The Bounder, Buller and Current Fishing Reads

I’m having an eventful time of things lately to put it mildly, with life approaching the sort of chaos usually reserved for my tackle box. Fishing time is tricky- although I keep squeezing in short sessions with lures. I've also been busy at the desk this month for two quite big developments: Firstly, I have a column in the newly revamped Angling Times (now in magazine format). Needless to say, after a decade of working at it I'm thrilled to bring my slightly unhinged take on angling to the table on a weekly basis.



But equally, I'm also proud to be a part of issue six of the superb quarterly Fallon's Angler, which happens to be a special tribute issue to the late Fred Buller. Indeed, besides losing several too many music and comedy icons this year, fishing has also had a rough ride, with Jan Porter also passing this week. Both he and Buller really got the mind ticking over in my formative years as an angler. Perhaps for different reasons, but both were true one-offs who took quite unconventional ideas and made them mainstream.



Talking of mavericks, my main task this week is to give you my verdict on infamous angling character Mike Daunt’s rather intriguing book The Bounder, which I have just completed. Not for the faint-hearted, this autobiography follows the madcap life of not just an angler, but a soldier, philanderer and hedonist supreme, from London to Kenya and back, via the River Tweed and the jungles of Borneo. For better or worse, no punches are pulled or details of any kind spared. There is fornication as well as fishing. And for those prudish types who didn’t like the occasional curse words of my own recent work “Crooked Lines” this is a whole different level of “colourful”. But it is certainly compelling.

It is this candid, open-as-a-fridge-with-the-door-ripped-off nature that I love best about the book. It’s rather like eavesdropping on that fascinating bloke in the corner of a waterside pub. You know, the one with the "caught it, drank it, shagged it" look on his face, who speaks about theatre in Cold War Berlin one moment and tench fishing the next. The one who, at any minute, is capable of revealing some outrageous detail to make the whole boozer fall silent and sane mortals whisper to each other “Jesus Christ, is this guy serious?” Whether it is the sordid details of “swinging” London in the sixties and seventies or the sudden appearance of a man’s severed finger, it’s all in the mix.

The fishing adventures are a constant, but tend to form the subplots in the book alongside Daunt’s unfailingly mad-as-a-box-of-frogs life. So this is not a fishing book per se, but the sport is quietly prominent in its own way. His first ever fishing trip is beautifully rendered, for example, in the midst of a turbulent childhood and perhaps the most mismatched mother and father in the history of parenting (the one a kind-hearted but fallible bohemian, the other an emotionally retarded dictator).

As a kid who went to state school, with its well-meaning but downbeat teachers and leaking temporary classrooms, I always find tales of how “the other half” live as fascinating. But I’m never sure I envy the “privilege” of bullying, endlessly stupid rules and having to watch out for the school letch with a taste for young boys. There is a delightful mischief, but also moments of genuine misery, in the section on school days. Innocence and depravity are both present. Catching secretive common carp is one thing; catching two of your teachers hard at it in the bushes is quite another.

Forbidden from joining theatre school, the author is then dispatched to the army where, in spite of a rebellious streak, he manages to not only fit in but thrive. The adventures with the Headhunters of Borneo were among the most fascinating in the book, complete with the most eye-opening and astounding details. Depending on your tastes, the warts-and-all details will make you laugh out loud or wince (or in my case sometimes both on the same page).

Curiously in fact, The Bounder features some very famous names (Chris Tarrant, for instance, writes a foreword that declares both a deep fondness and sense of the absurdity of the author's life, while he also fishes and boozes with screen legends) but you suspect it is “Daunty” who has probably had the wilder ride. And while some readers might find leaps between subjects and eras a bit of a jolt, this pattern is perhaps only an appropriate reflection of the random, hedonistic rollercoaster of his life.

Perhaps the quality I didn't expect with a book of this title were the sudden moments of fragility. Whether it's a tragic family secret or an untimely disaster, beyond the bravado and the hedonism The Bounder is also unexpectedly touching.

As for the fishing side of things, the keen angler will perhaps enjoy the latter stages of the book best of all- and in particular the keenly-observed relationship with the late Hugh Falkus, an enigmatic man who is by turns funny and kind, rude and cantankerous. No spoilers here, but there are some great moments of mischief and more than a dash of controversy along the way. A small world too, because of course Falkus co-authored the classic Freshwater Fishing with Fred Buller, who has just passed away.

Whatever your own take on Mike Daunt's wild life then, The Bounder is a risky, unrepentant but never dull romp. For my money, I'd compare it to a bottle of high-proof India Pale Ale: Rather strong and more than a little fruity for some tastes, but if you like this kind of brew you'll find yourself happily sipping away until the whole bottle is gone. You'll can find it for £7.99 at John Blake books HERE.

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More news and views to come shortly from me anyway, along with recent adventures in lure fishing; the sea is calling once again and while the fish have been small enough for "The General" (below) to hold thus far, there is some hugely exciting sport on the way.

Angling Books & Current Reads

I should have been fishing today. But instead I find myself sneezing, shivering a little and hoping this is mere man-flu and not something more sinister. But there is at least some consolation in the form of some tempting current reading material to catch up on. So at the very least I can at least go fishing in some of the rivers and lakes conjured up by other anglers.



First up is "The One That Got Away" from Merlin Unwin Books. Originally released in the 90's, this reissued edition looks cracking- and more importantly, reads just as well. We've all read the books that serve as a catalogue of an angler's CV of big fish. But the premise of this book is that often the ones we lose often create better and more revealing stories. A great line up of writers includes Jeremy Paxman, George Melly and many others who write not of their triumphs, but those moments when time stood still and the line went slack. I won't give too much away, but this is rich, compelling stuff. Chris Yates' chapter alone ("Jilted by the Queen") describes that potent mixture of excitement and fear that a hooked giant brings in spellbinding fashion. The woodcut illustrations are lovely too:



Otherwise, my current spot of man flu has also given me the chance to properly devour Fallon's Angler Issue 4. Once again, this indie fishing quarterly is absorbing stuff, by turns reflective, funny and nostalgic. Adding to the already rich variety of contributors, the title goes from strength to strength in terms of imagery- taking a cheeky glance into the recesses of anglers' tackle boxes, unearthing haunting old pictures and taking the reader on some enjoyable detours.



Perhaps what I like best, however, is the way that this title is giving a platform to writers who deserve more exposure. Not only those we already know like old friends, but other anglers who have a cracking story to share but would never get the time of day at the hands of the usual suspects. Matthew Minter is one of them in issue 4, astutely describing the joy of unearthing forgotten fishing books, treasures, odds and ends as we raid our memories and even the odd charity shop. Lovely stuff.



There is also a nice incendiary piece from Dexter Petley that might well provoke a few carp anglers, on some carp fishing history. Here's a bit of controversy for you: it would appear that the French were using hair rigs well before we little Englanders ever dreamt of them. From the evidence here, I think he's probably correct- but in typical British fashion we love to think we invented everything. All thought provoking stuff anyway.

In fact the only reading material I'm not massively keen on at present is my own work, as I make the very last proofs and tweaks to my new book "Crooked Lines". Like a musician who has played their repertoire a thousand times, you start to lose all objectivity after a point. It takes readers to enjoy what you've done, reading it for the first time and making it fresh again, for the work to mean anything. That said, I'm still thrilled with the artwork by Sheffield illustrator Lord Bunn, which has also been used to make some rather funky bookmarks that will be sent out with future orders. Watch this space for more news anyway. Now where did I hide the Lemsip?

A Buzzing Fly Fair

In a sport that can be as solitary as fishing, it's always great to reestablish that brilliant sense of shared enthusiasm that a big meet up brings. The BFFI (British Fly Fair International) is always one of the best of the whole lot. Every year I turn up with boxes, bags and displays but leave with things you cannot put a price on: fresh ideas, new plans and most importantly of all the chance to meet lots of old and new friends.

What was the biggest impression this year? Apart from a show as busy as it's been in a few seasons, I'm struck by a current crop of anglers who represent new blood and ideas. Uplifting stuff, because fly fishing needs it. I hope the golden oldies will forgive me for saying so, but it is vital. A couple of years back at the event I heard a telling conversation between two anglers in the gents at the show: "Decent turn out but let's be honest, it's a bit of a bloody SAGA day out again!" Not so long ago you could have described fly fishing a bit like Frank Zappa described jazz (i.e. "not dead, but it smells funny").

This year felt rather different however. We have thinkers and anglers catching some cracking fish and really making some waves; whether it is young blades like Lewis Hendry and Alex Jardine, or fly innovators like Glen Pointon, Markus Hoffman and Joe Ludkin I got a real sense of optimism. For any sport to be healthy you need youth as well as experience, and progress as well as tradition.



To take just one area, I think I saw more predator and saltwater flies at the event than at any previous occasion. Dougie Loughridge (above) is just one of a new breed going boldly beyond the obvious and traditional. This year I met anglers tackling zander on the canals, bass on the coast, with designs on barbel and all sorts of other targets. How bloody refreshing, is all I can say. I also have to say that in refreshing contrast to the specimen coarse scene, where too often it turns into a "who has the biggest balls/sponsorship deal/ fish" contest, this feels like a community of enthusiasts who are all about creativity rather than competition. Exciting times- but if you couldn't make it, do keep an eye on Glen Pointon's fishing podcast, which will include a cast of various fly fanatics from the show in the next instalment or two.

Even in the traditional world of dry and wet flies for trout and grayling, things are shifting. Just when you start to fear that the old cynics might be right that there is "nothing new in fishing", new ideas and materials emerge. Like cooks bored with the same old fare, fly tyers discover new ingredients. The BFFI is a celebration of this, which is why I always leave with a selection of new things to try. We've never had it so good in terms of materials. From jig hooks to an ever expanding range of UV materials and various heathen rubbers and synthetics, it's all out there. Like John Horsfall, who travelled up to the show with me and now has more spare capes than Batman, I left with a new goody bag with various additions, including some of the "Reel Wings" made by Joseph Ludkin.
Very lifelike, but also practical and designed to not bugger up your leader on the cast, I'm going to have some fun with these.


While I'm on the subject of new and innovative stuff though, one canny fly tyer who has an equal fascination with fishing history is Chris Sandford. I always like to pester him with questions and ponder his curiosities, one of which was this truly novel cased specimen stickleback:


Perhaps this should serve as inspiration for this year's "Fly For Coarse" contest, where there will be a special mini species trophy (probably a really small but highly coveted one), with some top notch materials to tie the really tiny stuff from Turrall Flies. Watch this space for more details.

In fact, the only thing that wasn't awesome about the weekend was my sneaky morning pike and perch fishing on the Somerset Levels on the journey up. Expecting clear water following the recent freeze, I was instead met my really muddy, crappy looking water on a couple of the drains. Bizarre, but perhaps dredging efforts or opening gates scuppered that particular plan.



On a brighter note though, I'd also like to give a big shout to Fallon's Angler. Issue two is just out and a must for anyone who likes a great fishing story. Or several. There are tales from Ireland to Israel, with carp, crucians, trout, grayling and more making up another cracking issue of what continues to be the most exciting thing to hit the world of fishing writing for some time. The only thing not included is the pint of beer:

Capital fly fishing and Coventry zander

There are few things I like better than a fishing styled road trip. Great fun but also a necessity if you live in one of England's more obscure corners. These missions tend to begin with a list of postcodes and a lot of random supplies. I don't so much try for two birds with one stone, but aim at half the flock.

First priority on my list this time was to track down Garrett Fallon, the plucky Irish writer and creative brains behind the exciting new quarterly title Fallon's Angler (which has a great new site where you can get a preview and order: fallonsangler.net).

What is the best part of being involved in books and publications? I think opening a box of newly produced material, with that wonderful smell of fresh print, has to be close to the top. You don't get that from an e-zine. Issue one looks fantastic. But even more importantly, it's a bloody treat to read the stories (you remember, those old fashioned things called "words" that sometimes distract you from the adverts and pictures of blokes with fish?).

A day on Walthamstow Reservoirs seemed the perfect way to celebrate the launch and we had pike in mind. A roving session took us all around the upper complex of Higher and Lower Maynard at first. We chopped and changed swims, lures and flies, having a good walk and comparing notes. The place looked so pikey that even without early bites, there was a keen anticipation in searching around cover and imagining what might suddenly dash out at any given second.

Also in fine condition was the Coppermill Stream (above). It looked clear, beautiful and for much of the way devoid of any living thing. That said, we did spot some thick-shouldered carp and one hulking great barbel. Like two skint shoppers, I think we agreed that there is a certain pleasure in admiring the goods through a window, even if you don't have the hard currency to make any purchase.

The current state of fishing literature, future plans and what exactly those bloody pike were playing at all made for some lively dialogue over a pint at lunchtime. The pike of past stories made up for a lack of action, including a monster Irish fish for Garrett that was played over thirty five minutes involving a broom handle rod, a broken reel and screaming runs along a sandy shore. But if you want more tales on pike and other topics you'll just have to buy a copy of Fallon's Angler.

After lunch we rallied our spirits for a crack at Reservoirs one and two, with Garrett bravely opting to have a crack at fly fishing for pike. After a bush or two, the perch pattern I'd lent him found the water with more and more regularity, but the pike were still not impressed. I would love to relate how his rod suddenly became possessed with a ten pounder, but it was not to be. Perhaps our Indian Summer had put too much warmth and greenish bloom in the water. Anglers write things off too quickly at times though and I think in a month or two these reservoirs will be well worth a shot for pike.


The saving grace was in fact a quick change of plan. With fly rods already set up, we decided a crack at the trout was a must (a good ploy at Walthamstow Reservoirs, because a two-fish ticket can quickly be grabbed: Further fishery info HERE). It had started as we spotted some nice rainbows cruising around close to the bank on reservoir No. 5. I took one look at my big pike flies and wondered how we would get any joy. The answer, I have to admit, came from my own messiness and multiple pockets. As A.A. Milne put it "The beauty of being disorganised is that one is always making surprising discoveries". In this case, my fly vest produced two buzzers, a Hare's Ear and two scruffy little trout lures.
Only after ditching the thick fluorocarbon would the trout launch an attack. With a slowish, jerky retrieve I got that first gratifying whack on the fly line. Trout number one came off, but the next assault came good with a decent rainbow.

When you've been fishless all day, the simple joy of something kicking on the line cannot be understated. And with fish swirling on the surface and even leaping clear, I was sure we would strike again soon. I added another before Garrett struck into a nice fish:

As enjoyable as it had been to have a very sociable ramble around the lakes, those rainbows were very, very welcome after our tough start.
Less welcome was the traffic I encountered on what was meant to be a two hour journey to Coventry to load in for the PAC Convention. Listening to Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" on cassette made the journey just about bearable, although there is a certain painful irony in hearing tales of open roads and mountains as you watch the arse of some dull people carrier while tail to tail in midlands traffic. I arrived in the nick of time to deliver a cargo of books, t-shirts and other stuff, including a whole shoal of pike flies:

Always a fun event, the show was as friendly as ever and a great chance to run into old mates and share some goings on. But what I was really looking forward to was a crack at the Coventry Canal with Jeff Hatt. Staying at his gaff, we discussed the current fishing world as eight cocker spaniel puppies played tug of war with shoe laces and each other.
For those unfamiliar with Jeff's "Idler's Quest" blog, the guy is funny, always original and invariably worth reading. He's also a contributor to the first Fallon's Angler with similar hopes and fears about the current state of fishing to my own as it turned out.

Perhaps the best place to mull things over was on a trip to the local towpath in search of zander. An eye-opening jaunt it was too. And while I must save much of the meat and bones for a proper feature, there were some key lessons to note. Firstly, that float fishing is excellent for the species. Jeff's home made wagglers beat my feeder set up hands down. Unless action was forthcoming we spent no more than fifteen minutes in each spot, using roach sections on some really big hooks. I was amazed at the size of these size 1 or so wide gapes- they looked crude, but by God did they work well for hooking the fish. Far better than my smaller versions, which produced mostly thin air on the strike.

Perhaps I should have taken a leaf from his book in fact, because I just couldn't get amongst them. In my impatience, I kept trying the fly rod with jig style artificials, but other than a small perch and a lost zander it never quite happened for me.

Meanwhile, the self-styled Chris Yates of Coventry kept up a decent strike rate. In spite of pressure here and the inevitable Eastern Europeans stealing fish to eat (some of these people need eating themselves), the zander seem to be doing pretty well.

I could never tire of exploring canals such as the "Cov". There are all sorts of species and stories present, and the day was great fun. And what better place to put the world to rights than at a classic looking waterside boozer where you can enjoy a pint while still actually fishing? In between sips of bitter I managed to hook and lose my third zander of the day. It might have been rather bad luck, but the next time I'm here, I'm definitely going for a large single hook and a float set up.

I believe the biggest crime of all is that Jeff has yet to be commissioned for a properly paid regular column or book deal, in spite of producing much better writing and having attracted arguably more readers (some 15,000 a month in previous times) than many of the monthly fishing magazines.

But here's the rub: stacks of people have enjoyed Jeff's blog, but if he doesn't get paid a penny for creating it, could you really expect any writer worthy of the name to keep the words coming? Unsurprisingly, his output has slowed right down. My own present dilemma is similar: I really enjoy writing about fishing, it is my first love in fact. But I can make twice the wage in half the time in my present role writing copy on tourism and other subjects.

Nevertheless, I believe that things can and will change. The sales of many titles are falling badly as their corporate masters tie editors' hands and neglect the single most important commodity of all: well-written, original stories about fishing. In the end it will be the independents who win as readers get bored of sponsored drivel and repetitive, poor writing. In any profession though, the only way to beat mediocrity is to reward those who produce good work.

Good Omens

This month begins with a note or two of that quality quite often lacking from your finger pointing armchair angler: genuine optimism. First and foremost this is because great angling writing is about to get a much needed shot in the arm with the birth of "Fallon's Angler" later this month.

A fresh title that celebrates the best in original writing on the sport is long overdue, and with Chris Yates and Tom Fort heading the list of contributors it's wonderful to be part of the project. Why does it matter? Because in so much of the angling media only the technical, and often sponsored, writing seems to get a look in at present. I don't wish to rant here, but we need to support independent writing that is worthy of the sport's rich heritage (and yes, that actually means paying for it sometimes).

I live in hope though, as perhaps all anglers do at heart. Besides, it's difficult to feel dour when a little bonus summer time arrives and things seem to be improving. With recent commitments including a new part time job as a professional copywriter (sometimes I actually get paid to blog!), fishing time has been slightly limited. But there's always the prospect of sneaking off for some urban fly fishing while my girlfriend goes on her Saturday shift.

I've spoken before of the surprisingly awesome fishing town spots can produce and this time of year can be amongst the best, almost as if the fish know harder times are ahead. Weirdly, conditions were more like high summer for my latest jaunt: low, clear water and fish that seem like a piece of piss to catch if only you can avoid scaring them to death with your size fourteens (I'm not even joking about my feet).

Small beaded nymphs worked a treat once I'd got the hang of really gentle wading and making longer casts with a fine leader, but the real surprise was the dry fly sport. In several spots I'd had a mere bite or two in the shallow water, before the rest disappeared. But the really meaty little weirs and areas of rushing water were another story, with faster and more broken water. With rise forms picking up in the early afternoon I couldn't resist whacking on a nice Balloon Caddis. Not an enormous pattern on this occasion, but a size 14 (hook, not foot size) got some phenomenally juicy takes around boulders and bottlenecks of faster water. The best was a foot long beastie whose whole head and shoulders came out on the take, before a little wrestling bout involving my petrified nerves, pacy water and some ugly rocks:

So, even with time limited, quite an action packed three or so hours were enjoyed. Otherwise, more good omens were sighted on a trip to the city of Bath with my significant other, where I went and visited… a bath. A great big Roman bath to be clear. We had a fascinating time examining ancient relics, coins and even Latin curses, while I hope the watery deities pictured will bring me some angling luck in the testing, colder months ahead. Pictured are watery Celtic Goddess "Sulis Minerva" and a mysterious Neptune-like "King of the Deep". Bloody hell I must be getting desperate:


Despite the obligatory killjoy "No Fishing" signs, the Avon looked beautiful through the city, while I also found a rather dapper painting of a Georgian "Angling Party" at the Victoria Gallery to make my girlfriend yawn. Looking at their stylish attire and the fact that there's even an actual woman without facial hair fishing in the image, I can't help think that we've gone backwards these last 200 years. That's culture for you.