From Mersey Highs to Dorset Blues: A Rollercoaster of a Fortnight

Posted by: The Determined Angler

After the euphoric success on the River Mersey a few weeks ago, I was floating on air. The feeling was one of pure, unadulterated ebullience; I was effervescent with the thrill of a plan coming together. That high, as any angler knows, has a simple cure: more fishing. And so, a road trip was born.

My type of ground, preferably with Bass Dorset

The Dorset Expedition: A Clash with Hurricane Amy:

An Englishman, a Slovak, and a Pole Walk Into a Storm…

They say all the best fishing stories start with a joke. Well, our Dorset expedition began with the setup: “An Englishman, a Slovak, and a Pole drive five hours into a hurricane…”

You’d expect a punchline, but what you get is a masterclass in European logistics and the world’s most determined breakfast. After my recent success on the Mersey, I was feeling invincible. My companions, Smiga and Arek, with their vast fishing experience across the continent, were the perfect crew for this madness.

The five-hour drive was a whirlwind of planning, fishing tales, and the kind of effortless collaboration that happens when everyone speaks the universal language of wanting to catch fish. We arrived in Dorset, meeting at Chesil Beach Tackle shop, where I spent over £80 on a variety of lures. I can’t help myself. I am addicted to the next best shiny thing.

Following a long chat with the helpful owners, we departed for a crucial pint-based strategy session, before facing down Hurricane Amy.

Arek is struggling to stand up in the howling wind

Now, fishing in a 40mph gust is a humbling experience. It’s like trying to fly a kite in a tumble dryer. But amidst the chaos, the dynamic was brilliant. There was no “I,” only “we.” When Arek hooked his cracking 60cm bass on a budget minnow that cost less than our pub crisps, the operation to land it was a NATO-worthy exercise. I was the designated “scrambler,” navigating the treacherous boulders to nab it for him. He was delighted, and we were all chuffed for his PB. Smiga and I, of course, were providing moral support by blanking spectacularly.

Arek was delighted with this stunning 60cm Bass before returning it with a plaster on its lip.

But the real jewel of the trip, the thing that truly sealed our alliance, wasn’t a fish. It was breakfast and the lovely curry.

The next morning, after the gales had somewhat abated, Arek unveiled his secret weapon: a formidable Polish sausage. “Oh matron,” ha, ha, This wasn’t just a sausage; it was a statement of intent. A glorious, garlicky, unyielding log of protein designed to fortify a man against the elements, the kelp, and the heartbreak of watching his friends catch all the bass. Fried up, it was a meal that could launch ships, or at least sustain three fishermen hopping boulders for 12 hours. I have a newfound respect for Polish culinary commandos.

Smiga is no doubt checking the weather forecast once more

What truly made the trip, however, wasn’t the sausage and the evening curry(though it was a close second), but the company. Smiga and Arek didn’t just bring their fishing skills; they took care of everything. The driving, the mark selection, the relentless optimism—they ran a tight ship, and I was just the grateful, and often fishless, first mate. Even as I was busy “conservation fishing” between their constant stream of bass, there was no gloating, only encouragement and the shared belief that the next cast would be the one.

Me, sadly blanking. I tried all my favorite lures

So, the punchline to our joke? There isn’t one, really. Just three blokes from different corners of Europe, united by a gale, a glorious sausage, great food, and the stubborn hope that always, always, comes with the next tide.

Although Bassless, I did manage to winkle out a beautifully colored Wrasse

The Redemption Arc: A North Wales Exchange

I awoke the next day stiff and sore—Dorset’s hills had taken their toll. Yet, the fire burned brighter than ever. The fishing may have been tough for me, but it only fuelled my determination.

As if on cue, my new mate Darren, an ex-gamekeeper from North Wales, reached out. He offered to show me one of his marks, and I was out the door in a flash for the 100-mile trip to meet him.

The mark was stunning—a breathtaking mix of boulders, kelp, and steep drop-offs. It screamed bass. Darren’s warning that it was treacherously slippery was no understatement. Hop between boulders we did, and my confidence returned. Yet, the pattern repeated itself. As Darren expertly pulled in three good-sized bass, I was once again practising the fine art of conservation fishing. My frustration was beginning to mount.

Darren was quickly into a mid-fifties bass using a Hunthouse 155

Darren, the Cornish Bass master, is quite astute in using the 6″ Thumper soft plastic

But fishing, like any good story, needs a redemption arc.

A two-day camping Trip, it was freezing at night

A week later, it was my turn to host. I took Darren to my tried-and-trusted mark. And finally, the stars aligned. The lures worked, the bass were home, and I found my mojo. I finally came good, landing a fantastic haul of seven bass. Darren, perhaps suffering from my previous curse, managed a single fish.

A glass of red before the sun drops

The Sazuke Noeby is the top lure this night

It was the perfect end to a fortnight that had it all: hurricane-force winds, international camaraderie, crushing blanks, and a hard-earned victory. It’s a stark reminder that in fishing, as in life, you have to take the rough with the smooth. The main thing is to enjoy every trip, learn something if you can; this will be a bonus.

Tight lines all,
The Determined Angler

Footnote: Hats off to Darren, he meets me after work, fishes until 1:30 am. “The dude has to be up for work at 4:30 hours, that’s proper hardcore fishing, and I love that.

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