Delighted On The Dove

But an operation on her hip delayed the trip a little, but yesterday we finally got around to it, although it was touch and go whether we bothered, for the heavy rain over the previous 24 hours or more was sure to push the river level up and bring down all the crap that a first flood always does. It wouldn’t be the extra water that would beat us, but the rubbish that would be forever fouling the line.

Wendy – Delighted on the Dove

It was coming down in sheets from the minute I met her at lunchtime off the M6 and still lashing it down when we arrived at the river. All the way there I was trying to steel her for the possible (probable!) disappointment of not being able to fish, for I was convinced that the river would be practically unfishable. And the last thing we should do is introduce someone to river fishing in the worst conditions. It could put them off for life. So I was preparing her for the worst all the way there, but telling her that we would have another go soon, when the river had settled down again.

As we pulled into the car park another angler, the only other one on the river, was just leaving.

“No good eh.” I said.

“No, it’s not bad at all really, I’ve had one barbel and one chub.”

Yippee! It felt like a massive weight had been lifted off us, and we practically scampered off along the track to the river.

I could hardly believe it. They couldn’t have had anywhere near the amount of rain along the Dove than we’d had back home. It was up a foot or two, but the colour was spot-on, and the amount of weed coming down was nowhere near as bad as I’d suspected.

So I chose a swim I’d fished before and told Wendy that the best thing to do was for me to set up my tackle and feed the swim, showing her and explaining to her what I was doing, and why, as we went along. And then I would try to catch a barbel so I could show her how to get them out of snags.

This is where I was being unfair really, because it’s usually enough for someone to catch their first barbel from snag-free water. But on the plus side was that I was confident that I could catch barbel from this swim which I had fished several times before, and that the fish were unlikely to be bigger than 5lb to 6lb, which is a nice size for a barbel-beginner to catch. What made it easier was that Wendy was a willing pupil, listening to what was being said with a great eagerness to learn. If she did exactly what I told her she’d be okay.

We were fishing down to an overhanging tree whose trailing branches and roots had formed a massive raft. I knew there was usually a few chub and a nest of barbel, perhaps half a dozen fish, that usually lived there, coming out to play and feed occasionally, most often after dark. This was mid-afternoon though, so we had to be the uninvited guests and visit them in their home.So I fed in a few handfuls of mixed pellets, broken boilies and whole 14mm boilies, and then set the rod up with a 12lb main line, 10lb Sufix Invisiline fluorocarbon hooklength to hair-rigged size 6 hook. The lead was a fixed 1/2 oz bomb. I would normally use a much heavier bomb to make the rig more self-hooking, but in this instance I needed a lighter lead so that the rig and bait could be cast to the outside edge of the bush and be light enough to then roll under it.

I threaded a 14mm boilie onto the hair and then covered it with a wrap of paste made from the same material as the boilie, which was Activ-8.

Nice chub for the Dove at 4lb 15oz

But I still hadn’t hooked a barbel and been able to show Wendy the brute force tactics that were needed to remove and then keep, barbel out of snags. But we didn’t have long to wait. A half hour or so after the chub was caught the rod lurched round to a vicious bait that couldn’t have come from anything else but a barbel. That bend was increased to an alarming arc that had the corks creaking under my fingers. And from that moment I had to keep up a running commentary for Wendy so that she would know exactly what to do if and when she hooked one herself. It was her turn next.

In a breathless, grunting-with-the-effort voice, I said, “at this stage you just have to keep the rod bent as much as it will bend. The drag is tightened up and you don’t give an inch. Forget about breaking off or the hookhold giving. Get that completely out of your mind, for if you even consider it, then the barbel will win. It’s not too bad really at this stage because the barbel hasn’t been given the space to make a run and gain some acceleration. See, it’s clear of the tree now, but this is where the fun starts, for they seem to know that once they’re three or four yards clear of the snag they have the space they need to achieve the speed to beat you.”

Just then the tightened drag screeched as the barbel plunged for the tree. But I was ready for it.

“See what I mean? If I hadn’t been ready for it, it would have made it, but, see, I’ve clamped my hand over the spool to stop it slipping and it’s clear again. It’s come well clear now so it should be plain sailing from here.”

All the time the fight was being played out all I could here behind me was, “Jesus! Oh my god! I’ve never seen a rod bend like that! It’s going to break! Oh Jesus! Oh god!” Repeated over and over and mixed with the odd expletive.

Wendy expertly netted the fish and I was treated to another barrage of exclamations: “Oh god, what a beautiful fish. Oh my god, isn’t it gorgeous. Oh, look at those fins. Ee, what a fish!”

It weighed 7lb 2oz and it was a nice fish, in good nick and none the worse for being caught. It swam off with a contemptuous flick of its tail.

Now it was Wendy in the hot seat and she openly admitted to being nervous. She sat holding the rod like she’d been told, propped in a John Roberts rod rest with her hand grasped round the reel seat and the butt resting across her knee. Every time the tip twitched she jumped.

“Don’t bother striking at anything that doesn’t look like it’s going to pull the rod in,” I said, “in fact, you won’t have to strike at all, you’ll just need to stop the rod from being pulled out of your hand and then bend the rod as much as you can. Don’t give an inch.” I said for the second time that day.

It couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes later when she was stopping the rod from being dragged into the Trent a few miles downstream. Judging by the expression on her face I feared she was going to have a heart attack, or her hip was going to give way. But no, she did exactly like I’d advised, gripping the rod with both hands and giving it all she’d got. In between the brief moments of breathless silence there was more of the, “Oh Jesus! Oh you b******! Oh god!” Etc.

And she won. Which was just what she deserved, for she’d listened, taken it all in and done everything right.

More, “Oh god! Oh Jesus! Oh, what a gorgeous fish, Ee, what a stunning fish! Ee, me first barbel. Ee, that were right good! Where’s me phone, I want to tell the world!” She was quite openly beside herself with excitement. I have to admit that I felt good that I’d helped to make somebody so happy.

That one weighed 6lb 8oz, a great fish to catch any time and a very special fish for a first barbel.

We packed up then and went home. After all, it was a good time to pack up, for it wasn’t likely to get any better. And the rain, which had eased off, was looming again. So, well done Wendy, you did well, and you got just what you deserved.