I witness the surface and saw it fold. I found a delightful hole. A space that ‘screamed’ fish. The sub terrain under a tree that brushed and broke the waters surface. A gentle tow and breeze on a lazy summers day which put me to sleep for over an hour after a Granny Smith, my second of the morning. A soft wind pushed through the leaves and manoeuvred clouds into ideal conditions for a full-day of fishing.
We were the only two souls on the Great Pond; Myself and Sir. Charles. I was experimenting with and trying to master the Lift Method again. I have a desire to perfect it, not only for myself but to prove to The President that his teachings are being put to good use and not a waste of his valuable time.
I felt I knew they wanted a worm, presented on a small hook and light line. Two AA shots fell through the water and the quill followed my lines trajectory, before I delicately tighten up. The float, awkwardly cocked, looks wrong when compared to the perfectly dotted waggler, but to a purist and to those that really want to found out what is going on under the water, know that this is the perfect way to hunt for tinca. Simple critically balanced perfection. The natural buoyancy of a handmade quill-float wants to rise with the mouth of feeding fish and when it does, it’s game over for the doctor. I am certain that I will leave this pond as the victor today.
I set-up a temporary dinning table in a guesthouse and invited pisces from all around to come and munch on my free offerings. A paid buffet with a free bar. The banquet has started and you can see the bubbles rise up from a section of happy diners. I imagine they are smiling and I could put money on them having dinner around their chops. My restaurant is now officially open and I’ve fully awoken from my early afternoon snooze. My anti-reverse is on, everything poised to strike, my rod tip quivered and I have ditched my rod rests in favour of my knee. There is a feast taking place under a tree and everyone is invited. I am in direct contact with nature, when I move my rod tip the float sinks under the tension. I hold my breathe.
The odd grain of corn is introduced to entice and to catch the red eye of the Doctor. The entree is a consistent bed of carp pellets introduced like canopies on a wedding tray, and on top, the main course - a juicy wriggling worm. It sends vibrations through the water to the lateral line of the fish. Perch and tench eat confidently and I consistently torment them until the sun disappears behind the trees until we reluctantly admit that it’s time to pack-up and go home.
