January On The Rocks

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.