Brean Beach Evening Bass Fishing

With no real plan other than to decompress, we arrived early in the tide on what can only be described as a picture-perfect evening. The kind that makes you pause for a second before setting up — just to appreciate how good the world looks when it slows down.

I’d picked up some lug from Reel Fun earlier that day. Although I’ve not yet written myself off just yet, my back has long since made it clear that digging bait is a young man’s game. Martin brought along some squid with visions of a passing ray taking interest. Between us, we had everything we needed: simple rigs, sharp hooks, and just enough ambition to keep it interesting.

I fished a three-hook flapper on one rod with size 2s, and a pulley Pennel on the other rigged with a pair of 1/0 Varivas Aberdeen hooks. They’re a beautifully engineered hook — sharp as a whisper, but strong enough for a surprise lump. A light northeasterly breeze kissed the beach and the tide was a peach — just over 10 metres — ideal for Brean, in my opinion.

The leads were plain, because when the sea is kind, there's no need for grip wires. It also makes for a gentler retrieve over the rippled sand seabed that’s typical here. Lead wires, especially if they don’t trip out, have the uncanny knack of digging in and out when winching the gear in, so I try and avoid them when conditions allow. 

As the tide crept in, I dropped my baits into a few inches of water, then walked both rods back to the tripod, lines gently tightening, with some assistance, as the sea took hold. For a while, the world felt timeless.

About an hour in, I noticed a positive short pull on the three-hook rod. Nothing dramatic — just a suggestion, a nudge. It had “sole” written all over it. I let it be for a bit, hoping patience would be rewarded.

Soon after, the right-hand rod’s tip lifted, then dropped slack. Instinct took over. Even from what must have been 250 yards out, I wound down to some resistance — the kind you hope for. There’s no rushing in these situations though, you’re aware that you’re on small hooks, but there are no snags, and so you take your time. After what felt like an age of pumping and winding, a black back and silver flash appeared, zig-zagging in the shallows, unmistakable and always exhilarating: a bass. She cruised in through the muddy water like a ghost, all muscle and confidence. I slid her up the beach, took a few photos bathed in golden light, and gently returned her to the sea. I’ve probably caught over thirty ‘keepable’ bass so far this season, and kept two, so I’d like to think I’m playing my part in the conservation game. 

Buoyed by the catch, I reeled in the other rod — this time to find a small conger had gotten involved. Its unwelcome contribution: a thoroughly slimed rig and a few muttered curses from me. When you envisage the perfect form of a sole and you get this, there are few things more frustrating. Meanwhile, Martin had quietly landed and released a small ray, keeping things ticking along nicely.

Fishing slowed for a good while — not a sniff on either rod. But that was fine. Sometimes, it's not about what’s biting, but what you're shedding with each slow wave: stress, worry, the dull repetition of the daily grind.

Then, once again, the right-hand rod tip pulled a little and slackened. The second bass of the evening. Another sleek, stunning fish that made all the quiet waiting worthwhile. Martin was kind enough to play photographer.

The beach remained largely ours until three other anglers appeared to the south, but they kept their distance and didn’t disturb the mood. We all shared the space like silent comrades in a temporary brotherhood of rods and rising tide, occasionally marching the tackle back up the beach.

As the water advanced and the sun began its slow descent, holidaymakers wandered down to the shoreline, some intrigued by the rods, others just content to chase the last of the day’s warmth and marvel at the tide that had been absent on the beach throughout the day.

Moments later, Martin requested that I return the favour. “Your turn,” he said, grinning as he clutched a beautiful yet incredibly pale looking thornback ray. It was the perfect way to round out a three-hour session that gave us far more than just a few fish. Sand hoppers danced around our discarded scraps of bait and we even spotted the silhouette of a fox in the fading light.