He told us “The first was from a stretch that some anglers wonder why I bother with, where I’m drawn to a quiet, forgotten bend in the river. Here, the water hurries past with purpose which restricts my choice of where to cast. I’ve blanked more times here than I care to count, yet each walk back to the car I’m filled with a strange hunger to return. This visit, the cold settled into my sleeves, and I fished with nothing more than bread. I let the river decide the rest, casting into creases and letting the flow carry my bait wherever it wished to wander.

My persistence was rewarded with a 7lb 7oz chub, and a few days later when I found the river dropping after flood, I managed one even bigger. The bank was empty, yet the air was filled with birdlife, as red kites turned slowly overhead and kingfishers flashed along the margins. I fished bread again, and the first chub came quickly, followed by another upstream. After losing a good fish, the river grew quiet. Moving on, I found a steady glide off the inside of a bend and sent my bait downstream.

Touch legering with the line drawn lightly across my fingertip, I felt the bite there first – the gentlest pluck as the chub dared itself to take the bait. The rod tip nodded, hesitated, then dipped again. I struck and the fish fought hard, shaking its head and leaning into the flow. After landing the chub – a broad and powerful 7lb 9oz specimen – I left the river, carrying with me the quiet satisfaction of time well spent. Whilst many anglers go down the bolt-rig and boilie route these days, I caught by bouncing my bread hookbait along nearside edges. I slowly lift the rod and give it a slight flick, which makes the hookbait flutter in the flow. Any willing chub nearby will smack the bait!”

Well done Vito!