Home Features Diaries I Saw ‘Her’ Again Today

I Saw ‘Her’ Again Today

January 26, 2006

July, and I saw ‘Her’ again today

Five fish swam past, pecking at a few offerings, but only from habit not from hunger. The biggest was a good double, over 11lb I should imagine. A few chub drifted by, in that sideways style they favour. I hooked one and the rest scooted. The scales went to 5lb 6oz.

An hour later, from my position in the tree I watched as two very large barbel dropped back and suddenly picked up a few bits of bait. I slithered down but they had moved on by the time I had my rod in my hand. They were seriously big fish, 12lb and rising.A barbel I would estimate at 8lb+ in the clear water comes to the net at just under 10lb. The other fish in the area glided into the safety of the nearby weed strands.

Twenty minutes later, back in the tree, watching, first the chub; and what a chub! Broad backed and looking like a carp. How big? At the very least 7lb. It dropped back from the weed bed………and there she was….The third time in three days in the same place. Probably the largest barbel I have seen. Always on her own, except for the big chub that shows at the same time. How big? Big enough to fill your dreams and then some.

At the moment though it’s a bit of a nightmare. She picks up two or three pieces of bait and that’s it. Four hours later maybe two more. If I put few baits in the chub clear them, if I put in lots it would be like winning the lottery if she chooses the one with the hook. I think I need to go and leave her. At least until the water colours up some and she is not so shy, hopefully. Stay safe Beauty.

A month passes and we are into August

Still the water remains crystal clear and the river looks like a river should. It glistens along almost with a mirror coating on the top. Reflections of the wonderful fauna tickle the surface and break up into shards of light as a chub or dace noses a fly from the silky smoothness. The weed flows with a constant rhythm, dancing and swaying to the silent beat.

The barbel are not yet nervous of anglers, however they need to be tricked a little to pick up a baited hook. Watch and learn, the deposit of time to be paid back with interest when the river colours deepens and other venue challenges are tackled.

The line is heavy and visible, yet the barbel approach without a care. One nudges the line, almost caresses it alongside its form as it passes up to the baited area. Suddenly they spook wildly, in different directions. What happened?

I watch the same thing a few times until it becomes clear. The barbel did not worry at all about the visibility of the line; they swam alongside it, brushed it even, until another fish moved it on to them unawares, the natural reaction, inbuilt for survival being to rush away, escape. I try to relate this to human behaviour:
Safety means as you walk through a forest and brush aside the tangled branches and the leaves, you see them and visualise no problem, but if one suddenly reached out and touched you from behind… Would you jump?

I sat and watched, caught fish into double figures, moving it away from smaller ones and the chub. The predictability of the sport was more than made up for by the pleasure of watching and learning.

Mid August, a group of fish in the 5-8lb range were picking up the particles alongside the sunken tree. They divided as ‘SHE‘ came through, one mouthful of bait and then she continued on her way. Slowly, gracefully, regally.

Open mouthed I looked across to my rods, unpacked on the top of the bank. I had been immersed in the watery underworld for over three hours and the time had passed in the blink of an eye. She continued upstream into the large streamer weedbed and was gone.

During the past few weeks I had wondered if I had overestimated her size, indeed, wondered if some of the other fish I thought were 13-14lb were her. My mouth closed after the gasp had left it. I think she is nearer 18lb than anything, my mind said.

September, and the leaves were starting to golden

The fish were becoming a bit more wary, still the waters ran gin-clear and it was not enough to put a bait near fish and wait for it to be picked up.

Some of the actions of fish behaviour may hold some interest, possibly not believed by many.

How many times has that little stab on the quiver tip, often ignored, been fish mouthing and dropping the baited hook? No longer were they picking up a bait and moving away, but picking it up statically, holding still and then trying to eject the bait and hook. One fish did this five times before it managed to spit it out, others after two or three attempts, bolted, leading to a wrap round on the rod top. Many times the fish would move away after being unsettled by mouthing the hair-rigged baited hook, only to return in a short while to pick it up again, often till a mistake had been made and the fish had firmly pricked itself enough not to be able to blow the hook from its hold.

Fascinating

Changing the bait shape to multiple small ones on a hair fooled the fish time after time and more good ones followed, with over five more different doubles and numerous other fish coming to the net in so many visits.

One other regular angler came over to chat one night. We shared memories and other fishermen’s tales, until bursting, with a haunted look in his eyes he said, “Have you seen Her yet?”

It was whispered, but spoken with deep reverence.

“How big do you think?”. I replied.

We settled on not less than 16lb but probably bigger.

The day changes. Dusk was an hour away. She came alongside the gravel bar, not three feet out from my chair, picking up the bait particles that had fallen from my feeder every time before a cast.

I lent forward and slowly turned the reel handle, dragging the bait in from its far bank position. It snagged on a small branch mid-stream, catapulted towards me and landed with a wave-making splash on top of where the fish was feeding. Or had been.

I could have cried, perhaps should have, but for some reason I laughed out loud and long. I am never going to catch this fish, I thought.

October came and so did the rain

I sit behind the rods, wet, waiting for the rod to move. I have learnt that if I take the hook length down to about four inches the fish often prick themselves when they pivot upwards after picking up the bait. The downside is the chub catch rate has gone up, and this spooks the fish. Sometimes you have to wait two hours until there are signs again of fish around…sometimes you wait until home time. People pass you by as you catch a chub. “Nice chub,” they say. You smile. In your mind your fingers stretch out as if self motivated and you slowly strangle them.

You fish the river twice a week, and sadly, when the pressure applied to a fish brings it toward you the first time of asking you realise that this is not the fish of yours and others dreams.
Fortunately other rivers still keep you sane and undemanding.

The colour of the water hides the fish and you are happy that mystery to the river is returned. Over and over you tell yourself it could be the next bite.

Mid October, 4pm and the rod wraps around after an hour of indications. This fish keeps low and steady, makes a long run with a clutch tightened down so no onion roots can join the tussle.

I get nervous and start to bully the fish back to me and it surfaces. It’s not Her, but a very good fish. Towards the net, and she dives after touching the rim. Downstream again, and again bullied back up and to the surface. Difficult to get her past the inside flow and, ping, the hook pulls as I go to raise the net. By some magic trick she is not in it. 14lb at least. Bad angling.

Memories of another lost Loddon fish; shared with fisher friend Dick some seasons ago come flooding back.

I go downstream to share my woes with ‘have you seen her yet?’ who nets a 12-pounder as I arrive. Cruel. I take the photographs and the congratulations, slightly hollow, echo around in the mist.

I am unfaithful; to spite the river and Her I visit the Bristol Avon for the first time at the invite of Russell and manage two welcome doubles.