I had planned to have a session on the Roding but the level was still pretty high so decided to head to the forest ponds instead. My choice of which one to visit was made for me when I received a call from a good friend of mine who was at a loose end and needed entertaining. His wife's family live a stone's throw from Baldwins Pond, so I could kill two birds with one stone.
The day started - as all Sundays should in my view - with a trip to the Log Cabin Cafe in Abridge for an enormous fry-up. If you're not familiar with this very special place, imagine a pioneer's cabin air-lifted from the Rockies and dropped in the middle of an affluent Essex village. It's so out of place it's wonderful, with walls covered in all manner of paraphernalia, wooden carvings and even a bear skin (whether it's real or not I'm not sure). And it is literally a log cabin, not just a regular building with a name! Here's a photo:
We paid our £4.95 and tucked into a full English, plate of bread and butter and mug of builders' tea apiece, enjoying the crackling log fire and the eclectic clientele. The place is a magnet for local tradesmen (we shared our long wooden table with a few builders), those seeking to alleviate a hangover (the young lady in her tiger-skin onesie nursing a ruffled look and a can of Red Bull) and even as a local hot spot (well dressed couple looking like they were on a date), as well as a place to take the family. Waving thanks to the pretty ladies who run the show and Ron, who owns the place but was busy chopping wood, we headed back to Loughton with bulging bellies.
My chum had a few things to do first so I headed down the hill to Baldwins Pond, thankful I'd chosen to pack my hiking boots as the mud sucked at my feet. After all the recent rain the pond was looking full and healthy, which made a change from the muddy puddle I saw in the summer. There were no other anglers around on a chilly Sunday morning so I had my pick of swims, opting for one next to the reed bed in the trees (see my previous image in this thread).
Someone had removed the logs which formed an unofficial jetty allowing casting access to the fertile fishing grounds around the reedbed, but I tackled up and made the most of it with a simple waggler and maggot set-up. However, after an hour I'd not had so much as a nibble so I decided to move to another swim.
I set up on the platform above the over-spill at the southern tip of the pond, with the running water under my feet adding a pleasant sound to fish by.
The move proved to be a wise one, as the float slid under and I connected with a scale-perfect Epping Forest roach. Several more followed over the next couple of hours, and to a decent size of around that of my hand. Again, sorry for lack of photos - standing over a metal grid above running water holding a fish and a slippery, expensive phone, did not make for the best conditions!
While the Log Cabin Cafe has an eclectic clientele, so does the forest! First to pass by was a gaggle of young ladies in fancy dresses clutching large bunches of flowers; it transpired they were conducting a photo-shoot in the woods and hadn't been expecting it to be quite so muddy, as the one in ruined suede Ugg boots would testify. The next odd group was heralded by a rat-tat-tat sound as a troop of Combined Cadet Force youths emerged from downstream in full camo gear and sporting replica assault rifles. They consulted maps, joshed around and headed off deep into the trees - later I saw blue smoke from a signal flare drifting up into the sky. After them and a load of dog-walkers came a slightly crazed looking old chap dragging large branches along behind him...but more of him later.
After landing my 8th roach, my friend showed up to keep me company. After watching me cast around for number 9, he announced he'd never even held a rod before and would I mind if he had a go. As I'm sure you'll agree, teaching someone else to fish is one of the great joys of our sport, so I was only too happy to pull out my spare rod and reel and set him up for his first ever cast. After a few dry-runs he had a decent technique nailed down so set about casting into the pond. Lo and behold, as always happens in these situations, his float and not mine slide under and a fish was on the hook. The combination of sheer surprise, excitement, confusion, panic and exhilaration which exhibits itself on the face of a virgin angler hooking their first fish is something I will never forget or tire of. Like a man returned to childhood, he hopped around exclaiming 'what do I do? What do I do?' Telling him to reel it in gently and guide the fish to my waiting hands, he landed his first ever fish - another beautiful, mirror-sided roach. Still in full childhood mode he examined his catch with all the wonder one might reserve for the Crown Jewels and took a couple of snaps with his iPhone to preserve the moment for posterity.
As I slid the fish back into the water he announced 'blimey - it's exciting stuff this fishing, isn't it!'. I grinned and told him that it can be, but not to expect catches all the time. Naturally, this was the cue for him to go on and catch another fine roach while I failed to add to my tally of 8 for the rest of the day. The fishing died off as the afternoon closed in and the temperature dropped away so we moved swims for a last short session opposite where I'd started. That was when the old chap mentioned earlier cropped up again - he was in my starting swim, reconstructing the log jetty. Once happy it was safe enough to stand on, he then set about erecting a large branch at a 45 degree angle over the water and tied a baited hook onto the end. As I watched I thought he might be an undesirable setting up a fixed line to snare the pike overnight for the dinner table (in which case I'd have marched over, dismantled it and given him a stern telling-off). But once he'd cast the line out he sat down facing the bank and didn't move for nearly an hour. As we prepared for our last 5 minutes, the old chap stood up, roared with laughter, took the line off the branch and hurled the log into the undergrowth, doing a little jig as he did so. We weren't sure whether to laugh or flee from the loon, but opted for the former. Still, at least he was just mad and not bad.
We packed up and trudged back up the hill, waxing lyrical about the afternoon's sport. It turns out he's often at a loose end on a Sunday morning, he says, and suggests we do this again very soon; I think it's safe to say that angling has a new recruit...
