Mullet Madness.

According to Stephen Downes and Martin Knoweldens book ‘The New Complete Angler’, I’ve just caught a fish whose closest relatives are, believe it or not, the Barracudas. They go on to say that gastronomic authors are generally loud in praise of this species and that its roe is ( or ought to be ) an essential ingredient of Taramasalata; formerly of the famous Botargo, a relish which Pepys ate with bread and butter, and great draughts of claret.

Peter Wheat, contributor to ‘Popular Sea Fishing’ (my first proper and much loved book on the subject) wrote enthusiastically about this family describing them as very widespread and common to all temperate and tropical waters, hence the barracuda connection. He does go on to say however that this peculiar division of sea angling is in no way typical, yet possesses a unique appeal for the sportsman who would relish a challenge without the expectation of immediate success.

Enough clues then, it is of course the grey mullet, and if I had to pen a few words about these enigmatic creatures I wouldn’t hesitate to suggest that they were, pound for pound, the hardest fighting fish I had ever come across. They do not grow very large (a ten pounder is a veritable monster and the record cannot be much above this) indeed I’ve yet to catch one much above four pounds but the power and pace exhibited by these reasonably average sized fish is nothing short of shocking and will test the pursuer’s tackle, not to mention their nerves, to the very limit and unfortunately sometimes beyond for they know not the meaning of submission or surrender.

I remember as a struggling young angler spending many haunting hours mesmerized by shoals of highly visible yet totally disinterested mullet in the shallow coastal waters and brackish tidal reaches of Lymington River, my hometown water.

Marshland creeks, harbours, estuaries, sewage pipes and last but not least the piles, pier supports and pontoons associated with the long established railway, boatyards and marinas have ensured that this is and has for centuries been ‘mullet central’ a veritable heaven and haven for those frustrating surface, silt and weed browsers; and it was here, though some decades later as a struggling adult angler, that I made first contact.

Rarely will you see someone fishing for mullet, so time consuming and frustrating are they, and until the summer of 2003 I had never seen anybody catch one nor even knew of anyone who had; with the exception that is of my brother. He managed somehow to tempt one from the brackish lagoon type waters of ‘The Salterns’. Exactly how he accomplished this I cannot say, at least not with any accuracy, for I was not with him and although he would’ve shared the experience with me, (indeed most probably rubbed my nose sore in it) the tale, since it was never written, has faded with time. A chance encounter perhaps for he was very young and regardless of whether or not luck attended him in the capture of that fish I remained terribly envious of that piscatorial accomplishment ( though I don’t remember telling him that at the time........sibling rivalry and all that ).

Anyway, I digress. If it hadn’t been for a chance encounter with a mullet fisher and his grandson then I should still almost certainly be mullet-less today.

A fine meal we’d had at ‘The Mayflower’, me and the wife that is, and a leisurely stroll afterwards along the sea wall took us past the lido swimming baths and on into the marina itself, which is where we spotted the unlikely pair of piscators. Actually only one was fishing, the grandad, whilst the young lad tore lumps of flake and crust from a bloomer, launching them into the calm and relatively clear water between the wall and the pontoons as far as his little arms could throw them. He had been quite busy for there were many soggy swollen pieces out there, some floating, some partially submerged, and I could not tell which lump was attached to the little forged splinter of steel on the end of grandad’s line. I asked him if he’d had any luck and he said that he hadn’t but that he shouldn’t have to wait too much longer. I admired his optimism but couldn’t help thinking that he should have known better when a mullet of about four pounds suddenly surfaced amongst the doughy detritus, grabbed a squishy mouthful and disappeared with a splashy tail swipe leaving behind a substantial set of circular wavelets like a target to show us where he’d struck.

I’d never seen a mullet take a bait before, hook or no hook, and incidentally that piece was without, and to see that one strike so enthusiastically astonished me and although I didn’t stay long enough to see whether the grandad’s prediction was fulfilled, I’d certainly seen enough to know that I could and would catch myself a mullet and that it would be soon, very soon.

I returned the following week, straight off nights, but didn’t feel even the slightest bit sleepy. I was armed with my Odessa Avon quiver, Shimano SGT3000X loaded with six pound maxima, and a loaf of bread, but was horrified to find that the little creek like section of marina that the old boy was fishing had been reduced to a sloping gravel beach, no water, no mullet. I’d neglected to consider the state of the tide and was now forced to search for my quarry elsewhere. I don’t suppose I’d walked much more than a couple of hundred yards before I found a nice looking shoal of frolicking thick lips gathered around a freshwater bunny in another quiet corner of the complex. Initially I just sat and watched them, frightened that if I made any sort of move they’d disappear, but I soon became fidgety and threw a few small pieces of bread out towards them. I was hoping for some sort of reaction but my free offerings neither spooked nor interested them. I poured myself a steaming cup of black coffee and simply sat there warming up in the early morning August sunshine, watching and waiting.

One and a half cups of coffee later and one of the mullet began to get restless. He had, like the rest of them, been quite lethargic since my arrival, but he suddenly started moving around with a purpose. Backwards and forwards he swam until finally he cruised towards a piece of flake that could no longer support the water it had absorbed and as a consequence was sinking very, very slowly. He was headed straight for it, four feet, three feet, two feet. He was totally focused, there was nothing casual about his approach, one foot, and I could see his pectorals moving, braking him slowly, two inches, the lips moved, the flake disappeared and I spilt the remaining coffee down my leg.

In a situation like that it’s imperative to remain calm and collected but I’d flapped straight into panic mode and by the time I’d got a hookbait out to them I’d dropped the cup, knocked the flask off the wall, saw two more pieces of flake disappear and managed somehow to stick the hook in my finger, twice. I reckoned I was about two minutes away from a heart attack and before I had time to compose myself my flake disappeared in a swirl. Some sub-conscious reflex, thank god, caused me to strike and all ‘bloody hell’ was finally let loose!

Its’ first dash for freedom was shocking, taking it beneath a rib and well out of sight. I squeezed the spinning spool and slowed him considerably but the rod was bucking violently and he was still taking line. The proximity of the dinghies and other assorted craft didn’t help but I realised later that were and are an essential part of the whole terrifying drama. I thumbed the ‘fightin drag’ hard over and hung on, the extra pressure could’ve meant that we’d part company but if he managed to get himself around a snag I’d lose him anyway. I suddenly realised I was laughing. I’d finally, after all these years of wishful thinking, become attached to a fish hitherto only dreamt about, and the best I could do about it was laugh. I remember thinking that if I lose him now at least I’d know that they weren’t un-catchable, I’d do a kind of mental action replay in order to evaluate just exactly where it was I’d gone wrong, and then drown myself.

I did eventually win the day and land that fish, and what a fabulous creature it was. He had a most unusual mouth with the lips being joined, when shut, with a peculiar sort of mortise and tenon arrangement. The head was broad and flattish and the body was quite streamlined not unlike a bass only a lot ‘racier’. Its’ back and upper flanks were bluish/grey giving way to silvery/grey sides and finally merging into a creamy white almost pearlescent belly and under parts. The twin dorsal arrangement was also quite distinct and there were several fairly dark stripes running parallel along its flanks. The other most unusual thing about him was his scales. They seemed unusually large in relation to their host and flaked off easily when handled.

He weighed three pounds eleven ounces, although the size to be honest was almost irrelevant, and was the only fish I had that morning. He could have weighed less than half that and I would still have been delighted, it was a big, big moment for me; the only time I would ever catch my first mullet................magic!

Thanks for reading

Steve Bayliss