard days of March. Fishermen who dedicate themselves to hours at the tying bench and evenings of recollection. Those that do are missing out.

In winter, on the slower moving rivers there are plenty of Chub, which can usually be tempted to take a fly on the milder days, and if its really mild then Perch can be great fun on a fly rod. Of course Pike are the most winter fish, but that requires heavier gear and a wire leader to avoid the teeth that give many small roach their last earthly view. And if your prepared to dabble, as I do, in being a bit of an all rounder, then spinning and trotting a worm help to get you out if the house on days that are too harsh for fly fishing.

On the good days even some trout streams can still be fished, if there are Grayling present. Grayling are beautiful fish and the river in winter colours can be beautiful too.

That said, I don’t know much about grayling– by which I mean I know less about them than Trout. And I don’t know that much about trout. I’m still learning, and I hope to continue. To reach a place where there is nothing left to learn must be dark indeed.

I do know that there are only two river systems in Devon that have Grayling in them, the Exe in the east and the Tamar in the west. The River Lyd on the edge of Dartmoor is a tributary of the Tamar and fishing is available on the Sydenham stretch through the Westcountry Angling Passport. This stretch closes for the winter after 31st October so I thought I’d better try and squeeze a trip in now, just as the clocks turn back.

I’ve caught Grayling before, but not in Devon. The Lyd is quite different to the boulder strewn Dart but the current is just as strong. The upper stretches of the Sydenham beat are suggested as the most likely to hold grayling and I slip into the river at the bridge and work against the flow. The water is freezing cold and there is the threat of rain in the gathering clouds.

I decided, because it worked before when I tried for Grayling, to fish New Zealand style. A Sawyer’s Killer Bug beneath a tan Klinkhammer. On the first cast a fish takes the dry fly. This catches me out. I was just warming up the casting arm and coming round to the idea of being knee deep in river. I miss the take. That’s all right, it was almost certainly a Trout, and they’re out of season. We want grayling, not trout.

Further upstream I startle a Pheasant. In truth we startle each other. They are such ungainly birds and seem to lack any intelligence, but I suppose that makes them easier to shoot. I change my Killer Bug to a Copper John. I cast to cover water, upstream, across, and then draw of some line to cast a little further. Take a step and cast again. There are no rises to target, but as the team of flies drift down towards me, the Klinkhammer disappears. Something has taken the nymph below the surface. It’s a trout, released without fuss or fanfare.

More Pheasants are startled. More Trout are released. Each time the fly disappears and a Trout is the result I move well forward, in a vain attempt not to catch any more. I tempt something like five in total. Which a month ago would be a good day, just not today. There’s not a Grayling to be seen. I wonder where they’ve all gone? My guess is either they’ve read the same information I have and moved into the lower reaches of the beat or they’ve gone up past the upper limit out of the way.

I begin to notice it’s been raining, and is still raining. The river takes on colour and rises. Then I get a bootful of it as I forget I’m wearing thigh waders rather than chest waders. There can be few things in the known Universe that are worse than wet, cold socks. I always keep a spare pair of warm, dry socks in the car to shield me from this horror. There’s also some hot coffee and a sandwich. After six hours with no sign of a Grayling, coffee, sandwiches and dry socks are needed if not deserved. Besides, it will be dark soon.

Before the next attempt I should probably read more books about Grayling. That’s the real beauty of fishing, no matter how accomplished you become there is always a fresh problem to be solved or challenge to accept. Sometimes just the basics can be challenging enough.

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