return to the whistle Brook

The day is getting long and the sun is dropping low so that the kingfisher, when it flashes past, splits the sombre light in two. Joyful, extrovert, iridescent - bringing as ever a smile to my face, banishing at once the shadows of the day. I am happy.

Somewhere across the fields a tractor rumbles back and forth, whilst in the Whistle Brook chub fade in and out of the reflected canopy of the far bank. 'Far' is relative - a fair jump (with good run up) would get you most of the way across this little stream. Feeding into an ancient mill pond, the brook here is very slow of pace and this influences, I think, the behaviour of the chub. In the absence of flow there is no obvious direction for them to point, so they just seem to loiter about like indolent teenagers outside the corner shop. With too much time on their hands (or should I say fins) they have the luxury of being able to inspect closely my bait offerings - as many times as they wish.. before committing .. or not. 

Last time/the first time I fished the Whistle Brook I tried casting a floating crust to the chub, but they spooked off, scared by the silhouette of my line against the sky. The devil, as they say, is in the detail and this time I've remembered to bring some mud. I stroke it thinly down the last two yards of line, making it just heavy enough to sink below the surface film. Even so, the chub are being very circumspect indeed, circling like shark around my crust then finning away again, only to return and circle once more, double checking to see if anything has changed in the intervening minutes. I can tell they are interested and I'm sure I'll get a take if I can just be patient and hold my nerve. The question is more one of who will succumb to temptation first - one of the crazy little chublets or one of stately brass torpedoes I've seen patrolling up and down? Or perhaps something in between. But for the moment no one seems quite willing or convinced. So I sit into a comfortable hollow in the bank, low amongst the bankside vegetation, settle back and wait. 

I've discovered the benefit of using large pieces rock-hard stale bread. It can be stored indefinitely,  stays on the hook well for two or three casts, and quickly softens up once in the water. Using a large piece of crust also encourages small roach and the smallest of the chublets to mob the floating bait, so that it bobbles this way and that without breaking up. There is nothing better, I've found, than a bit of healthy competition to convince a bigger chub to commit to the take. The little commotion of small fish soon attracts a larger chub which is squarely hooked after shouldering them aside. Not a stately torpedo this time, but welcome, bold and brassy nonetheless, and as he slides into my net I can almost hear the sniggers his tiny shoal mates.