Popped on a new bait and positioned it in the mouth of the canal again. By now the sun had completely disappeared to my right and the moon was rising to my left. The temperature had started to drop, so it was on with the coat to supplement the fleece I'd had on until now. As the moon rose higher it started to cast shadows along the bank and I was contemplating packing up when the drop off on the left hand rod jerked slowly in staccato fashion up to the reel and then stopped. Pulled the line out of the clip and then felt the line pull steadily through my fingers. Wound down to.....fresh air! The bait was still on the hook, but was almost completely scaleless. Cast out to the same spot and the bait had only been in a few minutes when the drop off began its jerky, upward dance once more, but again there was no satisfying weight on the end of the line when I wound down and the rig came back minus bait.
Something down there was taking the mick out of me! Put out a fresh deadbait and hovered expectantly over the rod, waiting for the bite alarm to sound. However, when a couple of sharp "bleeps" disturbed the silence, it was the other rod that showed some indication of interest. After feeling the line pulling through my fingers, I tentatively wound down, desperately trying to feel what was happening on the other end of the braid. However, yet again, my subsequent strike met with nothing and I skimmed an empty rig back across the surface. Put another bait out, but half an hour later I'd not had any further interest and packed up, contemplating a frustrating session. Whilst these "phantom" runs are not a new phenomenon on the river and could be casually attributed to eels, I couldn't help feeling on this particular occasion that I'd been chasing ghosts!