Forty years ago it was a summer specialist

If global warming is a fiction why is it now a fish for all seasons?

"IN January?!" I repeated, incredulous.

He nodded."A tench - in January."

I repeated the full statement to make sure I'd heard correctly.

I thought he might be joking - I checked - No, not a trace of a smile passed across his be-whiskered face.

He was seriously contemplating a day's fishing with the sole idea of catching a tench - in January.

"It's our mission to be fishin'," he said. He tried to make "fishing" sound like "fission." I was still incredulous.

Now I know it's not unheard of to catch tench in January, but it's one of those things viewed with sceptism, like saying you know an MP who's not on the fiddle. Seriously though - January? One of GB's coldest months I'd say, and I'm no meteorology expert. Some people might say I'm no angler, either, but that's another story.

In January isn't it accepted that tench should be well embedded in the mud and leaves on the absolute bottom of your local fishery, taking a well earned winter kip? Not a bad idea that, sleeping through January; I wonder if I could get away with it?

Well, silly idea or not, it was decided that in mid-January the be-whiskered one (henceforward known as Tom) with other anglers Dick and myself (Harry) would attempt to catch the elusive January tench.

You may have noticed, dear reader, that the anglers' names are those often used when trying to protect someone's anonymity. If that's what it takes to keep us out of the asylum - so be it.

We turned up at a north Derbyshire fishery at around 8am on a gloomy overcast Friday in January. The wind was gusting to about 35mph and heavy rain was forecast. You think that's bad?! Had we been a week earlier we'd have had to break the ice!

Using my carp rod I decided to float fish double maggot on a barbless 16 hook tied directly to 5lb line. Not very subtle you might say - and you'd be right, but I decided that if I did get tangled up with one of those slippery green things I wouldn't want to say I'd lost it because I'd chosen girlish tackle.

My friends both started off using feeders and size 20 hooks (I thought the idea of a size 20 hook was giving a tench far too much of a sporting chance), caring anglers that they are.

We were all pretty soon into fish. Bream for the most part, with the occasional perch for me and the more-than-occasional roach for Dick, who was fishing on the bank opposite to me and doing well.

The morning's proceedings were enlivened by the sight of Dick trying to extricate himself from his umbrella which had nigh-on collapsed around him in the gale force winds. All you could see of Dick was his legs beneath an almost closed-up umbrella; it did look strange. "Manic green umbrella eats angler" - I could just see the headlines.

Dick had chosen to fish that part of the pond that was most exposed to the elements, and as the heavy rain arrived I think he was regretting it. To his undying credit it must be said that he was catching the most fish, though none of us had seen the slightest trace of our designated quarry.
When Tom had a bite that resulted in a straightened hook we thought things might be looking brighter, even if the weather wasn't.

At this juncture Tom thought it was time for a bite of a different kind, and taking Dick along for company he went to visit the on-site eatery. On their return Dick brought me an egg and bacon buttie and a mug of hot coffee that was really well received, and while he went away to move his gear to a less exposed location Tom joined me under the shelter of my umbrella to finish off his coffee.

Tom has a dislike of fishing from beneath a brolly, he's told me about it often enough. Regardless, he had to tell me about it again. That was fine, really, because (a) he's a mate, and if he wants to chat, he can; and (b) in the time it took him to get his point across (again) and return to his own peg the rain had become an almost ignorable sputtering.

Dick had set up his gear at the peg next to Tom's, which meant that the three of us were fishing in an arc covered by about 40 metres.

Dick had now abandoned the feeder and with a shortened float-to-hook length he began taking fish on the drop at about 13 metres distance.

Tom persevered with the feeder and I plodded on with the float and double maggot bait.

I must say I asked myself how Dick expected to catch a bottom-feeding fish while fishing just below the surface, but he was catching fish merrily (bream, roach and the odd crucian) so it seemed churlish to remind him of the day's mission.

It was about 1.30pm that Tom announced he'd have to call it a day and return home to ensure that his pit bull terrier had not reduced his house to rubble (he says it's a "Staffy"; I've seen it and it's the best impersonation of a pit bull I've ever seen, but if Tom says it's a Staffy, then it's a Staffy. Even more so if the dog is actually there at the time.)

Things were looking bleak now. The instigator of the mission was on his way home with the quest left uncompleted. Defeat was staring us in the face as Tom trudged off to his vehicle and began loading away his fishing gear. With one final return to the bankside to say his goodbyes and exhort us to carry on trying to "find that fish" Tom turned on his heel and with a parting shot of "have fun", marched off to his 4x4.

He had just reached it and I was watching him in case he waved (or did something ruder), when I was startled by a shout from Dick.

"Tom! Just a minute. Look here," he yelled. Tom stopped and looked back at us. I turned to my left - Dick was bringing yet another fish to his landing net.

"What is it?" Tom yelled across from the car park.

"It's a little tinca," chortled Dick. "It's a tench." So it was. Dick, fishing on the top, against all the odds and against all the rules of angling for tench had caught the bogey fish.

Let's be accurate here. Big this fish was not. It could have just been 8ozs - tops, but the size and weight didn't matter, this was the elusive January tench and Dick had caught it.

Photographs followed with Tom delaying his departure long enough to unsling his SLR and get those "professional" pictures while I hovered around, taking "snaps" with my 20-year-old idiot-proof Olympus automatic and finishing off my 36-shot film in the process.

Well, what's left? Tom went home, leaving Dick and I fishing and at around 3pm I, too, caught a tench. Bigger than Dick's it was, but not much - maybe around 1lb. Other fish of other varieties followed for both of us, but at 3.45pm, having thrown in my two pints of maggots, I was ready to call it a day and called over to Dick to tell him so.

He exhorted me not to go.

"No bait," said I.

"Here, have some of mine, there's plenty," responded Dick. I didn't want to. I was tired and it had been a long day, but Dick's pleading and the fact that he forced maggots into my bait box meant that I agreed "to give it an extra half hour."

I'm glad I did. My fishing style was the same as it had been all day but at 4pm, with the daylight dwindling and two of Dick's maggots on my size 16 hook I hit a fish that put the first real bend of the day into my carp rod.

Yes, it was another tench. Over 2lbs and nearer 2lbs than 3lbs, it wasn't enormous but it gave a good account of itself before I thankfully slipped it into my landing net.

I was really pleased, and Dick looked pleased for me, but alas no photographs exist of me and my January tench.

My film was finished and Tom was at home in the warm with his dog. Dick, of course, hadn't brought along his very expensive digital camera, so my two tench were consigned to the realms of this fisherman's tale.

All I can say is that every word is true. If you don't believe me, ask Dick.
Our fishing day was done. The daylight had gone. Dick packed up his gear in record time and with a cheery "See you at work next week," he almost ran to his car. God, I hate the young.

I was knackered and struggling to put away my fishing tackle while Dick was into his car and off down the track - his vehicle a red blur in the dusky shadows.

As I wearily loaded my gear into my car and prepared for the drive back down the motorway to Nottingham at least I had the consolation of knowing I'd caught the heaviest fish on the day, and what was more, I was on holiday next week and wouldn't have to get up early on Monday morning. Dick would have to wait for a week to see me at work.

I smiled at the thought. Tom's "Mission To Be Fishin'" had gone quite well, really. Despite tempestuous weather it had been an enjoyable day's angling with friends and at the end of it all Tom's idle thoughts of "a tench in January" had turned out to be a real possibility.

Happy Angling. Have Fun.
- Your Friend Harry.

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