Fish soup.

As a slight diversion from my rut I slipped off the A149 just before the crawler lane and into the chocolate box village in the shade of an ancient willow and a copper beech where the kids and parents stopped to wonder on the away home from school. "Why's that man fishing? Why isn't he at work?" No the Essex Scribbler wasn't there, he was off on his tour of Germany via France  and Belgium. And yes, I had TOIL. 

It's just what Brian from http://www.pikeblog.com recently described as fish soup.

The meaty chunks in the soup virtually crawl up the duck and geese cropped grass to get at a bait.
In half an hour I'd landed 7 and pricked and lost slightly less. Nothing of any size but game scrappers to the last. In this case the bait was a smaller pre-drilled spicy sausage pellet but they'd have taken anything.

You get the idea. A couple of hours tops is all you need to be honest.

Slipped straight back in the rut again though once chores done. And got my nose well and truly rubbed in it. Quick reward in the shape of a rather tame bream with a gob full of my bait.

Then a horrendous run of five, yes five lost tench in a mad half an hour. All hook pulls, one at least foul hooked, if only briefly. Tench do have very, very tiny scales. Wine was certainly taken on return to barracks. Think the sentry knew to turn a blind eye.