I am an average angler, truly.
That’s not to say I’m unhappy about it but life’s competing pressures never leave me the practice time I’d like. There have been victories along the way but there has been a monkey in my rucksack for thirty odd years and, in recent years, when I put the bag down he clearly snuck out, stuffed it full of bricks and escaped.
I’ve only ever caught two barbel in my life. Both from (whisper it) stillwaters. Before the ink on the arrest warrant dries, I should add both were completely accidental and taken while tench fishing. There you have it, my very own barbel Hoodoo Voodoo curse…and, on guitar, Jimi Hendrix.
The last few months of 2013 were a time of upheaval and loss for me and I vowed that 2014 would be better and this would be reflected in my fishing. I mentioned to my great friend Tim that I wanted 2014 to be better for both of us.
In early May of this year Tim asked me if I’d like to go barbel fishing, under his tutelage. Is the Pope a Catho…never mind, it took about a quarter of a second to hear myself saying “yessssssss….” A wee while later, Tim mentioned it would be to the mighty River Wye and we decided on opening day and the day following. I was nervous I have to admit and I knew that the worst case was I’d come away still sans barbel but was I going to strain a friendship in doing so?
The appointed Sunday afternoon duly arrived and Tim pitched up, he was buzzing – we both were – but still the nagging doubts remained. The journey began and the excited chatter broke out…as the miles wore on one thing I did find interesting was that highwaymen are not dead and gone as I thought; they have reinvented themselves and taken over the second Severn crossing, it was an experience I guess but then so is going to the electric chair…
After a brief sojourn with Ivor the Engine country, we arrived in Herefordshire where the paint on the roads ran out about fifteen miles short of our destination. The roads got narrower and narrower and eventually culminated in Tim driving his ancient but loyal servant of a van around the edge of what looked like a working cornfield. Could this be right? Suddenly the river came into view and it looked like K2 would do to a Sunday rambler; this was not good, I’d never catch.
After pitching tents and establishing base camp in a flaky but endearing wooden fishing hut, we had a look at the river. It was a monster, “It’s a man’s river” Tim noted, “Not this man’s” I thought.
Opening day morning arrived and we made our way to the river. You think High Street banks are bad but these were evil, and after carefully inching my way down dewy grass I impaled a cube of Spam that would concuss anything it hit onto a hook that should have been on a stick and in the hands of a Liverpool docker and line that a tugboat captain would have approved of! My actual set up was, in fact, a 1.75lb Wychwood Specimen barbel rod, a Fox 7000 EOS reel and a size 4 Drennan Super Specialist hook on 12lb line.
The Spam plonked in at exactly 5.30am and ten minutes into the new season the tip wanged round and a 3lb chub was soon in my landing net; just over an hour later a 4lb chub also arrived.
It was at 8.30am that it happened.
Tim suggested I relocate the bait and in the half second I took my eyes off the tip, the dropback occurred. Tim saw it but said nothing. I picked the rod up to solid resistance. Unlike the chub, this fish didn’t make straight for the tree roots immediately to my right, it just plodded strongly in the current. Could it be? It had to be, surely? I daren’t hope but after ten minutes or so I saw the gold flank of a barbel rise to the surface. I let out a huge involuntary “Yessssss…..” Tim laughed and then netted it. It went 5lb 8oz, not massive but my favourite thing on Earth at that moment.
Tim had to go away for several hours and, after a couple of hours’ siesta, I carried on – using maggots. I had six more chub, six dace, a couple of perch and a zillion salmon parr. No more barbel showed, but it didn’t matter. After Tim returned, we sat up until the small hours drinking tea and discussing the day. Eventually, the day had to end; I could have woken next day on a colony of fire ants and still be smiling. How could day two get any better?
In short, it couldn’t and wasn’t.
I couldn’t get the Spam to stay on the hook, in fact bait-wise, I had more escapees than Ford Open Prison; it wasn’t going to be my day and I just knew it. I thought I’d go and see how Tim was doing when his voice happily announced he’d hooked into a lump on the float. I carefully climbed the bank and watched as the fish surged time and again, making seven or eight trips to the net before finding energy and determination at the last second. Eventually, it tired sufficiently to be netted and it was a stunning, beautiful fish of around 8lb. Tim sang a quickly made-up ditty about a barbel on the float and I had to agree, it looked fantastic.
Tim then said he was going to take a break and go to the shop (some six miles away), I asked for Coke and he invited me to test drive his float rod. I had a few trots through but it just didn’t feel right and that was when I saw his Daiwa Infinity 1.75lb tc attached to a Preston PXR 4000, with a cage feeder. I crammed the groundbait in after impaling another lump of Spam and hoofed it the fifty yards or so into the gulley where my mentor advised me Bertie was waiting. (Fully to the gulley, old boy…)
Sometimes, I do wonder if there is some great spiritual masterplan as nothing happened for an hour and then my mentor Obi Wan (if you’re only meant to drink one, would they sell them in six packs?) reappeared with beer and Coke in hand. I opened a Coke and, as it was a hot day, drained it by about two thirds in about five minutes. Then the tip spanked round – strike and solid resistance – here we go.
Tim went into ‘coach’ mode and talked me through every second of the fight but strangely enough for me, I never felt in any danger of losing the fish and after a titanic struggle, he netted it – all 7lb 8oz of it. I had to pinch myself – “Scousers will pinch anything”, Tim reminded me; it was the best line of the day so far and I emerged from my stunned state for a few seconds to laugh.
Feeding spells often apply and I should get back out there, Tim advised. More pudding and more Spam soon made the fifty yard dash. The tip settled long before I did and after a short time, smashed around again. Once again, solid resistance. How much was I enjoying this? Living someone else’s life and luck for a day?
After another battle of attrition, the fish was eventually landed and, although a different fish, was exactly the same weight as the previous one. I was really enjoying myself now and absolutely delighted, beaming and chattering like a woodpecker with a road drill.
Yet another bite… but this one took me into an unknown snag and after a real old tussle, I eventually landed six inches of tree branch. No worries. C’est la vie.
It was around this point that something occurred to me; Tim and I had had a number of discussions about barbless hooks and their use for barbel on rivers. I insisted that barbed hooks were an absolute must but the penny had dropped – I’d landed two sevens on barbless – I have to change. End of. (Nooooooooooo…Never! You could live to regret that Phil! Ed)
The next cast was when the world turned upside down. Like Alka Selzer the tip went plink, plink, fizzzzzzzz…and I hit into a fish which, unlike the previous, I could feel jag-jag-jag. In fact it had more jags than John Prescott. Tim had previously mentioned this was a characteristic of big fish. I didn’t panic; by now I was enjoying life far too much and Tim reminded me not to panic with, seemingly, every second sentence.
The nerves held and so did the landing net and Tim hauled it up with the words “This could go double” – that was when my throat dried, I just couldn’t believe it. The scalesman’s return was 9lb 7oz. Disappointed? Not a bit of it. Plenty of better people than me go lifetimes without catching a double. Did I deserve one with just my sixth fish? Not a chance. As the song says “You Just Haven’t Earned It Yet, Baby….” Stunned? Oh yeah, stunned, stunned again, revived with cold water and re-stunned. Big time.
After another hour or so, some atom of intuition told me that was it. Reading my mind, Tim simply said “They’ve switched off”. I took a break for an hour or so and walked back to the hut to compose my thoughts.
I returned an hour or so later to find Tim bolo float fishing maggots having just returned a 5lb 8oz chub. I was delighted that some reward had come his way and I watched him land a succession of small chub and perch until the light faded.
To cap a perfect day we both witnessed an amazing sunset, straight from Turner’s watercolours. That was it; we packed up the following day and made our way home. I began to see why people fish solely for barbel – what amazing creatures but a lot less amazing than a modest man who gave up his opening day morning to call a halt to my barbel stress. I can’ thank Tim enough, I’ll never live long enough.
One final lesson, I met Tim via FishingMagic. Next time you’re on the forum, be nice – you could just find a friend who might just make things a whole lot better.
