Down on the ditch again

Canal fishing is regarded by many Irish anglers as a waste of time, just angling for tiddlers while being pestered by dog walkers. Indeed, the Royal Canal is often condescendingly referred to as ‘the ditch’ in some quarters, but I know different. Feeling a bit burned out after 7 uninterrupted days of sanding and painting one of the bedrooms, I badly needed a quiet few hours fishing so Monday saw me heading off to the canal for some well deserved R&R.

The first cup of coffee of the day, feed the cats, rake the ashes of last night’s fire then make some sandwiches for the coming session. Chores out of the way, I was on the road east just after 8am. The timing was based around the opening hours of the tackle shop in Longford where I’d buy some maggots, but ideally I would have liked to have been fishing at first light to give me a better shot at the tench. At least I was out of town before the traffic got too busy and I toddled along the N5 in humid summer weather. Denniston’s was open when I pitched up in Longford just after 9.30 and I soon had a pint of reds to see me through the day. Chatting to the staff, they were incredulous that I had come all the way from Mayo to buy maggots. Then it was off to a straight section of the canal to try my luck.

From my previous post you will have gathered I was keen to try out a mate’s old fibreglass rod which I had repaired, so once I was set up I put that rod together first. A simple feeder set up to a six pound hook length and a size 14 baited with three maggots felt like a reasonable starting point. Cast close in to the near bank, just off the fringe of lily pads, I was hoping for a tench but would settle for just about anything. All I wanted was to see a bend in that old rod. I propped it up on a bank stick so I had a good view of the tip then set up my float rod.

Plumbing showed me roughly four feet of water in my chosen swim. I had an odd assortment of ground bait with me, to be honest I was just using up odds and ends which were lying around. There was some Sensas 3000 left over from a previous session which I found in the fridge in a sealed plastic bag and also a mix of breadcrumbs, corn and pearl barley of indeterminate lineage. Then there was a half pint of casters which I have no faith in as hook bait but would do as an addition to the ground bait. This unholy mess was stirred together and rolled into small balls which I slung in at intervals over the session. Unlikely as it may seem, it actually did work. Delving into my floats, my eyes set on a small Drennen onion which I had never used before. It was one of a number of floats I had bought years ago when I was starting to learn coarse fishing, just a joblot on ebay. Cocked with just a single BB it would do perfectly for where I was fishing so I slid it on the mainline, trapped with a pair of stops. I swithered about the hook length, should I go for four pound or six? In the end I looped on a four pound one with a size 14 spade end and made my first cast into the middle of the clear water.

Right from the get go I was hooking small rudd most casts, your typical 5 to 7 inch fish which inhabit this waterway in their countless millions. Often my hook was intercepted on its way to the bottom by a greedy rudd. Nothing stirred on the feeder rod but I kept renewing the hook bait and filling the feeder at regular intervals. At last, after maybe half-an-hour, a solid bite yielded a good roach of about half a pound on the feeder, then a couple of casts later a good rudd of about 12 ounces. I was unfeasibly happy catching those small silvery fish on the beat up old rod. Small things amuse small minds right enough!

The float rod now began to account for a sprinkling of roach and hybrids, bigger fish than the rudd but still not monsters. It was hot by now, even though there was solid cloud cover it was in the mid-twenties and I was sweating in my waterproofs. The glorious silence of the day was shattered when a digger came clanking into the field across the canal. Later, when packing up I could see he was digging yet another infernal drainage ditch in the field. Bites slowed up a bit but I was still catching a rudd or roach every third or fourth cast on the float while the leger rod chipped in periodically. What was noticeable was any better sized fish were caught on the feeder. Occasional fizzy bubbles showed there were tench in the swim but so far I had not contacted one. More ground bait, more loose fed maggots, more perspiration and more hapless little rudd. Come on tench, where are you?

Rustling from a tree directly across the can from me grew louder. Just cows rubbing against trunk I guessed, but then movement in the branches caught my eye. At first I couldn’t make make anything then a dark shape leaped from one branch to another, stopped and turned to look at me. It was a pine martin. He regarded me for a minute, during which time I reached for my phone to get a shot of this elusive beast but by the time I had fumbled about with camera settings the martin had nipped around to the opposed side of the tree and was gone from my sight. You are going to have to trust me on this, there is a pine martin hiding in the photo of a tree below.

More fizzing in the swim, this time right at my feet. I re-baited for the umpteenth time then dropped the float right under the rod tip and into the middle of the bubbles. Minutes ticked by and the fizzing stopped but then the float plunged and the rod hooped into an alarming bend. Ya beauty, a tench at last! The fish fought strongly, as all these canal tench do, ripping line from the reel, weeding me 3 or 4 times and taking three attempts to lead into the net. Finally, I had a stunning tench on the bank and after unhooking (the wee size 14 was in the top lip) and a quick photo I slipped it back into its home.

As is my habit, I checked the tackle after landing a good fish and all was OK so I fished on under the grey sky. A nice perch came along, one of the few I would catch during the session. Then another plunging float and parabolic bend in my rod heralded another tench had inhaled my triple reds. This was a bigger fish and it went berserk when it felt the hook. Off to my right, stripping line from the screeching reel, into the lily bed at the far side, splashing the water with its tail and then shooting away along the canal to my left. I fought it back so it was close to me but this fish was far from done. It shot into the weeds at my feet and had to be coaxed out by offering slack line then tightening hard up on it. Out it came but now it set off in the direction of Longford at a hell of a lick, snapping the four pound hook length as it tore through more weed beds. A younger me would have cursed and bemoaned my bad luck, but these days I simply smiled to myself and gave thanks for the brief meeting with such a big tench. And it was a big fish, I got a good look at it when it was under my feet and I’d say it was a five or maybe even a six pounder.

Removing the broken hook length I replaced it with one of six pound breaking strain. Would I have landed the big tench if I had tied on a heavier hook length to start with? I suspect the answer is yes but then hindsight is of little value. I thought the swim would be wrecked after all that commotion but within a couple of minutes I was catching rudd again. As I was reeling one more in, a good pike launched itself at the wee fish, missing the rudd but providing an amazing spectacle as arched through the air then crashed back into the water. It had been a busy old morning and it was only about now that I noticed I was hungry, so my cheese sandwiches were munched as I lounged in the chair and pondered the important things in life (such as hook lengths).

Bites were definitely becoming less frequent, something I see all the time when coarse fishing here in Ireland. Afternoons are rarely as good as morning or evening sessions. The float gave an odd bounce, so I struck and, lo and behold, I was into yet another tench. More rod-bending dramas ensued but this one finally came to the net, an absolutely stunning fish. The tench in this part of the canal are a beautiful golden olive colour and this one was fin perfect. Bigger than my first one, it is hard to say how heavy it was, all I know it was my best tench of the season by a long way. I slipped it back and watched it shoot off into the weeds.

You would think that was enough fun for one session but no, there was more drama to come. A rudd took my maggots and skittered along the top of the water as I wound it in. That damn pike slashed at this one and obviously ate it as my rod buckled and the reel gave an ungodly scream. Now what do I do? The big fish seemed to be unsure what was going on and it swam around in front of me, shaking its head. I toyed with the idea of tightening down the drag and snapping off but before I could do that the pike moved off to my left, and just kept going. I followed along the towpath as best I could but high reeds and small bushes between me and the water made it difficult to keep any degree of control on the fish. Everything went solid as he swam into thick weedbed and the line parted after much skull dragging on my part. Ah well, nothing lost bar a size 14 hook. I tied on another hook length and fished on for another 30 minutes or so before calling it a day.

I had parked close by so it was the work of a few minutes to take everything apart and stow it in the faithful Yaris. It had been a lovely day out with plenty of fish and gorgeous scenery. I feel blessed to have found coarse fishing, even if it did come to me late in life. It is so very different to my swashbuckling game fishing, much more relaxing and in many ways more skilful. I am not sure I’d love it so much if all I had was commercial fisheries to visit. The wildness of Irish loughs and even the canals is a huge part of the attraction for me. Helen and I sat up drinking a little wine and talking into the wee small hours last night. She made a very good point, all this work on the house is demanding and stressful and I need to make more time to head off for a few hours fishing more often. I guess I just got caught up in thinking about the damaged arm and how it ruled out any boat fishing for me, and allowing that loss to translate into I could not do any fishing at all. From now on, I’ll aim to get out once a week as conditions allow.