January days can seem like our sun has left us, in its place
we are left with just dull omnipresent cloud, with no real sense of time.
Occasionally the cloud breaks momentarily and shafts of winter sun reveal their
creator’s presence, then as soon as they appear they retreat, concealed by
faceless vapour. Today is one of those days.
I’ve grown restless and bored since the new year, ‘all work
and no play’ is the saying that sums up the last two weeks, January can be like
that. I’ve longed to be by the water, pining to hold the first fish of 2017 in
my hands. Which species would hold that honour? I could try for pike, an old
favourite, yet time is limited and the sea is calling me. I could fish in the
city, there’s plentiful sea angling opportunities only a short walk from my
house - yet I desire the wild. I want to escape the concrete, to walk alone
along clifftops, breathe in that frigid salty air.
I cannot resist the call of the rocks, so I drive excitedly
to my favourite Cornish peninsula, Rame. A short journey interrupted only
briefly to give way on narrow lanes, to dog walkers, joggers and the odd
fisherman like myself. All escaping the trivialities of life, looking for a
brief respite of wilderness and ocean. I park up and make my descent to the
first mark.
The clouds are
endless as I gaze to the horizon, but the air is clear, no rain and no snow. It
feels like it could snow though, the grass feels crisp and the exposed tips of
my fingers already burn with cold. Luckily I’m prepared and the rest of my body
remains warm and comfortable under many layers. Days like these you are
thankful for modern inventions such as thermal clothing, our ancestors had no
such luxuries. My ancestors probably never had the luxury of catch and release
fishing either, everything caught would be kept for the table no doubt. For
myself, on this most chilly of January days, my fish will be going back and in
any case would make barely a meal at all, should I be so inclined.
My first cast is to the east, into a moderate swell that’s
breaking onto the rocks below me. I’m fishing light, flinging a tiny lure into
the breeze, hoping for a herring or a mackerel. I let it sink, imagining it
descending into the depths, catching the eye of a would-be predator. It’s easy
to forget about the cold and how much my nose is dripping, when my mind is
being cast out into the sea, attempting to tempt my first fish of the year. I twitch
it back at a moderate speed and on my third cast, life! I feel a fish attack my
lure, pulling at my braided line. I cannot connect with the perpetrator though.
I suspect it to be a small fish and that is confirmed as I glimpse a green
flash harassing my beleaguered lure. Tiny mackerel! Further casts bring the
same result, frustration. I down size further but my efforts are in vain, the
fish have disappeared. It’s time to head west.
My intended mark is on the other side of point and involves
a steep climb, the descent, as ever, was simple, the ascent is more testing.
I’m now at that awkward phase of sweating in the freezing cold, the air burns
as I pant like an overexcited dog. I’m out of practice and scold myself for it.
As I arrive at the peak I catch my breath and appreciate the view. There’s a
group of dartmoor ponies to the right of me grazing, much hardier folk than I.
They give no thought to the overdressed primate panting across from them, their
focus is eating grass, mine is on catching a fish.
The scenery is sensational here, looking out across Whitsand
Bay, even with the grey, oppressive cloud above me. I decide on a likely
looking point, full of exciting gulleys and rockpools. It’s a steep but safe
descent, following pony tracks downwards. Three roe deer leap out of the
undergrowth near me, gracefully bounding away out of sight, leaving only the sight
of their three bright rumps bouncing in the distance.
The path levels out and it’s clear to see the fishing won’t
be as easy as I predicted from up high. The swell is still strong and breaking
onto the rocks aggressively. I’m not wearing waterproofs, so casting from there
could get very wet, very fast. There’s a very pretty looking rockpool just
below me though, the kind that can always house a surprise.
It’s full of small boulders and is about a foot or so deep,
perfect hunting territory for tiny predators. I get myself into position above
it, trying to keep myself fairly concealed. A small underarm chuck finds my
lure on the other side of the pool, ready to make it’s (hopefully) doomed
journey back to me. The water is crystal clear and I watch with fascination as
I bounce the lure slowly between the rocks. There’s movement. One of the
inhabitants has noticed an intruder in it’s home. I twitch the lure across the
rock and the fish is on it in a flash! I can see it clearly has the whole lure
in it’s mouth, with a small strike the fish is on. Even my ultralight tackle is
much too strong for this angry fella and he’s quickly in my hands.
I’m excited to see it’s the species I expected it to be, a
long spined sea scorpion. My absolute favourite of the mini species. I’ve
caught larger specimens of the species but not many prettier than this one. Like
usual the scorpion puffs out it’s gills and flexes it’s spines, a show of
aggression to any would-be predator. I marvel at it’s colours, tiger-striped
browns with blue gills and mottled orange flanks. They are truly the poster
boys for the light rock fishing scene, fully deserved too. I attempt to do him
justice with a few photos and then set him free, to terrorise the rockpool once
more.
Repeated casts find no other takers in the surrounding
pools, so I move on. The sun is still nowhere to be seen, it could be morning,
noon or dusk for all the clues our star is giving me. Modern technology tells
me it’s one o’clock and that means I do not have much time left.
There’s a delightful looking rockpool just ahead of me, the
blue and purple slate residing in it give it an eerie hue. I’m intrigued. My
arrival spooks two common blennies, shooting into the nearest crevice. I am a
fan of the humble blenny or ‘shanny’ to give them their common name, they are
always quick to bite and save many angler’s the dreaded blank! I lower my lure
into the blue depths, fishing it vertically, slowly bouncing it in front of the
blenny’s lair. Both of the previously flighty fish leave their hiding place to
inspect this new morsel. They are hesitant and then I see why, a massive
(compared to the blennies) giant goby appears from the shadow to the right, the
blennies flee as it hits my lure with force. I’m both shocked and excited by
the miniature drama that has just unfolded before me. I let him take the lure
for a couple of seconds then set the hook. Even gobies of this gargantuan size
do not fight well, which is unlucky for him as I soon have him in my hands.
The giant goby is a peculiar fish, it’s incredibly rare in
Britain, only a few localised populations exist in our waters, mostly on the
south coast. It actually has greater protection than even our beloved bass,
being against the law to kill one. That makes them a very special fish in my
eyes and this individual is the first I’ve ever seen on Rame. He is a brute of
a goby, nearly thirty centimetres long and missing his left eye. I wonder how
he came to lose it, most likely being mishandled by an angler but it really
could be anything. The habitat he makes his home is full of peril, death being
only a rough storm or a cormorant’s beak away. I know it’s a he because he’s in
his mating attire. Dark coloured with a beautiful blue frame to his rear fins.
Like the scorpion fish he puffs out his gills to make himself look more menacing,
I can only admire his gestures and my luck to catch him. Two of my favourite
mini species in one day, that’s worth braving the cold for.
He endures his customary photoshoot and I release him, the
one-eyed prince of the rockpool. The blennies again beat a hasty retreat, their
overlord returning to rule them once more. I must also retreat, modern life and
all the trivial pursuits that come with it are calling me. I make my ascent back up
towards my car. Leaving the beautiful but bleak cliffs behind me. The ponies
still give me little care as I pass. The sun though finally makes an
appearance, glistening beams piercing through the endless cloud, illuminating the
sea in front of me. It’s going to be a good year, I’m sure of it.
