TALES FROM THE TIDELINE
Tales from the tideline
Having been used to fishing for bass at least three different ways for the last few summers, I had already mapped out my season’s plans to follow such diverse avenues as lure fishing, float fishing, livebaiting, freelining and any number of other interesting methods. However, as can often happen, the demands of work increased, a new bathroom and copious amounts of decorating materialised and, before I knew it, my carefully planned, glorious summer bass season passed me by in a heartbeat. Eventually though, work eased a little, the bathroom and decorating were completed, and those other plans, deferred When all seems lost and a blank is on the cards Simon Smith rides his luck and makes the most of a dogfish session which takes an unexpected turn of events for what seemed so long, were lifted back down from their shelf and blown free of their dust when a Thursday night unexpectedly became free.
Normally, for such a short-notice session, I would trundle up to my local beach for convenience but as my luck seemed to be changing, I thought I might as well push it a little, opting to drive a few miles up the coast to fish a mark I hadn’t visited for at least two years, and a venue that would blow the cobwebs away in every sense.
Now this was a bold move as, when it comes to luck, it must be said that mine often veers sharply between the sublime and the most Monty Python-esque ridiculousness imaginable, and although I do try to bear my misfortunes with resolve, I prayed quietly that I wouldn’t have to do so in this session. I’d missed the prime bass action on my regular marks but I was hoping at least for a steady stream of whiting and dogfish, and perhaps even a flounder or two to help pass the time. There was a slight panic upon arrival when I spotted another car squeezed into the small parking spot, but with a little good fortune and careful steering, there was just enough space to squash my car in alongside, unload the gear and set off on the 20-minute walk to the beach. The waterproofs strapped to the lid of my box seemed absurdly redundant and the crickets were in fine voice as I considered my good fortune with the parking situation. The cows in the farmer’s fields at the side of the little dirt track dozed on like still, soft slabs of shadow in the warmth of the dying twilight.
Emerging onto the beach, I was met by the headlights of the two anglers alongside whose car I had parked earlier. It turned out that they had fished almost the entire ebb, spending most of the afternoon hurling crabs, ragworms, squid and sandeels into the surf, with only a single dogfish to show between them. It seems that just before I arrived they had decided that enough was enough and were calling it a night, presenting me now with nearly half a pound of ragworms to add to my own. A pound of worms and a w
