Episode III: The Barbel Strikes BackA long time ago, I am haunted by the memory of the time I overslept for an early start to catch a ferry to Ireland. I awoke with a jolt to the sound of my mate’s car drawing up outside the garden gate at six in the morning. It took me ten minutes to dress and get into the car, but it took an hour an a half for my nerves to return to normality. I’ve never forgotten that feeling; consequently I’ve suffered a disturbed night’s sleep with premature awakenings every hour since midnight. I finally decide to wake up ten minutes before the alarm is due to go off, and climb out of bed hoping not to disturb Sue. Today we are making our third trip to the River Swale in search of the majestic barbel. Glen is carrying a slight limp after his fall last year but enthusiasm levels are high despite the knowledge that after approximately ninety-nine hours of fishing, over two years, we have the stunning total of one barbel and three chub for our troubles! In complete contrast to the previous two years, I have made thorough and complete preparation for the trip. I’ve watched loads of ‘Total Fishing’ programmes on the telly and I have discovered a fantastic web site called FishingMagic where anglers discuss current methods and tactics; articles are written; help and advice is freely offered albeit with a liberal dose of humour. There is one particular contributor who has earned my deepest admiration. If I was in the film “The Karate Barbel” then Sean Myagi (everyone knows that Meeghan is pronounced Myagi in Japan) would be my Sensei. He has written the best collection of articles I’ve ever read on the subject of fishing for barbel on Yorkshire waters. Never mind “Wax On – Wax Off!” it’s 8mm banded pellets, short braid hook-links and knotless knots all the way.
We arrive earlier than expected on Sunday morning and find our way straight to Fish’N’Things tackle shop in town. Jim has been expecting us and quickly puts us on to Fawdington, a stretch of the River Swale downstream from Cundall. He tells us that he has only sold two tickets for the stretch and there are over forty pegs. He suggests some of the best swims; we buy some maggots and day-tickets and set off back up the road for supplies from the petrol station at Morrison’s. We manage to get some pop, crisps and a sandwich but I notice that Glen has a plastic bag holding the tell-tale dark contours of Mars bars and Snickers. Travelling straight to the venue, we empty the car of tackle; even with his dodgy ankle Glen is first to the river and chooses a swim which is at the bottom of a surprisingly steep bank. Micky selects a shallow, rapid section below Glen that Jim has recommended. I’m the last to pick a swim so I opt for one a hundred metres downstream that I fished briefly and unsuccessfully last year. Confidence is a funny thing; all my new tactics, new baits, and new knots should fill me with it, but for some inexplicable reason there are huge sacks of doubt at the back of my mind. In one of Matt Hayes’s programmes he tells Mick Brown about his ‘time-bomb’ method of feeder fishing the Severn for barbel. I had decided a while ago that this is how I’m going to approach today but the minute I cast out the feeder full of marine halibut ground bait mix I’m struck instantly that it’s the wrong thing to do. It might work on a big midlands river but the Swale requires a lot more finesse. What little confidence I have is flushed away by the realisation that I’ve probably ruined the swim – I get like this sometimes! I cast out about five or six times more before wandering up the bank to have a chat with Micky. I can’t say I like the look of his swim, very shallow and fast, but there are some great looking willows on the far bank that could hold fish. After ten minutes chat we head upstream to see Glen. It’s quite a scramble to get down the bank, how the hell did Glen get down with his limp? He is catching gudgeon and small chub in a back eddy from the main stream. Suddenly, he’s into something a bit bigger, it’s an eight ounce perch; the first perch we’ve seen for three years. We’ve only been fishing for an hour and a half and already Glen is three-nil up in the species race! It’s a nice looking swim with plenty of options, eddies, fast glides and some slower water down the near bank. He’s not having all his own way though, he has somehow managed to break all his stick floats with dodgy old float rubbers, and his catapult has snapped! After lunch I have settled into a new swim with more confidence, a willow about twenty metres downstream on the nearside and a steady flow with seven or eight feet of water. Micky has established himself into a very similar looking swim a couple of pegs upstream. Opposite us there are two Geordies fishing for pike with enormous baits! Every now and then there is a massive whoosh followed by a large splash as they cast in the dead bait. They’ve been noisy all afternoon. When they pack up they have a big row about what they’re going to do with the spare bait before noisily chucking the leftover herring and mackerel in!
Despite the move the bigger fish are not showing themselves and we pack up at about six thirty.We arrive at our pub about 7.30pm and check in. The place has been smartened up, new carpets and a coat of paint. No sign of the new landlord, or his wife. The girl behind the bar shows us to our rooms and we agree to meet up immediately for a quick drink. It’s Sunday evening and the bar is quite busy. I get the distinct impression that we are at least five or six pints behind everyone in the place! And probably a few brandies! There is a group of young lads, with close cropped hair, over by the fruit machine. I can’t help noticing one who has a plaster over the bridge of his nose. He looks a bit tough, a broken nose! I try and avoid eye contact.Further along the bar there is an odd assortment of drinkers; an old guy in an England shirt; a middle aged couple both drinking pints; a badly dressed tractor driver having a quick one before he returns home to get on with the milking! Micky insists we have a second drink before we go upstairs to shower prior to going out to find something to eat; he’s made sure we have got off at a cracking pace. After eating out in Boroughbridge we make our way back to our pub, but we decide to pop in to a hostelry near the bridge for a quick one to see what it’s like. As we enter the bar everyone stops talking, turns round and stares at us. I feel like we’ve walked into an epic moment from a sixties TV Western: a piece of tumbleweed drifts across the floor; the barmaid has stopped drying glasses; a dog barks then the piano starts playing again and people return to their conversations. Boldly, I go to the bar for some drinks, a potentially hazardous operation. The barmaid has strange bulging eyes, like someone with a serious thyroid condition. I’m trying not to be fixed by her stare in case I’m turned to stone or something as I order our drinks. Back at the table we discuss the day’s fishing and start to draw diagrams on some beer mats. We are being watched closely from the bar, we’ll have to be careful, drawing and writing things are probably associated with witchcraft by the locals! Finishing our drinks we head back for a nightcap. We’ve been transported from the sixties western saloon to Tom Cruise’s 80s film Cocktail. At the bar it’s clear that the party has continued unabated; broken nose has his shirt off; the middle aged couple are still drinking pints but with brandy chasers; and the new landlord has turned up. Everywhere people are smashed! There is a very drunk lady sinking half-pints of brandy, lurching around the room, swearing violently. The lads are all taking their shirts off and they have put the juke box on loud. I’ve always been a fan of seedy, chaotic bars but this seems a bit extreme for a Sunday night. I wonder if Happy Hour has overrun a bit with the landlord being away. We drink up and head off to our rooms hoping for a good night’s sleep. As I put my head on the pillow the thud thud of deep bass on the juke box obliterates my tinnitus as I drift off into a bad dream where I’m being assaulted by two Geordies with kippers, in a bar full of drunken, inbred halfwits while Micky forces pints of bitter down me and Glen watches on, eating Mars bars!. |
Welcome!Log into your account
