Martin Bowler revisits Crabtree tactics for chub

03 June 2008 09:25

Is it possible to go back in time to the 1960s and follow in the footsteps of Mr Crabtree and Peter? Martin Bowler turns his hand to dapping for chub and, with not a boilie in sight, turns to the traditional baits that inspired a generation...

Now here’s the place to find chub on a hot day – they lie under the overhanging branches and take flies, grasshoppers and so on as they drop on to the water. Mr Crabtree was once again firing the imagination, and today he was to teach Peter the noble art of dapping.’

Folding back the well-thumbed pages I sank deeper into the armchair, closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift off into the world of Bernard Venables...a place where monsters lurk around every corner, the sun always shines and the fish always bite!

Was this Utopia tangible? Could I touch it for myself? What would it be like to follow in the footsteps of Mr Crabtree?

Dapping it was, then, with my guide being the book. Surely the words were an echo of a bygone era, with no place in the hectic lifestyle of today? Well, I was about to find out.

First I needed the bait. Unlike Peter, I had little enthusiasm for crawling around in the long grass collecting grasshoppers. Instead I reached for the Yellow Pages. My finger worked down the list...‘R’. Here we go, a reptile supplier, and in Chippenham to boot. A quick phone call confirmed my requirements and I was off to collect them.

Four pounds were parted with and two tubs now sat beside me as I turned towards the river. What was my bait? Crickets and locusts. I did intend to follow at least some of the story, and so my container to hold them would still be a matchbox.

The warm sun had worked its magic upon the stream. With tap water clarity, the streamer weed swayed to and fro, while its white-petalled flowers soaked up the rays.

According to Mr Crabtree I now needed to find an overhanging bush, under which my quarry would await an insect slipping into the water. Donning the Polaroids I crept along the bank, wary of casting a shadow upon the stream.

A shoal of dace played mid-water, allowing the flow to drag them downstream before returning to the head of the pool and being swept away again. Further downstream two baby barbel skimmed across the gravel, lips sucking at the stones in the hope of turning up a caddis. But where were the chub?

There, in the shadow of a blackberry bush, sat three armour-clad backs. Their dark grey overcoats were highly visible against the sandy bottom. I now had my target in my sights.

According to the text, a long cane rod was required, combined with a centrepin loaded with strong gut. Much as I desired to use such antiques, I didn’t possess any, and it was time, once again, to improvise.

With the required reach, cane would now be substituted with 8.5m of carbon, or a carp pole, to be precise. Connected to this would be a length of 6lb line. The drilled bullet to steady the bait was then threaded on, and instead of a shot a float-stop fixed it in place. Mr Crabtree’s size 7 hook was mimicked by a similarly-sized chemically sharpened model – perfect for piercing my insects.  ‘Now let’s have a grasshopper – this is the way to put it on the hook’ – straight through the head! While I wouldn’t claim to be in Crabtree’s league, I had to beg to differ on this procedure.

Instead, a cricket was nicked through the tail – this kept it alive and, more importantly, buzzing appetisingly!

I also became a little concerned at the ‘wrapping line around the rod top’ procedure. Of course, in Mr Crabtree’s magical world snap-offs couldn’t occur, but unfortunately they could in mine, so I thought it would be better if I ignored his advice here.

Carefully I slipped into the water downstream of the chub. Providing I kept low, the high banks would shield my silhouette. The disturbance to the water was no more than that of a swan as I crept into position

Within range, I could feel the magic as my hands grew clammy against the carbon. At last I started to understand this Crabtree fellow. To catch at any cost was to miss the point – catching was just the final cog in the wheel.

Most important was the method needed to invoke the enthusiasm of childhood. Through the eyes of Peter, we all long for such innocence, and with my bug about to dap the surface my excitement was now at fever pitch. Although only moderate in size, these chub had this angler well and truly hooked.

Slowly I began to lower the cricket on to the water’s surface, placing it between two fronds of streamer weed. Instantly the fish became alerted to an easy lunch, their fins twitching with excitement. The smallest chub manoeuvred into position, sitting now within inches of the flapping legs. The continuous movement sent ripples across the surface. A strike was imminent.

Remembering the wise words, ‘here comes one – but it’s not a very good one – we’ll just lift the bait off the surface,’ I followed suit. Confused at this disappearing trick, the grey shadow sunk back down into position. Once everything had calmed, the cricket was lowered back into position. Again its torso was caught in the surface film, spinning in despair.

This time a larger chub pushed forward, eager to investigate. It took only seconds, but my world went into slow motion as a pair of white lips sucked down the offering. As if to re-enact Peter’s role, I heard the great man whisper: ‘It’s got it. Drop the rod tip to give the fish a slack line until it’s turned down.’

In a whirlwind of excitement I obeyed before striking the hook home. Startled, the chub momentarily held station before stripping elastic from the pole-tip. Perhaps I should have had more faith in Bernard Venables’ writing? For a while it was indeed a case of hanging on and hoping for the best.

Weaving the line between the weedbeds, I guided in my prize. No wonder my chub look startled, for although it had become accustomed to a battery of modern tactics, never had it found a hook hidden in such a way. Perhaps there is still plenty to glean from the adventures of this wise old sage.

Fittingly, though, I feel we should end with his words...‘a nice chub – now we’ll put it back and try somewhere else.’