We were coming to the end of three nights camping at the ever‑lovely Tom’s Field in Langton Matravers, just outside Swanage. With lush green pitches and marauding sparrows and goldfinches busy in the brush, it’s a little slice of heaven.

This site has been the base for many a fishing jaunt in recent years. These days, though, I rock up with a much bigger tent and a boot‑load more clutter. Family in tow, of course – the weekend was full of tumultuous toddler fun (and very little fishing). We’d driven down on Friday and only had a minor argument putting the tent up. Saturday was a wander around Weymouth aquarium and town: the former, home to some ridiculously oversized gilthead bream and mullet, and the latter full of pensioners and fancy‑dress pirates. Charlie behaved impeccably in the aquarium, though I got scalded for prodding a snakelocks anemone in the ‘rockpool’ section. Probably deserved, but I’d kept them years ago in a native marine tank years ago and couldn’t resist. Sunday we trundled around Swanage in the heat, and soon enough it was Monday. 

I’d fully intended to do some light rock fishing in the early hours – trotting down the cooler coast paths, and casting some light jigs for mackerel and small wrasse. I’d even set a 04:30 alarm and rigged the rod the night before… But come the morning, I just didn’t have it in me. I unzipped the tent in slow motion and stepped out in my ‘pyjamas’. Campsite silence. A simmering orange dawn stretched over Swanage. I squinted east, yawned, then crept back into the camp bed, with no regrets. The weekend had been brilliant, but it had also kicked the shit out of me. My cup was already full, and I decided I’d take the few hours extra kip… Still, the rod sat ready across the back seat of the car. It would get its moment, it was just a case of when. There was one particularly colourful critter I fancied before we left – a fish that, for me, perfectly captures the light‑hearted spirit of LRF.

After breakfast, Charlie announced he fancied some crabbing. Mum sensibly opted for the charity shops, instead. Down at the quay, she took piddle pants to the toilets while I baited up and lobbed out a crab net stuffed with tinned sardines – PLOP! A short dropshot rig was then tipped with a 2cm sliver of drab coloured isome. The hook, a glittering red (and very trendy) Decoy SG‑3, was anchored by two swan-shot – which was just enough to bounce the bait through the three feet of clear water, between clumps of variegated and deep red dulse. Sans toddler, I was quickly fishing. Targets acquired: a gaggle of small corkwing wrasse were tucked beneath the shady overhang of the stone quay. As a couple of tiddlers pecked the bait, intermittently, I noticed a solitary spider crab edging towards the net. Right on cue for Charlie’s return, the crab bimbled straight in. “Good timing, Charlie… Pull!”. Much theatrical groaning followed as a palm‑sized spider crab was hauled up. Spikier, leggier, and bigger than the usual green shore crabs, the entirety of the quay were enthralled for all of thirty seconds.

Charlie set about practising his net lobbing technique… Once I was confident he wouldn’t follow it in, I picked the rod back up. Among the corkwing harem, one larger male was skulking around – he was confident, but cautious, and clearly suspicious of the strange offering on the low tide. A couple of mid‑sized males backed him up, alongside half a dozen tiny opportunists with eyes bigger than their bellies. One eye on the bait and one on the apprentice crabber, a mid-sized male hen-pecked the bait before nailing it – and spat the hook! “Well, turd” I muttered, providing a full commentary for Charlie, of course.

Back out the worm went, and it swung into a crease in the rockery. Another take, a sharp strike, and the hook found a hold. “He’s making a break for it, Charlie… Hold on tight.” A short lift, a couple of winds, and a skittering corkwing was soon in hand. “Are you kidding me!?” Charlie exclaimed – a new phrase this weekend. The corkie was a miniature beauty, as they all are: with luminous teal across the cheeks, and flanks of rusty claret. I showed Charlie his nibblers and he promptly stuck a finger in its gob – no harm done. The fish was briefly cradled, admired, and splish splashed back. A bit like the freshwater perch, the humble corkwing feels like a rite of passage – a fish every young angler should meet. Full of character, and always a joy.

And the toddler? We’ll make a rock fisher of him, yet… He might not have the patience for it right now, but he throws a mean crab net – I’ll give him that.

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