An unexpected Sole Session on the Bristol Channel

I arrived at one of my regular venues with a plan — but not the usual one. Whilst this area is familiar ground, I had my eye on a particular spot I’d never fished before. It’s the kind of mark I’ve walked past dozens of times, always wondering, What if? But like most anglers, I tend to stick with what I know. Comfort and confidence are powerful, and the Bristol Channel isn’t exactly forgiving when you get things wrong.

But on this day, I fancied a change. The tide looked decent, the wind was in my favour, and there was no one else around. The whole venue was deserted — a blank canvas. And when the sea gives you that kind of space, sometimes you just have to roll the dice.

I chose a gulley nestled between a section of rougher ground that I’d always suspected might hold fish, but especially flatfish. Dover sole, in particular, were on my mind. They’re not a species I chase often these days — but they hold a special place in my heart. Around the early 2000’s, I’d developed something of an obsession for them and every trip out was made in pursuit of this prized flatfish. And for some reason, this felt like the right moment to target them once more. Was it a little early in the year? Yes, but if you don’t try, you don’t know. 

Reading the Water

As I set up and waited for the flooding tide, I took a closer look at the terrain around me. A long, narrow gulley cut between two outcrops of rock sat some sixty or so yards to my left — a classic fish-holding feature, perfect for ambush predators and flatfish alike. It screamed potential.

I sat there mulling it over. Do I move now? Or stay where I’d already unpacked my gear in the more familiar spot?

It was a gamble, but that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?

I gathered my made-up rods, seat box, and all the usual clobber, and shifted to the gulley. This session was quickly turning into an open book — part instinct, part experiment. One thing I have learnt over the years is to follow your gut. It wont always serve you well, but it’s only through failure that we learn. This was after all an experiment, and in a few hours time I’d know whether it was worth it….

My rigs were straightforward but reliable: pulley rigs with 2/0 Varivas Aberdeen hooks, baited up with big fresh ragworm and blow lug. I prefer larger baits for sole on the Bristol Channel — especially over mixed ground. The fish here run big and they’ve no trouble dealing with larger presentations. In fact, I’ve found that smaller hooks can often lead to missed bites. 

The first cast landed neatly into the mouth of the gulley — maybe 60 yards out. The second rod went in more randomly, just to cover additional ground. The water was rapidly encroaching and I picked up both rods on the tripod and shuffled back. 

It didn’t take long before I noticed a positive nod on the rod tip, then slack line. Classic sole bite. I gingerly put a little tension on the line, held the rod and waited. This is the time for that great patience that anglers are famed for and after an eternity (it was actually four minutes on my watch) I wound down into it and immediately felt weight, followed by a surprisingly energetic fight. For a second, I thought it might be a bass. But as I brought it into view, I was greeted by the sight of a perfect Dover sole — broad, thick across the back, and easily over 2lb.

These fish are truly something special. Magical even. The kind of fish that lingers in your memory. John (fishing further along the coast) popped over to do the camera honours as I slipped the hook free. A dream start.

When Plans Go Sideways

Naturally, I started thinking, This is going to be a red-letter day.

But if you’ve fished the Bristol Channel for long enough, you know not to count your chickens.

The next cast on the gulley rod gave another promising tap-tap bite followed by a slow pull. I imagined another sole, wouldn’t that have been the perfect start, a brace of beautiful Dover’s on the first two casts, but what came in was a thornback ray. A good one — but not quite what I’d hoped. A few minutes later, another ray followed. Nice to catch, sure. But not quite the headline act. I do enjoy catching these fish, but I can see the frustration some local anglers speak of when they’re targeting species they personally deem more worthy. 

Then came the chaos.

I was turned away from the rods, sorting out bait, when I heard that unmistakable sound — line pouring off the reel, drag screaming. I turned just in time to watch the rod leave the tripod, smashing to the ground. One of the guides shattered on impact. I can’t remember the last time this happened, but I wont lie, it did pee me off!

Now, I always keep the clutch loose when waiting for a hound run whenever my back is turned or away from the rods, but this fish hit like a freight train, fast and out of nowhere. Thankfully, the rod still functioned, in that the rod guide was complete in the bottom half where it mattered, and the fish was on. For the next minute or so, The fish ran towards me fast and I kept winding to keep the line tight. The fish surged just a few yards from the edge, then suddenly turned and charged directly in the opposite direction. It took me by surprise to be honest and in truth, I wasn’t quick enough with the drag. And just as I got a good look — a solid smoothhound, likely around 15lb — it kicked its tail and the hook pulled. I don’t need to tell you the language that followed. A damaged rod and a pulled hook is enough to make anyone shout a little and I will admit to muttering the C word under my breath more than once. The glory of that sole had been tainted just an hour or so later.

With the damaged rod out of action, I grabbed my spare, swapped over the reel, and got back to business. No sulking here, honest.…

Next cast, I was rewarded with a scrappy conger eel — always good sport, even if not a crowd favourite. Then a tidy little bass, followed by a final surprise as the tide began to fade: a silver eel, a species that was abundant in my childhood but now rare as hen’s teeth. This one was fat, around 1.5lb in weight and a real treat to see. There was a time when they were detested for their ability to tangle rigs and ball them up with slime, but they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. 

As I packed away and stared at the broken guide on my rod that took a tumble — one of my favourites, now headed for a repair from the legend that is Dai Llewellyn — I asked myself a few questions:

Would I have caught that Dover sole if I’d stayed put?
Would I have hooked that powerful smoothhound and put one of favourite Anyfish Anywhere rods out of action?
Would the session have been anything like as memorable?

Probably not.

That’s the thing with sea angling — it rewards adaptability, risk-taking, and observation. Sometimes. Playing it safe might be comfortable and predictable, but it rarely leads to the most memorable sessions.