First Fish of the Year...and...Do Squirrels Ever Fall Out Of Their Trees?

Yesterday, January the 5th: And I just had to go fishing. 

There had been some worrying developments over Xmas and the New Year.   My occasional readers may remember that I had been impressed by my son's attitude to women and to his girl friends in particular.   Which was basically:  dump them well before any occasion requiring a present.     Well,  he has disappointed me.   His current girlfriend has lasted right through Christmas...and she received  the obligatory present that such entails.   I am just not ready for this.  Only this year did I become a full blown pensioner.  Something I am still practising to be, and still not getting  right.   I am not ready to be a father in law, not even a virtual father-in-law, as defined by today's preferences for living together.    It is all such a threat.  And I have laid down the law that I am in no way old enough yet to become a grandfather, but he has taken such a major step in that direction. Keeping a girlfriend through Xmas!  If you are reading this, you know who you are!  I see my non-grandfather future as being under some serious degree of threat.  It is the apocalypse.  I am just not ready yet, no way,  too young to be a grandfather and too old to do babysitting.     You cannot take a baby fishing.   Far too noisy.   And if it came back smelling of halibut pellets and  garlic luncheon meat my wife would ensure that I should be dead by the next morning.

So I went fishing to try and restore some sense of sanity to the world and to myself.   The river was even higher than last time, but I chose to fish a swim in which I have been successful before.    So a fair degree of that old confidence was present.    Took a few casts to decide whereabouts in the swim looked good,   not too fast, deep enough for Winter grayling, and without too many of the tackle claiming snags that the previous three casts had found.    The bite was not immediate, but 'twas not too long before the rod tip rapped a bit.   I was legering, the river being a too fast and erratic for a comfortable float session.  The fish was hooked about fifteen yards downstream   and immediately started to jump and splash on the surface, maybe a couple of times.    Trout  thinks I. Good scrapper, but a fish which, as it came closer, proved to be no trout, but a grayling.  A good one for the river at 1-9.     A small trout completed the short session a little later, a trace of a sucked maggot being the minute tell-tale of a third, unseen bite.   I will not post another grayling picture, nice though the fish was, it was of a very similar size to other recently posted  fish.  Perhaps there is a lesson there.    I have now had 5 grayling from this swim, all being either 1-8 or 1-9.  Grayling in the river generally seem to have got bigger over the last three years. I used to catch a lot around 10 or 12 oz, but now few are under a pound.   Maybe in a couple of years two pounders will be commonplace, but in the meantime, I may have to try elsewhere for a two pound fish.  I fished on for a couple of hours after the last second fish.   Plenty of nuthatches and great tits to watch.   A plop to my left was made by a kingfisher diving for fish.  I had not seen it, or else I might have managed a very close up photo.  The bird had been about three yards from me, but I had not seen it fly in.   After the dive it headed upriver.  A grey squirrel gambolled in the trees opposite, and I found myself wondering whether they ever fell.  Both grey and red squirrels seem to be able to scamper around a tree trunk at an  astonishing rate of r.p.m.   "Do they ever fall?" is rather like asking "Does God exist?".  You cannot prove it unless you either see a God, or see a squirrel fall. 

Why grayling you may ask?  Well, you might not ask, but read on in any case.   How would I describe the pleasure of holding that freshly caught grayling to any non angler that might have strayed into this page by means of some sort of tragic accident. Like fresh still-warm newly baked bloomer bread, with butter? Like raspberry jelly infused with brandy?  (Try it!).  Yes: but also, have you ever, when seated or maybe whilst lying in the bath, let go a small SBD, a tiny gas bubble that slowly, ever so slowly, curls its way out from between your cheeks, and then, diverting slightly, continues its slow path up between leg and certain delicate areas?  That ten or twenty seconds as the bubble makes its leisurely break for freedom can be quite delicious, and catching a grayling is similarly delightful.  I doubt that I could draw a better comparison. The grayling is reputed to smell like thyme,  and the SBD may also have a herbiferous outcome, although a hint of late night coriander is perhaps more likely a flavour, than that of thyme.  Is herbiferous a word?

So I joined another club today, one with waters higher up the same river.  With grayling in them.  And maybe bigger grayling?  A local tackle shop sells the cards, and for we OAPs the price charged is ridiculously low.   Don't read that as a complaint,  I can now join twice as many clubs at the same total price that I used to pay last year.   I offered to show proof of age but was told  not to bother as: "We trust all our pensioners"     I tried to explain to him, just how silly it was for him to say that, for of course a pensioner is a pensioner, and in the words of the wise Walker, they have no need to lie.   By definition anyone lying about their age whilst applying for an OAP ticket, would not have actually been a pensioner.   I don't think the tackle dealer understood the fine point I was making, or maybe he was just cheesed off with smart Alec OAPs.

Today's buzzphrase in the TV news is "the never had generation" referring to youngsters who have never had money, never had a job....

But it all depends upon how you describe that  "never had".    My generation never had computers, never had Playstations, TVs. mobile phones  (Nor any phone without its own coin slot in a tall red box, near the local Post Office). I never had a bicycle.until given my aunt's forty year old ladies 4 gear Sturmey Archered machine  (very embarrassing!).  No internet,  no email,   We never had a lot of things,  exotic foods, restaurants, holidays anywhere other than at Butlins.  So who are the "never had" generation really?  Odd how it is we, as the parents of the new "neverhads" who were lumbered with paying for all those rather nice things that the new "never had" generation have recently had in such profusion.

More important is what we did have.   The freedom to roam, I went wandering the fields alone from age about six.  And paedophiles did exist before the age of Jimmy Saville. I was once approached by one such, on the pretext of helping him look for a toy plane lost in a field. But even at that tender age I was bright enough to realise that he appeared to be looking for the toy plane in a very odd place, I could not understand how his suggestion to drop his trousers might help find the missing aeroplane, and so I quickly legged it.  Jimmy Saville's young friends, in many cases, seemed not to know that they had that option.  We had grammar schools, the ability to play outside,  very few toys, so we had to invent games and toys ourselves. It was fine making catapults, and bows and arrows, with arrowheads made from nails flattened by the passage of trains on the local railway line.  But I did get into immense trouble one day for making a slingshot.  My dad appeared, Goliath-like, and gave me hell for making it.  I still don't know why it was so much worse than the catapult. It had no where near the same accuracy. Let me assure you: David would have got nowhere near Goliath with his sling.

I nowadays blame much of the UK's ills on the Sony PlayStation and the loss of those grammar schools, together with the fiery discipline that came with them. The grammars were certainly a social leveller, and enabled kids like myself, from working class parents, to move onwards and upwards.  Most of today's kids are not much good at being kids, lousy at being teenagers, and not exactly brilliant at being young adults either.

But also I confess that I am not much good at  being a pensioner,  I do things wrong,  I feel out of place amongst my contemporaries whilst using the free bus pass.   I cannot just stare disinterestedly in front of me, or engage in totally trivial conversation en-route to my destination.  Why do so many pensioners appear to have no interest in what makes life tick, how the universe works, why insects have six legs rather than five etc?   I continue to get this part all wrong.  Do I also look as old to them, as they all seem to look to me?  Why do I feel far more at home with younger people?   I just don't understand any of the rules of this game.  I don't even feel that I deserve the government pension...but thanks very much.  Am I a generational outcast? 

A Pair of Kingfishers. A Shame They Were Not Closer.

Of course there are exceptions to all those OAPs in that bus pass mould. Some OAPs really do enjoy life. And oddly those exceptions almost all seem to be anglers. So I would advise any one getting near their pension date to take up fishing.  It may well keep you young...or possibly just ensure you remain daft.

Today's fishing:  complete blank.   But I did see a pair of kingfishers once again, so the day remained in profit.

And on getting home, a few glances out of the window revealed a song thrush, an occasional visitor to my garden. It was not singing.

Song Thrush

Blackcap

And a male blackcap: a very rare visitor to my garden, and one which is sometimes informally called the Northern Nightingale.   This was only the second such bird  I have seen in 25 years at this address. The blackcap wasn't singing either. So the birds don't think it is Spring just yet,  and neither do the frogs from my pond.  But the squirrels in next door's garden are either certain that Spring has arrived, or they wished specifically  to answer the question posed in the title of this post.   For there were a couple of grey squirrels chasing each other and mating in next door's trees.   And, I can now confirm that squirrels, at least during mating, quite often fall out of trees.  I saw them fall as much as twenty feet, several times.  The falls left them unhurt, and seemed not to dampen their ardour one bit.  Quite coincidental, as I really had been wondering whether they ever fell out of their trees.

Confessions: Act 2, Scene 4. Dog Walkers.

I hate cats:  bloody things always lying in wait by the bird table. I spend far too much money on sunflower seeds to fatten up the goldfinches, only to have next door's cat benefit.  Don't like grey squirrels much either.  Good photogenic subjects, but when they are eating away at my roof timbers I don't feel like getting out the Minolta.  £2500 the bill to repair the roof!

But most of all, I hate dogs...and dog walkers.  As an angler I find I just cannot avoid them.  Why some people have the need to hunt fishermen with watered down wolves, I have no idea.  Only today some small white rat-like creature jumped up at me as I was walking along a pathway carrying my tackle.   Had I been wearing a white lounge suit, no doubt it would have been splattered with muddy paw prints and the remains of other dogs "leavings".   The footprints today are probably still there, but are at least invisible on my fishing trousers.   However I put my foot up and gently, and I really mean that, gently pushed the dog away.   The dog's owner was less than happy, even though I took great care not to hurt it. Her precious little brute had been pushed away, by me: using my foot.  I had not done the expected, and petted it saying "What a nice little doggie.", as it would seem, many others do.  Instead I said that the dog should have been on a lead, and muzzled.   The lady mumbled at me, insisting that I was completely in the wrong, and so I suggested that next time I would give it a good swift kick, in order that I might fully deserve her criticism.   When she returned later it was on a lead.   I call that a win.      

A couple of years ago I had a far worse incident.   Fishing the river, peacefully, upsetting no-one, I was suddenly aware of something behind me.  A dalmation, one of those horrible spotty creatures, and it was heading right for my tackle and bait.  It scattered everything it could not eat, and ate as much of my bait as it could wolf down.    I shooed it away.  

"Don't you dare shoo my dog." came a cry from behind me.  "It has as much right being there as you have."  "I have been coming down this river with my dog for years."

"Look" says I, " I have sharp hooks and other tackle down here that you would definitely not want your dog to eat.  And it has already eaten some of my bait."

"I've been coming down here far longer than you have.  My dog has every right to jump into the river here."

" Could you not have let him swim upstream where no-one is fishing?"

"Nope, I am down here every day, and if you shoo my dog again, I'll bloody well have you."    Said the ginger headed moron who owned the dog.  And as I was more than twice his age ( he was about thirty), I decided that maybe I should retreat, and keep quiet.   Say nothing.  Just fume quietly.  And wish that he be struck down by a thunderbolt. Or that he would....well  never mind. 

He then disappeared for about thirty minutes, during which time it appears he had gathered a number of very large pebbles from the shallows upstream. On his return, he proceeded to throw them into my swim, and threatened to do the same every time he saw me shoo his dog away.

"I am here again tomorrow,", said I  "and was that really necessary? That really was not very nice at all. I was just trying to protect your dog."    Meanwhile my thoughts were "What an obnoxious little so and so. Shame the dog didn't drown."...and far worse

The next day, along came the dog again,  and it gambolled gaily through my gear once again.  This time I said nothing.  Discretion is the far better part of getting ones head kicked in. The owner watched and grinned.

The dog however ate six large lumps of luncheon meat from on the top of my bait box.  Oh dear!   He should not have done that.   Earlier I had prepared the meat specially, pressing two constipation relief pills into each.  My son, then a student doctor,  had recommended them as the strongest available in the UK without prescription.  My only regret is that I did not get to see the results.   But I hoped that either his car, or lounge carpet (or both) would have felt the full pebble dash effects that those pills were going to have a couple of hours later.

My third unfortunate incident with a dog was some years ago.   I was on a large public field, and I was practising with a very large boomerang.   This, measured along its length, was about two feet of carved plywood.  Heavy, it must have weighed a good half pound.   Although not an expert, I could usually get it to return to within ten or fifteen feet from me.     Occasionally it would come back very precisely,  but  very occasionally.   When you throw a boomerang you launch it at an angle of about 30 degrees to the vertical, with as much speed as you can impart, and some rotation.   The angle, together with the aerofoil section causes it to fly, in theory, in a horizontal circle.  But something else happens:  as it progresses around the circle, it slows down, and its angle changes into a flatter spin.   The energy it loses slowing down is partially changed into rotational energy. It starts to spin far more rapidly.    Ideally you then catch it flat between the two palms of your hands, one above, one below, as it hovers, completely flat, in front of you.     Now I admit that I had never managed to catch it.  On those occasions it returned close enough, the speed at which this substantial lump of wood was spinning fair put me off trying to catch it. I valued my fingers far too much.  Of course when throwing you need to be safe: check the area.  I had, the previous week warned my son's friend to always watch the boomerang carefully, and not to just run away from it.     Silly, silly boy, and the lump on the back of his head that resulted was worryingly big.   But no permanent damage resulted, the boomerang still worked perfectly.

But on this occasion, a week later, no problem, no-one in the flight area, just a lady with her dog 40 yards behind me.  So I threw, threw it hard, and its trajectory looked as if it would return quite close.  Not a bad throw at all.  I was still not quite brave enough to try a catch  though, and as I watched it spinning very rapidly, hovering almost stationary, in front of me, there was a very small brown flash, and a Yorkshire Terrier leapt up and tried to catch the boomerang in its mouth.  It must have seen me throw a stick, and then chased after it.   Kangaroos probably have more sense.  Evolution has removed their impulse to chase thrown sticks. Unfortunately, the boomerang  arm hit the dog very hard indeed, and the poor pooch dropped like a stone, twitched a bit, and was dead.  And I had to face a very irate lady who no longer had her pet Yorkie.  Threatened to call the police too. Much was said, and I think I only escaped by pointing out the "Dogs Must Be On A Lead" notice.      It was unfortunate, and I did feel a bit guilty.  Well very guilty actually.  She picked up the dog and put it in her shopping basket!

I wandered off slowly, deciding that maybe then was not a good time for another throw or two.

Varied Wildlife and Even a Few Fish

A couple of days ago a friend, Dave, asked me to go fish a small pond with him.  A pond that, as far as he knew, had never been fished before.  The pond was in a walled estate, in which he works, and fishing in the pond had always been banned, even to estate workers.  Whether the local kids had ever fished it on the quiet I do not know, but, as it was very clean, totally litter free, it was a possibility. Free fishing areas, legal or not, tend to accumulate signs when anglers have been there.   It seems Dave had done something to greatly please the Lord of the Manor, and a day's fishing, with a friend, was to be his reward.   I jumped at the chance to join him of course. Unfished water!  Mystery!

On any lightly fished water there is usually little reason to do anything complex, and so I chose to float fish with bread and maggots.  Size 14 hook to start.   I have been using Kamasan X Strong B982's for such fishing, and as Kamasan say, these are a stronger version of the B980 specimen, which are themselves "made of carbon wire, heavily forged to strengthen the bend".  The B982 is described as being identical, but made from an even stronger wire gauge.  In sizes up to 10, I have had great confidence in these hooks, and as I made my first cast, I knew that they had never before failed me.  The pond was not particularly pretty, and was set in a coniferous forest, but did look quite fishy, a fact confirmed by the sight of rudd rising, some of which were already being caught by Dave.  Nothing moved for 30 minutes near my own float, but then it slanted away across the surface to the right, and as I picked the rod up I knew it was no rudd.  After a spirited minute or so, during which the fish seemed to reach the odd clump of light weed, the float suddenly came flying back at me.   I had lost the fish, which I was certain had been a very good tench. I initially thought that the line had snagged and broken, but I soon saw that I still had the hook.  The B982 had straightened and was now a 90 degree bend rather than

The Mystery of the Bent Hook.

180, which surprised me, but a greater mystery was that it had also been twisted.   The shank now had a 45 degree twist in it.  I can readily understand how a hook can be rendered straight by a fish, but I cannot imagine how it might also twist the shank.  Never seen this before with any hook type.   I will be doing a few more tests on this hook, to see if it should have bent on a 6 pound line, under probably no more than 3 pounds of tension.  But I have no idea at all why or how it also became twisted.   But the pond had yet another trick to play on me though.

To my right I noticed some trails of tiny bubbles, interspersed with some large clumps of similarly small bubbles. These were not "mythical" bubbles, but had to be caused by fish, and I hoped, by tench. I moved

Tench Bubbles, a Float and a Damsel Fly.

my gear a few yards along the bank.  The bubbles continued to come up in patches all around my float, whilst damsel flies used the float as a staging post. It took me a while to hook the first fish, but they were indeed tench. But not the tench I had hoped for.   I had been expecting fish of a similar calibre to that which I had

Tiny Tench

lost earlier.  Poor deluded soul that I was.  The first tench to take the bait was a fish of about two pounds, which shed the hook. Love-30.   But the match then moved my way and over a couple of hours a dozen tench took the bait and were landed.  They were all rather dark fish, with the eye being more brown than red.  The largest of them was probably only about 12 ounces. The smallest, maybe eight inches long.  I had hit on a large shoal of mini tench, all  bubbling profusely.  Game set and match, but did I win, or was it the pond which beat me?

A Poor Photo I Took of the Red Squirrel

I then had a very rare visitor in the trees nearby, an animal I have not seen for about 40 years, when one ran across the road, as I was going fishing one early morning near Windermere.  A few years before that they used to be common, even in my own town.  It was a red squirrel!   And I had my camera with me.  There was a red squirrel in the fir trees just a few yards away from me. Dave told me that there was a squirrel reserve a few miles away, and that sometimes they strayed away from the daily supply of food in the reserve's squirrel feeders.  A dangerous thing for them to do, I would guess, for when they stray, they are likely to come into contact with the invading grey squirrels, which carry squirrel pox, to which greys are immune.  Not so our red squirrels, who  usually find the pox to be fatal.  It worries me that stray reds might carry the pox back into the reserve, and wipe out all the residents. I assume that greys near the reserve are tightly controlled down to as near zero as possible.  The red squirrel seemed at lot less precocious than the greys, and

Greys Are Far Easier to Photograph Successfully.

although it was around for a few minutes, it only afforded me the odd glimpse, and a couple of snatched photographs.  

I moved back to my original spot, and cast even nearer to the lilies, but as with Dave, all that then came to my bait were small rudd, in ever increasing numbers.  The brighter and hotter the sun became, the more the rudd congregated around my bait, and the more annoying they became. The odd small perch broke the monotony, but the day itself had been very pleasing.

A Dozing Badger.

To make the day complete, as I was closing the gate on the track leading to the water, it was not quite fully dark, but getting there. Two young badgers appeared and were gambolling and chasing each other in the beam from the car's headlights. 

  They enjoyed themselves so for over a minute before eventually disappearing into the vegetation. I think I had also seen one briefly the same morning, well before the sun came up, but was not certain of the I.D..  These two youngsters did not present a good photo opportunity, but I have added a photo I took last year of a badger I caught napping by the roadside.   Only one photo, as the camera click woke and scared it before I could re-focus for a second shot.  I have had a few interesting moments with badgers.  When I had been married just a week, I took the wife through the Macclesfield forest, and there, in broad daylight, sun streaming down ,was a badger.   The only one I had ever seen in daylight at the time.  Twenty five years into my sentence now, and that remains the only badger she has seen.  I will save another tale of a rather angry badger for another time.