I made a fake GQ article this week, did you see it? 

I mocked up the cover, wrote the feature, even threw in some pull quotes. Felt a bit cringe doing it to be honest, but it made me laugh. I must admit, it looked impressive and the sentiment, content and tone of article was exactly how I’d want it to look if it was real. I guess that is testament to the photography of Craig Fleming (who does shoot at that level anyway, and my own photoshop / graphic skills) either way - it fooled a lot of people.  It was meant as a joke, a cheeky way of pointing at the fashion industry’s obsession with coverage, validation, and appearance. Might have been worth actually reaching out to GQ to see if they would feature me, but in all honesty I’ve probably lost faith that they do things like that for brands like Mamnick and people like me, (god that sounds depressing doesn’t it?). 

What I didn’t expect was the sheer number of people who believed it. People I admire messaged to say how proud they were. Long-time customers congratulated me like I’d won something. A few even asked where they could buy the issue.

And that made me fee … well, a bit strange.

Part flattered. Part guilty.

Part like I’d accidentally stepped on something fragile.

But also - I actually felt seen.

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What it showed me, more than anything, is how easy it is now to blur truth in 2025. A well-designed post and a confident caption is all it takes. I could have actually just left it out there and come August 2026, the supposed release date, no-one would have remembered the original post! 

As the tools around us get smarter and reality becomes more editable, you can manipulate what people see, you can shape u what they believe. And if you’re not careful, you start doing it to yourself too.

That’s the bit I’ve been thinking about since posting it really. 

⸻

Because this wasn’t about fooling people.

It’s about how addicted we’ve all become to the idea of appearing successful, respected, important.

To likes. To shares. To the digital claps. And most of all to status, even the quiet kind.

And maybe that’s what I was probing with the fake article, without realising it. The line between recognition and performance is thinner than it’s ever been. The line between reality and satire is almost none existent. 

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But here’s the flip side and this part really stayed with me:

A lot of people saw the post and didn’t care if it was real or not.

They just liked that I’d made something good.

That it looked “cool”.

That it said something true.

That kind of support is rare. And I don’t take it lightly.

It reminded me that Mamnick isn’t just a brand. It’s a shared idea, about making things properly and telling stories, and not waiting for permission to do either.

The fake article was never meant to ‘trick’ anyone.

But maybe it did help reveal something real.

Thanks to those who messaged. And to those who knew it was fake - but clapped anyway. 

Inside the quietly defiant world of Thom Barnett and Mamnick — a brand built on British grit, outsider principles, and the ability to vanish from every industry dinner list at once.

By Reuben Drake | Photography by Craig Fleming: somewhere north of Bakewell

There’s a point, halfway up the Snake Pass, where your phone loses signal. Thom Barnett doesn’t notice. He’s too busy stuffing a packet of jelly babies into the pocket of a jacket he designed himself — black, no logos, made within ten miles of his house.

“This is the only meeting I’ve got this week,” he says, gesturing toward a lay-by and a cloud that looks like it’s thinking about raining.

It’s not posturing. The founder of Mamnick, a stubbornly British brand that makes everything from stainless steel bracelets to cycling jerseys and Japanese selvedge overshirts - really doesn’t do meetings anymore. Or press, for that matter.

“I’ve not been cancelled,” he says, deadpan. “Just ignored by people who clap at all the same things.”

Mamnick was never supposed to be a fashion brand. And if it is one, it’s an uncomfortable fit - like a tailor-made jacket worn to a Toby Carvery. Launched over a decade ago, it grew out of Barnett’s frustration with trend-chasing brands that outsourced production and faked provenance.

“They’d bang on about heritage,” he says, “then print it all in Portugal, run the ads in New York, and have some guy in East London pretend he’d just discovered fly-fishing.”

Instead, Barnett did the unfashionable thing. He started small. Made things in Sheffield. Used proper cloth. Told stories. He didn’t launch a "drop" - he opened a shop. He didn’t collab with influencers - he wrote about rivers and tench and his Grandad's fruitcake.

The result? A low-level cult following and a wardrobe full of quietly excellent pieces that wear in, not out.

Some call it northern Patagonia. Others say it’s what Nigel Cabourn would do if he lived above a chip shop. Barnett just shrugs.

“I make the stuff I want to wear,” he says. “Then I go yomping in it.”

“The real campaign is a bloke wearing the same shirt for six years.”

Ask around and people in the industry know of Mamnick - but not always for the right reasons. There are murmurs of political mischief. A refusal to “play the game.” One buyer allegedly called Barnett “uncooperative in a romantic way.”

“I think I’ve just got a suspicious face,” he says. “And I didn’t go to Central Saint Martins.”

He’s known for mocking corporate campaigns via what he calls anti-campaigns - dry, sometimes surreal takes on modern marketing. One recent post featured a vigilante called The Peel, foiling crimes in Sheffield with a banana and a Mamnick jacket. Another simply read:
“Our jacket is made in the UK and costs £165. Theirs is made in Portugal and costs £595. Now tell us who’s taking the piss.”

“I just think most of it’s bollocks,” he says, “and if you can’t laugh at bollocks, you’ll end up covered in it.”

Barnett’s outsider streak is most obviously personified by Stanley Malkin — a deadpan, illustrated character he invented to quietly parody outdoor culture. Stanley is over-prepared, underwhelmed, and obsessively geared-up.

He lives above a chippy. He once took a folding chair up Kinder Scout. He has a hydration vest for short walks.

“He’s not based on me,” Barnett insists. “But I do own the same fleece.”

Stanley has quietly become a cult figure, the kind of character who says everything about the Mamnick universe without saying much at all.

“He just gets on with it,” says Barnett. “That’s the point.”

These days, Barnett splits his time between designing collections, raising two sons (one newborn), running the shop, and occasionally riding out into Derbyshire to clear his head.

“I don’t know how people have time for long meetings about authenticity,” he says. “I’m just trying to get everything done before the school run.”

Family is baked into Mamnick’s identity, not in a marketing way, but in a “my kid designed the beans graphic on that mug” way.

“I want to build something they’ll be proud of,” he says. “Even if they don’t know what a ‘technical fleece’ is yet.”

There’s a paradox at the heart of Mamnick. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t network. It never applies for awards. But its customer base is loyal to the point of near-obsession. Many pieces sell out before they’re even posted. One of the bracelets had to be ordered by DM.

So how does that work?

“People know the real thing when they see it,” says Barnett. “Eventually.”
He pauses.
“Also, I reply to everyone who messages. That helps.”

There’s something about rivers—the way they wind through landscapes, carrying secrets in their flow, whispering tales only the patient can decipher. For years, I’d been chasing one such tale, or more accurately, the fish at its heart: the barbel. A fish of mythic reputation, sleek and strong, elusive as mist on a warming dawn. It wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d spent countless hours by this riverbanks, sometimes stalking and sometimes with rod in hand, watching the light shift on the water’s surface, feeling the tug of time itself as I waited. And waited.

But yesterday, it finally happened.

The day started like so many others. Early. The kind of early where the world is quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional murmur of birds waking up. My kit was already in the car before the sun had fully crept over the horizon—a ritual of preparation honed by years of routine. My rod, the reel, the bait; all checked and double-checked, as if precision alone could summon the barbel from its hidden depths. I was going over it all in my head the night before while sat in front of the TV the night before with my wife.

That morning, as I dropped my son at nursery, half-joking, I said, “If you give me a kiss, I’ll catch a fish today!” He obliged with a big grin, planting a kiss on my cheek. I smiled at the innocence of the exchange, not realising how those simple words would echo through the day.

The river was a familiar one, its bends and shallows mapped in my mind from endless visits. Yet, it never felt stale. Each trip brought something new throughout the year: the broken fence, the fallen tree, the streamer weeds in the shallows, the way the water’s colour shifted throughout the day. 

I set up near a bend where the current slowed and the water was deep - I've fishing this swim before and seen the fish it can produce. The bait and method was simple but deliberate—a chunk of luncheon meat (SPAM) on my hook length with hemp and my trusted Robin Red pellets as an attractor. As I cast, the familiar ritual unfolded. The soft “swish” of the line slicing the air, the quiet “plop” as it landed. And then, the wait. The movement of the quiver trip hypnotising me into what would actually become a short nap! 

Waiting is an art in itself. It’s not about impatience or the absence of action; it’s about being present. Listening to the rhythm of the water, feeling the tension in the line, sensing the subtle interplay between hope and reality. Yesterday, that balance tipped.

The first sign was a tremor in the rod tip—barely noticeable, like a breath held too long. Then, a more deliberate pull. My heart quickened, a sensation both familiar and exhilarating. I’ve had false alarms before, lines caught on debris or the playful nudge of smaller fish. But this was different. This was alive. A chub! A great start but not my chosen quarry. I put him back and started to build the swim again. 

2 hours later, half asleep - the strike came suddenly, forceful and uncompromising. My tackle was on it's way into the drink - I caught the rod and lifted it, the line tightening as the fish surged against it. And then, the battle began. Barbel are known for their strength, and this one lived up to the reputation. It pulled with determination, testing both my resolve and the limits of my gear. I like to fish light, to give the fish half a chance - it's only fair. The reel hummed as line peeled off, the rod arched, the connection between angler and fish stretched taut across the current.

Minutes felt like hours. Each turn of the reel, each surge of the fish, became part of a delicate dance. I could feel its power, the way it used the river’s flow to its advantage, the instinctive fight to break free. But slowly, steadily, the balance shifted. The fish tired, its runs shorter, its resistance waning. And then, with one final pull, I brought it to the shallows and into my net. I sat down and rested along with the fish for 5 minutes.  

There it was. My first barbel. Sleek and golden-bronze, its whiskered face almost otherworldly in its beauty. I knelt by the water, hands cold and trembling as I cradled it gently, the culmination of years of effort shimmering in my grasp. For a moment, time stood still. The world narrowed to just me, the fish, and the river’s quiet applause.

After a quick photo—not for bragging rights, but as a memory to hold onto—I lowered the barbel back into the water. It lingered briefly, as if acknowledging the encounter, before disappearing into the depths with a flick of its tail. I sat there for a while, the weight of the moment sinking in, the river’s whispers now carrying a note of fulfilment.

Catching that barbel wasn’t just about the fish. It was about the journey, the quiet mornings and the endless patience, the connection to a river that had become more than just a place. As I packed up my gear and walked away, I knew this wasn’t the end of the story. It was just one chapter, the river’s flow promising more tales yet to be told.

It's only a fish, it's all a bit silly and yet it feels like it means so much. Weird. 

Words and photos by Thom Barnett

Pike fishing, a practice steeped in tradition and lore, has long been regarded as one of the great pastimes of the working-class world. With it’s roots tracing back centuries, the pursuit intertwines history, craftsmanship, and an enduring relationship between man and nature. For Mamnick, a brand that strives to celebrate British-heritage and craft, the story of pike fishing is a fitting reflection of our brand-values - a timeless dedication to skill and patience. One I have been trying master every winter for the last 5 years. 

Origins & Early Traditions

Pike fishing as we know it today was born in the waterways of Northern Europe, particularly in Britain, Ireland, and Scandinavia. The pike itself—Esox lucius — is one of the most ancient freshwater predators, a species virtually unchanged for millennia. Its predatory instincts and power captured the imagination of early anglers, who sought both sport and sustenance from this formidable fish.

The earliest written accounts of pike fishing appear in medieval texts, such as The Treatyse of Fysshynge wyth an Angle (1496), considered one of the first comprehensive books on fishing. Pike, described as "a devourer of other fish," held a place of prestige. It was a delicacy on the tables of nobles and monks, and catching one was as much an act of ingenuity as well as a test of strength.

Historically, pike fishing tackle was crafted with precision and care, much like the tools and objects that Mamnick reveres. Traditional rods were made of ash or hazel, with lines spun from horsehair or silk. Lures were often hand-crafted, with feathers, metal, and bone used to mimic prey. Each piece of tackle bore the marks of the angler’s hand, making it as personal as the craft itself.

The practice of ‘dead baiting’, of which I am particularly fond of, and live-baiting developed alongside new methods like trolling in the 19th century. These techniques highlighted the angler’s resourcefulness, as they relied not only on tools but on an intimate knowledge of the pike’s habits and habitats. 

The Victorian Era

The Victorian era was a golden age for pike fishing. Advances in tackle design, including the introduction of split-cane rods and improved reels, elevated the sport. Pike fishing gained a reputation as a gentleman’s pursuit, with anglers traveling to renowned waterways like the Norfolk Broads, the Fens, and Scotland’s lochs. 

The practice became steeped in camaraderie and storytelling, with anecdotes of legendary catches shared in angling clubs and country pubs.

It was also during this time that the practice of conservation began to take root. Pike, once overfished in certain regions, were recognised as essential predators within their ecosystems. The Victorian angler, though focused on the thrill of the chase, often released smaller pike to ensure the health of the waters.

Modern Pike Fishing: Tradition Meets Innovation

Today, pike fishing blends tradition with modern innovation. While contemporary rods and reels offer unparalleled performance, the essence of the sport remains unchanged. Anglers still seek the same thrills as their forebears: the strike of a pike, the fight, and the moment of landing a fish (which hopefully is of considerable size!).

Fly fishing for pike, a relatively recent development, exemplifies this marriage of old and new (although I have never tried it). Using handcrafted flies designed to mimic the movement of prey, anglers celebrate a modern iteration of an ancient practice.

A Craft of Patience and Respect

Pike fishing, like all great crafts and other aspects of the sport, demands patience, respect, and an appreciation for the natural world. It teaches us to observe, to adapt, and to find satisfaction not just in the catch, but in the process. Hence one of my favorite quotes - "there is more to fishing than catching fish!"

For those who venture out in search of pike — whether on a misty canal morning or by the glacial waters of a northern lake — it is as much about connection as it is about conquest.

At Mamnick, we believe in the value of stories passed down through generations, of tools made to last, and of experiences that shape who we are. Pike fishing embodies these values, standing as a testament to the enduring beauty of craft and tradition.

Closing Thoughts

To hold a pike rod in hand is to hold history itself. My rods were gifted to me by the person who taught me how to catch fish and it’s this nod to the anglers who came before me that inspires and interests me. It’s nice to explore the waters they cherished, and to the find the fish that have tormented them. Whether you are a seasoned fisherman or someone who feels drawn to the romance of the pursuit, pike fishing offers a glimpse into a world where heritage and the present coexist — a world that I am constantly drawn to and one that Mamnick is proud to celebrate.

Words & Photos by Thom Barnett

The Charity Bike Ride isn’t anything new, but over recent years it has gained a new rise in popularity and I believe there is a stronger argument against them - one that I am going to try and convince you of here. 

During these high-times of mass social-media, the power to reach people far and wide, to convince them to donate money towards your chosen cause has never been easier. Websites are built with brands and people trying to raise their profile around the notion of ‘giving’.

On paper, it appears to be a win-win situation - on one hand you’re raising money for a good cause whilst on the other you get to ride your bike. So, what’s the problem? Can I submit that these rides are bad for cycling generally and furthermore, should not be supported or encouraged? 

Born out of the ‘Sponsored Walk’ model, the idea is that their participation is some kind of unsavoury ordeal - one of pain and suffering, hurt or stress. Donors give money to show their appreciation of the sacrifice of the willing participant, who has given up the comfort of their sofa for the sake of said cause. Without a doubt, both participants and donors get to feel extremely virtuous. 

The problem lies in the idea that by translating bike riding into a painful ordeal, it repackages something that is extremely fun, into something that is horrible and unsavoury. No-one would support a Charity ‘food-a-thon’, where you travel up and down England eating as much food as you like in posh restaurants. Nor would they donate money to a ‘Sun-A-Thon’ where you go on an excursion to the south of Spain, soaking up as much sun-lounger-time as possible. You’d think they were taking the piss and yet, we seem to accept these ‘Bike-A-Thons’. 

I’m a strong believer in the positive health benefits the bike can play in your life - such as mindfulness, exercise, meditation and weight-loss. So why are we repackaging the bike as something equal to bathing in a bath-tub full of cold baked beans?! Of course, cycling is gruelling but it’s also extremely enjoyable. You can get incredibly fit, lose a ton of weight, find a better space in your mind by just riding the bike recreationally. As a wise man once told me - the bike is “not a means to an end, it’s the end in itself”. 

Other Charity Ride advocates are now including their bike-tours as a way of “raising awareness”. Imagine riding across the entirely of the UK or Europe, for charity. It strikes me that this is the only way some men (and women) can justify doing a huge Yomp and get it past the wife! “I’m not going on the holiday of a life-time, love - I promise, I’m actually doing this to raise awareness of someone less fortunate than me!”. I recently saw someone begging for money to help pay for a ride around the UK because “they’re depressed”. Imagine me asking you for your hard earned money (especially during this cost-of-living-crisis) so I can take myself and my family off on holiday for two-weeks, to help with my “depression”.

If you want to introduce someone to the bike, and encourage them to take a path that will improve their life for the better, tell them to purchase a cost-effective and reliable bike, learn to pace themselves, take it for a few short rides to improve their road craft and let them feel the breeze around their legs - breathe in that cool fresh air. Enjoy the sights, listen to their breathing whilst they open up their lungs. Encourage them to visit places they have never been before, explore roads they’ve never seen. They’ll never look back and if they end up ‘Getting it’, I can assure you, they’ll never complain about the suffering of recreational cycling to anyone.

Words and photography by Thom Barnett

It’s taken me some time to sit-down and write this post and I actually feel quite embarrassed that the Journal has become somewhat neglected this past 12 months. It’s no excuse really, but after becoming a father on the 10th January 2023 - the last year has flown by and my work-load became somewhat challenging (in a good way!) to say the least.

In September of 2023, an opportunity arose for Mamnick to expand. 95 square-meters of space become available in our current HQ of Stag Works - a grade-2 listed building in the heart of Sheffield’s heritage quarter. Built in 1881 by a Henry Wigfall, Stag Works was once a fully working silversmiths and it has been Mamnick’s home since I started the brand in 2013.

We have now opened the doors to LOFT, our concept store - bringing the people of Sheffield (and our online audience) a selection of brands to compliment and sit-alongside Mamnick, as well as a series of events and pop-ups by other brands and artists that share our love of products and our famous ethos of doing “one thing at a time, as beautiful as possible” (you can even get your hair cut by our in-house barber).

So far we have hosted a variety of events including a pop-up with our friend and local potter Carla Murdoch, a knife-markers exhibition with Warren Martin’s ‘Master Class’, as well as solo shows for Graham Hutchinson (collage) and Nick Newman (painting).

I’m aware than a large part of our audience do not live in Sheffield, but with regular opening hours we hope that if you’re passing by you will drop-in and see what we are doing in Little Sheffield - it is fast becoming the centre of the universe!

So far it’s been a great success and I hope it will continue!

Thank you again for continued support and interest in my brand! I couldn’t do it without you.

Thom Barnett  

During my childhood, before I started getting whisps of light coloured hair on my face, during a time when my style looked like it had been cut and stuck straight from the pages of Kerrang! magazine, me and my mates would bomb-around on bikes. Usually BMX’s or single-speed bikes before upgrading as a teenage to a stiff mountain bike. Where I’m from, the bike was always the big present at Christmas, usually surrounded by what has become commonly known as ‘stocking-fillers’. During one Christmas, I remember the bike wasn’t there when I came down the stairs into the living-room at the early hours of one morning. My parents had managed to convince me that Father Christmas must have forgotten about it, only for it to magically appear at dinnertime, just as I started to put my bottom lip away. These were magical times, even if I didn’t realise it. I’m sure I did, but you see things clearer as you get older and your time becomes precious.

For some reason, I can’t really remember the seasons when I was a kid, I can’t remember it ever being 'too cold' to go out, we would be out, just knocking around in the woods, on “The Rec” (recreational ground) or down the big ginnel - away from everyone and everything. Whatever the weather, we were out. I look back fondly, every day was an adventure, you went with the flow and you never knew what was around the next corner. We were like flaneurs back then, before I knew what the word meant (we never knew how sophisticated we were!). Imagine that freedom to roam, knocking about on bikes, on tracks, building little jumps and dens and harassing the girls of the village - fantastics! You’d pay good money to do that now wouldn’t you? 

What we do now is the same (apart from chasing the girls!), maybe we’re too old to see it the same way, but we partake in the same activities to a certain degree. The only difference really being that we go further, we stay our longer and we eat better. Nowadays our daily duties keep us grounded but doing bike tours with your mates is the ultimate escape, the closest thing we’ve got to leaving our responsibilities as adults just for a few days - it reminds me of my childhood, when you’re deep into the second day of a tour, on the roads unknown, on top of a hill somewhere, through the ford, the places you can’t get to in a single-ride from your home, not knowing where you are and forgetting just as easily where you’ve just been - that’s the feeling you can’t buy!

Extra sensory perception.
A paranormal ability.
Telepathy & Hokus Pokus.
Watercraft.

I witness the surface and saw it fold. I found a delightful hole. A space that ‘screamed’ fish. The sub terrain under a tree that brushed and broke the waters surface. A gentle tow and breeze on a lazy summers day which put me to sleep for over an hour after a Granny Smith, my second of the morning. A soft wind pushed through the leaves and manoeuvred clouds into ideal conditions for a full-day of fishing.

We were the only two souls on the Great Pond; Myself and Sir. Charles. I was experimenting with and trying to master the Lift Method again. I have a desire to perfect it, not only for myself but to prove to The President that his teachings are being put to good use and not a waste of his valuable time.

I felt I knew they wanted a worm, presented on a small hook and light line. Two AA shots fell through the water and the quill followed my lines trajectory, before I delicately tighten up. The float, awkwardly cocked, looks wrong when compared to the perfectly dotted waggler, but to a purist and to those that really want to found out what is going on under the water, know that this is the perfect way to hunt for tinca. Simple critically balanced perfection. The natural buoyancy of a handmade quill-float wants to rise with the mouth of feeding fish and when it does, it’s game over for the doctor. I am certain that I will leave this pond as the victor today.

I set-up a temporary dinning table in a guesthouse and invited pisces from all around to come and munch on my free offerings. A paid buffet with a free bar. The banquet has started and you can see the bubbles rise up from a section of happy diners. I imagine they are smiling and I could put money on them having dinner around their chops. My restaurant is now officially open and I’ve fully awoken from my early afternoon snooze. My anti-reverse is on, everything poised to strike, my rod tip quivered and I have ditched my rod rests in favour of my knee. There is a feast taking place under a tree and everyone is invited. I am in direct contact with nature, when I move my rod tip the float sinks under the tension. I hold my breathe.

The odd grain of corn is introduced to entice and to catch the red eye of the Doctor. The entree is a consistent bed of carp pellets introduced like canopies on a wedding tray, and on top, the main course - a juicy wriggling worm. It sends vibrations through the water to the lateral line of the fish. Perch and tench eat confidently and I consistently torment them until the sun disappears behind the trees until we reluctantly admit that it’s time to pack-up and go home.

All words and photos by Thom Barnett

Pre-pandemic I asked Phil Axe "Do you think you could win the Nationals in the Dazzle kit?", he said he'd try but then we went into lock-down. 

Yesterday, that opportunity finally came around again and he did exactly what he set out to do, in emphatic style!

Taking advantage of a short climb on the course, not only did Phil catch the race in front, he passed them all and rode to an incredible solo victory before enjoying a cup-of-tea and driving us both back to Sheffield! (I've always admired humility in great cyclists).

I documented the day and below are the images which, I hope, tell the story of when Mr. Mamnick took flight in the baking hot Peterborough summer sun!

All words and photos by Thom Barnett 

June 16th is a special day in the anglers calendar and yet, the rivers always seem to be choked-up with weed on the first day of the river season. I had dreams about Barbus during the week leading up to this day, I even purchased a tin of hemp and pellets with a tentative plan to start the season as it ended, targeting barbel and chub. But, with little to no rain for weeks up here in the North, on the eve of Opening Day we decided the changed our plans (over a pint of Otter’s Claw!) to do something more traditional this summer.

Tench fishing is associated with the opening day of the coarse fishing season for good reason. In Bernards Venable’s book, ‘Mr. Crabtree Goes Fishing’, the Dad (Mr. Crabtree) teaches Peter (his son) how to catch Tinca Tinca. Ironically, our day mimicked that, with the MAC President Sir. Charles, using his years of expertise and watercraft skills to teach the young keen angling upstart (me!) a new technique ~ The Lift Method.

I’m convinced that fishing with a float is the act of mindfulness disguised as a boring sport (to those that it does not appeal). Those that do get it will understand the excitement of observing a float in still-water and today I’m using a peacock quill, handmade by The President himself. In a world suddenly full of long-range casting carp pyjama-wearing morons, fishing in this manner is the total opposite. It’s a very delicate and extremely simple (but effective) method, like much of ‘fooling fish’, there is little to gain in its over complication.

Starring at a float leaves room for the brain to drift away too, there is just enough happening to keep you focused and in the moment yet, seemingly very little action for a kind-of meditative hypnosis to occur. Imagine that your brain becomes something like a twirling-dervish. Some of my most creative moments happen during this time, in fact, I imagined a full-collection of angling t.shirts with the following slogans on the front …

1. ALL BREAM ARE GAY (FRENCH)
2. PERCH ARE NOT PUNKS
3. CARP ARE IRRATIONAL AF
4. TENCH ARE NOT DOCTORS
5. PIKE ARE DERANGED & SPOILT
6. BARBEL ARE HUMOURLESS TWATS
7. TROUT ARE SILLY BASTARDS

(please note. I am yet to decided whether to make these t.shirts, but I’m sure you will agree that they are truly wonderful!)

For the hook bait I used a single piece of (Aldi) sweetcorn, ledgered with just two SSG shots (1.6g). Ground bait is mixed into small balls and introduced onto a dinner-table sized area in the water. Not too much bait, but enough to get them sniffing around. (REMEMBER - “once you’ve put it in, you can’t take it back out”.) The float is cocked by slowly tightening your line up to the SSG shot. As fish start to sit around your banquet and proceed to dine, you witness the movements down in the mysterious depths by observing the float shake, knock and tremble. The most exciting part of the day being when the tench stumble across the dining table and you witness all sorts of micro-popping-fizzing bubbles near the float. At this moment, unless you lack soul, your heart will start racing a bit and you know it's only a matter of time!

Be patient and make this journey enjoyable enough that you're not bothered how long it lasts.

You only strike when the float rises, or floats away. Your rod is sat on two rod rests and your hand is resting over the trigger (your reel). I imagine myself as a cowboy in a quick-draw salon gun-fight to the death! (please note all fish are returned safely). 

Somewhere in-between todays obsession with fishing for big-carp and "bagging-up" at commercial fisheries, these lost and simple tactics of pleasure fishing are being ignored and are becoming less and less popular with modern anglers, which to me seems a real shame because tench do put-up what can be described as a spirited fight. The sudden dart into open water and their ploddy pulls on your line put a nice bend into the rod.

All things said, it’s great sport on a light/balanced tackle and who doesn't want to spend a summers day in the sun, sat by the flowering lily pads? 

Words and photography by Thom Barnett & Sir Charles Williamson