The Annual Event

Phil Watters recounts the tale of our latest
and much-needed two-day get-together.

Much Ado About Nothing

Hampshire / Sussex, August 2022

MarkB and I have a longstanding tradition of an annual visit, during which he normally travels down to Devon and we then spend a few days fishing together. Such visits are greatly anticipated and typically punctuated with comedy moments and indulgences from well-known eating establishments. This is largely due to the fact that we share many of the same tastes and certainly the same perverse sense of humour. However, a change in circumstances here means I am currently unable to offer accommodation.

Fortunately, this year I was granted a weekend pass (subject to certain conditions) to come up to Guildford and fish at some of Mark's favourite locations. Having exhaustively pored over tide times and venue options, a date was set and we eagerly awaited the arrival of what would probably be the highlight of the year. I have been really struggling to catch anything this year and was becoming increasingly disillusioned with the whole process, so a change of scenery and a few good laughs seemed to be the ideal tonic.

Things didn't really fall in our favour, as life has a way of throwing things under the wheels of progress. I'm not really superstitious, but on reflection perhaps August 13th was not the wisest choice and we couldn't have begun to predict the way events would unfold. Firstly, during a session in mid July, Mark managed to unexplainably pull a hamstring was barely able to walk. As a result he has had to rest up and curtail all but the most essential activities in order to have any chance of getting through our two long days of grovelling about in stinking mud. When the weekend arrived he was still in a lot of pain but heroically opted to struggle through under the influence of weapons-grade pain killers and a leg support bandage.

The next rotting banana skin was delivered by the good old British summer, one of the hottest weekends ever with temperatures forecast to hit 35°C. That's not going to help but still, it doesn't do to complain does it?

I travelled up on Friday 12th and what should have been a 4 hour journey turned into almost 6 hours of misery (thank heavens for air conditioning!). It was great to see Mark again so, after transferring my gear to his car, the kettle went on and discussion turned to the possibilities for the following day. Chinese was consumed, and while it was very good, it wasn't quite 'Chung Hing' (it never is).

Eventually, a cunning plan was hatched and we retired to bed in readiness for a stupidly early start in the morning. The night was hot enough to boil a monkey's backside, so very little sleep had been possible before the 3am alarm and I awoke with a banging headache. Tea, paracetamol and quick bite to eat went some way to easing the discomfort. Fortunately, it was considerably cooler outside and by 4am we were on the road winging our way towards Portsmouth.

We arrived at our first Hampshire destination bang on time at 05:00 and hobbled off towards the river, progress was slightly slower than expected due to Mark's dodgy leg. The plan was to exploit an opportunity and intercept fish in an eddy behind a low wall during the last of the falling tide. Unfortunately, as we had strongly suspected the night before, by the time we arrived the water was already too low to put the plan into effect. Undeterred by this, we moved (somewhat slowly) upstream to where the water was a little deeper and began introducing some bait. It wasn't long before a few fish began hitting the bait on the surface. Almost immediately, Mark had a positive take on a shallow-fished sunk bait, but failed to connect as a large fish swirled very close to the bank. Shortly afterwards, my float shot under and I was into the first fish of the day... a very small bass. We continued in this manner until the tide turned and began to push back the other way. A second small bass persuaded us to move to a nearby boatyard.

Here we found plenty of thinlips but hopefully some thicks would be moving through. Soon we were seeing the odd fish that was definitely a thicklip, usually heading determinedly upstream, and ignoring our attempts at a 'Hovis intercept'. Baiting and fishing recommenced and very soon Mark was into a better fish in a gap between two boats which also turned out to be a bass, maybe 1.5 / <2lbs?. Grrrr. To add to the misery, we both managed to get stuck briefly in what was quickly becoming the Bog of Eternal Stench. No further bites ensued and the rapidly advancing tide was pushing us back onto the evil, sinky mud, so another move was called for. We headed back to the car for a quick hop to the next blisteringly hot location.

After parking up, we donned the gear and trudged down to the shoreline. By now it was getting really hot and we were both beginning to suffer, not to mention feel slightly stupid, in our waders. Once again there was a lot of thinlip activity which Mark informed me was not normally seen at this location. Feeding floating bread and casting towards a line of boats, we began to get a few bites. A lot of small fish were hitting the surface baits with the occasional signs of some better ones, so we remained upbeat despite the tandoor-like conditions. When my attention was distracted elsewhere, my float must have gone under as I felt the line tighten and a pull on the end of my rod. Instinctively I struck, which was the wrong thing to do with the fish moving away from me rapidly, resulting in a broken line. I suspect this may have been a bass as I've only ever had a fish hook itself on float tackle once before and that turned out to be a bass. Besides, it's easier to accept the loss resulting from a 'schoolboy error' if I convince myself it wasn't a mullet. Sometime later, the float went again when I was actually watching it and I was finally attached to something better. At last, a mullet! The fish came almost within netting range but then decided, as they so often do, that it was having none of it. It made a couple of hard, fast runs, the last of which broke the line just above the hook. It definitely wasn't going to be my day, as this never normally happens - maybe a bit of line / crab damage unhelpfully coming into play?

We were both now extremely hot, so some serious steps were required to keep us going. Mark was finding it very painful getting his waders on and off, so I was elected to venture into a nearby retail outlet in my socks for some ice cold refreshments. These really seemed to do the trick and we were soon back in action. The advancing tide was pushing us back up the shore and the fish always seemed to be just out of range, not to mention the fact that my waders had developed a leak and my left leg was now decidedly soggy. Another small bass was the only thing to find a hook and after 3 hours we were pretty well cooked. By now I was very hungry, the next venue on the list was a moderate drive away, and we would need to pass McDonald's to get there. Well, it would be churlish not to.

We took our time savouring the Big Macs and brain-freezing ice-cream as well as the much needed respite from the midday sun. A well known phrase comes to mind... something about mad dogs and mullet-men? It was past 2pm when we finally arrived at our next venue, and by the time we had hobbled to the bankside and settled into a suitable spot, the tide was almost all the way up. Mark opted to fish a float just beyond the weed line, whilst I went slightly further out with a feeder. A mixture of crumb and floating baits were introduced but, despite our best efforts, no bites or signs of fish were apparent. Even with umbrellas to offer some shade I was hot, tired and ready to concede defeat. After a quick look around another nearby location, where we saw a few unusually chunky thinlips, we headed back to the sanctuary of the air-conditioned car and ultimately back to base-camp to regroup.

Day 2

The next day we awoke at 3am again, but this morning Mark was feeling decidedly wobbly with an overwhelming urge to throw up. The plan for the day was to head down to Shoreham, but it was clear something was not right with him (in addition to the usual...). I was concerned for his wellbeing but he was determined to go ahead as planned. He opted to eat/drink nothing fearing it may worsen the situation, whilst I went for tea and toast and made myself a sandwich to tide me through the morning. We set off just after 4am with Mark still looking distinctly ropey. I could tell all was not well from the lack of the usual chirpy banter. Midway through the journey, we had to pull over at Dorking for Mark to dry-barf again and finally arrived in Shoreham just after 5am.

The banks looked good, so I opted to wear my trainers. We descended the 39 Steps and walked along the bank to a suitable spot, noting 2 anglers already fishing. Mark, who was still feeling like a zombie, recognised one of the anglers and went off to chat with him whilst I set up my gear and began fishing. My standard setup for legering comprising a cage feeder with the bread popped up about 8" off the bottom. Choosing a far bank marker for accuracy I cast the feeder as far as possible. After several quick casts to get some bait in, I settled down to await the action. I didn't have too long to wait, getting small knocks at first. Each time I reeled in the bait appeared to have been chewed.

Still feeling rough, Mark returned from his chat and set up a float rod. We'd been here 90mins and he hadn't even put a line in the water which is most unlike him. By now, my bites were beginning to get a bit bolder and suddenly the tip pulled right round. "Here we go" I thought, picking up the rod, but the fish just wasn't on.

Shortly after this, Ben Mullins appeared and stopped to chat with us whilst we fished. It was good to put a face to a name and he stayed for quite some considerable time sharing his thoughts on the various by-catch, which is always a contentious issue for Mark and I.

The earlier bite turned out to be the only one, and Mark was clearly just 'going through the motions'. The sun was now doing its best to bake us to a crisp, I'd eaten my sandwich and was feeling hungry again (you may see a pattern emerging here). I suggested a move might be prudent if only to get out of the extreme heat for a while. After some consideration we decided to head back to Hampshire, so we grabbed a Subway for me and some cold drinks and hit the road.

On the way past, we stopped off at another location for a quick look to see if a parking space was available. On arrival it became apparent that the fishable part was dry, although filling up as we watched. A few fish were beginning to appear, but it would be some time before a cast would be worthwhile.

Eventually, we arrived at our 'plan B' location and made our way down to a nearby slipway. It was quite busy with paddle-boarders coming and going plus a family crabbing at the top of the slipway. Despite this, there appeared to be a lot of fish (thinlips?) moving right over the slipway and out towards the boats. Mark seemed to be looking a little brighter, so we made ready the float rods and introduced some floating baits. Straight away the small fish were on it with the occasional better thicklip showing. We both missed a couple of bites then a large swirl indicated the presence of something decent. Mark's float vanished and he was connected to a lively fish. Surely it must be a mullet. It was! A few minutes later it seemed to be ready for the net, so I grabbed it and attempted seal the deal. The fish was 100% right in the net when it leapt clear of the water and over the arm of the net. Some naughty words came out at this point but we were soon seeing the funny side of this. The second attempt went more to the plan and the bugger was in there. Result! We then played our usual game where I guess the weight of the fish. I took one look at it lying in the net and said "That's got to be 3lb" - "3lb dead" I declared. Some pictures were taken and the fish carefully weighed - 3/00. Why do we need scales?

We fished on until 16:00 but no more bites materialised, so it seemed like time to move across to the downstream side of a bridge to fish the next intended tidal event. The water was still a little higher than we would have liked but there appeared to be a few fish moving in close to the bank, despite the plethora of paddle-boarders coming and going. As the bait went in, the fish were immediately hitting it just in front of us. Mark missed a very fast bite only about a rod length out. There was some brief excitement at one point, when Mark was suddenly steering a hooked fish away from a mooring post, but he declined the usual assistance with the net, announcing miserably that it was a bass. This then segued nicely into some 'care in the community', when he was asked by a bystander if there were any 'sea bass' here... whilst still holding onto the fish, of maybe 1.5 / <2lbs, to unhook the ugly bastard...

We watched a group of fish that repeatedly came within a few feet of the bank and just when it seemed that we must surely get a hook-up, disaster stuck. A pair of swans arrived and proceeded to mop up all the bread. We refrained from feeding in the hope that they would become bored and move away, but they persisted for what seemed like an eternity. By the time they finally gave up, so too had the fish. Copious amounts of bread were fed over the next hour or so in the hope that more fish would move through and begin feeding, but with the tide rapidly receding little activity was evident. Some considerable amusement was gained when a kayaker lost control of his craft in the strong flow of the channel, was slammed into the hull of a moored yacht and catapulted into the river.

Mark, who had been having a rest for a while, came over and asked "Any signs?" I replied "Nothing at all... except that!" - another of those bites where the line tightens against the rod tip before you can strike. It took some line against the drag before the hook pulled. I suspect this may have been another bass. It was now 18:40 so it had been a very long day. I suddenly felt very tired and decided I'd had enough.

We stopped at a garage for something to eat and drink on the way home; this would be the first thing Mark had consumed all day except water. In the evening, we reviewed the events of the two days, and enjoyed watching a short video of a fully-clothed local tradesperson spectacularly falling in and disappearing under the surface of the murky river whilst trying to help Mark recover a snagged fish back in 2013. The weekend had passed by all too quickly but, despite the fact that I hadn't caught anything, I had thoroughly enjoyed it and was looking forward to the next get together.