Oh January… least favourite month of the layman, host of blue Monday, with an aftertaste of tiredness lingering from festivities. Inspiration can be futile after weeks of drizzle and cloud. In what feels like an inevitable yearly ritual, I found myself staring through my patio door windows, frosted with raindrops, toiling over how to spend the remaining few hours of daylight.
As luck would have it, I’m fortunate enough to have a south facing view over the River Wye from my bedroom window. The ebb and flow of the main channel courses through the landscape in front of me. As well as the trusty online river gauge levels, you can’t deny the visual markers of a historic bridge dating back to 1599 as a reliable live reading on flow conditions.
With that said, places on your doorstep can often be overlooked, and when you’ve spent many a minute idly driving by, rivers can blend into the background of insignificance… at least for those not fortunate enough to have located their piscatorial instinct.
My options? Pace around the house until I decide what to do, by which time it feels too late to do anything? I’ve learnt my lesson by now. Carp fishing? Too cold, too static. Pike fishing? Required a gear sort out. Grayling? Not enough time. Barbel? On the cards but hard going. For anyone that’s fished the Wye, you’ll know Chub are always an option. They might not be record-breakers in this neck of the woods, but they’re always obliging, so Chub it was.
Thankfully it wasn’t my first winter trip for chub that season, with my kit primed and ready, it was an easy decision.
I always like to travel light, with most of my fishing being short day or afternoon sessions. The river bag has no space for ‘brew kits’ or bulk. All I need is my bank stick, bait bucket, quiver tip, rucksack and the camera. Bait was another easy decision… back in November I’d ventured to the local supermarket in search of the most pungent cheese I could lay my hands on. Blending that with some breadcrumbs, butter, mature cheddar, and a sprinkle of garlic made for a positively foul paste. After a swift kitchen evacuation by my better half, it was bagged up ready for the ‘fishing’ freezer drawer. This was the only real weapon in my arsenal for the few hours I needed on the riverbank, so I grabbed a couple of globules… one for pre-baiting, the other for the sharp end.
Layered up, I loaded the tools into the car and began the short drive to the river. Winding through the country lanes and gated farm entrance, I opted for a longer section of a dissected beat that had previous winter form to make pre-baiting and roving easier. The cratered track along the edge of the agricultural fields always seems to be the preferred pathway for the rural wildlife, and this occasion was no different, with a duo of brown hare bounding off for cover from my intrusion.
After a hasty 3-point turn with a quiet grimace, I’d managed to establish my escape route without requiring the aid of a tractor and winch. Prior to setting off, I replayed the plan I’d constructed in my head en-route; walk the stretch, pre-baiting the slacks and overhanging willows first, before returning to the car to grab the rest of the kit and fishing my way back through the primed areas. As we all know, the best laid plans often go awry… in this case, as I picked up my bait bucket, an audible knock from inside raised an eyebrow. Peeling back the lid, it appeared I’d severely underestimated the thawing time of my cheese paste… not a great start.
With no plan B, I mulled over my options. Going home wasn’t one of them, and after keeping warm in the vehicle, I decided the only resolution was to fast-track the thawing over the heaters in the front of the car. With the garlic goodness filling the front seats, it was a windows-down, full blast operation, which worked surprisingly well. Within minutes I was back on track to fulfil my own pre-baiting obligations. I set about trudging the bank for the initial baiting campaign. Three to five fifty pence sized pieces of cheese paste were distributed to each likely looking area based on their ‘Chubbi-ness’. Once half a dozen or so swims were baited along the length of the stretch, I returned to the car to wield the quiver tip. I began retracing my steps with a tightened anticipation.
These sessions for me have no ultimate goal… don’t get me wrong, I’m never keen on blanking, but I’m not campaigning or targeting a specimen, or trying to work hard for a bite. I’m there to digest the day and let the flow whisk away the background noise, tuning me into the song of the river. I honestly believe the immersive stage of the riverbank and its cast is one of the finest elixirs. Whether the call of the Kingfisher, the lyric of the long-tailed tits or the company of muntjac and hare, once you have taken your seat, the performers slowly begin to play their part.
After finding my seat in the first area, I under-armed my link-ledgered paste into position as tight as I dared to the overhanging willow. To my mind, if the chub were in the area, I would know about it rather promptly, with takes or tip-taps coming in the first few minutes of settling in. I set about some mental ‘fisher maths’, attempting to calculate how long I had until sunset versus how many baited areas, including the potential for a bite or two in a few of the swims. I worked out I had 10-15 minutes in each swim before needing to move on, as any unfished opportunities would definitely have left ‘what ifs’ if the rest of them did not go as scripted.
A couple of moments of fidgeting, re-tucking t-shirts and preparing for the show, and I was ready for action. With my palm on the rod butt I could feel for the nervous winter plucks, adding another coat of excitement, and for me, allows for glances into nature whilst feeling the energy of the river in tandem. True connection.
It never takes long if they’re in the area, and before I knew it, the telltale taps opened a window into their world. A strong pluck followed suit, as did a strike and hold. A great start and a short but energetic fight underneath my feet saw the first one was in the net. Not huge, but a medal for my efforts early on. With a smile on my face and a whisper of gratitude, I slipped the youngster back and moulded another piece of paste around the hook. I gave it a few minutes, but no further joy and a furrowed brow had me reeling in for a move.
Being January, the banks of the Wye can be slick, so some careful footsteps are required on the bare earth. Slipping into the next swim, I had a mild confidence. Except this time, my quarry wasn’t so forthcoming. A raised brow this time, followed by a re-cast, just in case the hook hadn’t settled satisfactorily. Tap, tap, bang. In again, instantly battling for the cover I’d tempted him from. Two for two, already a successful afternoon session.
The next pre-baited area I settled into remained dormant for the allocated ten minutes. No knocks, no taps, no signs. A gentle flatten of the anticipation, but nothing to be concerned about. Nonetheless, a move was on the cards. Just the distant drone of a main road and a closeness of my bristling winter exhales, glancing over the mirrored mosaic of a retreating Wye, the internal relaxation returned.
Having spent a vast amount of time on the riverbank in both my personal and professional life, you become in tune to natural flow patterns and diversity, and when the natural order of proceedings is unsettled. Upon my trudge and further peeks through the ruffled foliage, a conspicuous wave rolled from the near margin. Instantly piquing my interest, a swift back-step for a better view saw new ripples and unnatural water pushing along.
My internal monologue began reeling through suspects, faltering on a prime candidate. I’ve seen mink along the Wye, but this was too exaggerated for me to attribute this to their delicate disturbance. The significance amongst the dense willow was enough for me to down tools. The new hunt was on. Crouched in an army style squat, I scurried along the bank for a better view, following the ripples where I could. The broken view had me quick-stepping back and forth, with a preview of a slick coat and a wiry tale through winters wicker weave. As it slipped into the shallow margin, my quarry had been confirmed.
I’ve had seldom fleeting visits from these intrepid travellers on the Wye, always yearning for a longer interview. As I followed, I approached my next pre-baited area which comprised a willow tunnel into an open bankside… to my astonishment, the final act was about to begin. The earthy tones of a beautiful otter broke the mirrored flow once more, right in front of the cheese paste primed area. I had entered full stealth mode but was frozen by its beady gaze as we shared a brief moment of magic. She didn’t seem phased by my presence, as if she knew my intentions were humble. What she did next left me perplexed. My assumption was that our moment had passed, but how wrong I was.
She began diving over the area I’d baited, curling and revolving in the water upside down, as if she were a synchronised swimmer.
As she submerged, I lay down my rucksack and crawled closer, watching her routine in awe. I’ve never observed this behaviour in otters in freshwater, only once or twice on the west coast of Scotland, when they’re hunting along the edge of lochs. Limbs and tail flailing and emerging, followed by a pale belly and plumes of bubbles and silt. I’d assumed she was attempting to dig out a fresh feast of freshwater or swan mussels, but she never popped up with anything in her many dives. This made me ponder whether she was attracted to the cheese paste or scent left in the water from the residual breakdown in amongst the sediment. Surely not, my cheese paste couldn’t be that good, could it?! But I couldn’t fathom why so much effort was put into this one spot without a bounty.
This went on for over a minute and a half before and I’d started filming on my phone, when a lightbulb in my mind reminded me that my camera was in my rucksack. A brief frustration realising I’d only got the 24-105 lens and not my telephoto lens was soon washed away by the splashing of the otter. I inched back to the rucksack, opting for a swift zip action as she was underwater and removed the camera, making it back to my position behind a deadwood trunk acting as my blind. I began snapping away, before she stood up, gazing across the river once more, before sharing a last moment with me. She slipped off into the flow as the final act came to a close.
I can’t call this a moment, as it was much more than that. It was an experience that will resonate with my soul for eternity. I sat back on my knees for a pause to take it all in. My pounding heart and huffy breath needed time to reflect. Flicking through the images on the back of the camera, I couldn’t be upset. It wasn’t about the photos or footage, but the short film I can replay in my mind whenever I chose, recorded through the lenses of my spectacles, and treasured in the archives of the grey matter.
Such a secretive predator, supposed to have caused immeasurable damage to the Wye and waters across the country. I can understand the upset of Stillwater fishery managers when their financial investments and hard work succumb to otters’ natural instinct, or when once prolific stretches of historic river have been looted. But there are a multitude of contributing factors to the deterioration of these rivers. Solely blaming such a majestic animal feels unjust if you haven’t observed them without an open mind.
On this day, at least, the star performer fulfilled my winter.
Whilst I was content with my earnings, I continued fishing on. I soon found out I had an audience from the far bank, with an orchestra of playful squeaks my new soundtrack. My moment must have been shared with mum, as the ruckus on the far bank could only be mischievous cubs calling for an afternoon banquet.
Much to many peoples surprise, I caught another few fish to just under 4lbs that session. All whilst this dreadful hunter had supposedly pillaged the stretch. I wasn’t surprised, as with many of the ecosystem’s nooks and niches, each animal has its role to play, whilst another masters avoidance and hunting of the others in the same way.
I’d encourage a pragmatic approach to every outlook in life, as that day could easily have been a glass half empty retreat to home, but my glass was full upon my return. An insight into the heart of the river that was epitomised by my new friend, not foe.
Kieron Roberts
2025