After years of resisting, I finally took the plunge and deliberately set out to catch a barbel. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to in the past, I just never seemed to get the opportunity or felt the inclination to do so, I suppose.
Anyway, a chance midweek day off work, my beloved hadn’t scheduled anything for me to do, and I found myself at somewhat of a loose end, so time to finally grasp the barbel nettle, I thought. As I was not too far from a decent venue, the allegedly barbel stuffed River Ouse ‘above Bedford’ (well, New Bardwell), a not too depressing weather forecast and it was game on. A quick root around in the garage for some tackle, whatever bait I could muster and by 9.30 I was loading up my trolley in the car park and setting off down the bank looking for a likely swim. Although, being a barbel virgin, I had no real Idea what that would look like, but I thought anywhere that seemed ‘fishy’ would do for a start.
Not wanting to appear too lazy, I avoided the very nice looking swim closest to the car park, making a mental note that if nothing else, it certainly did look the part and set off upstream, seeking a suitable place to plonk my tackle down. The footpath here runs parallel to the river, but is usually a good 10-15 yards away from the bank side, and as the swims and river are normally 3-4 feet below the edge, you don’t get troubled too much by skylining dog walkers and curious ‘CAMS’ (Cort Anyfink Mister?) passers-by.
I did get accosted on the way to my first swim by a very young and excitable boxer dog puppy and it’s (v.v.v. nice) lady owner. I will admit I have an affinity for dogs, having lost a much missed Dalmatian a while ago, and the sight of this little scamp up on its back legs pawing the air in front of me was too much. I stopped and bent down to give it a fuss and was rewarded by a flurry of paws and alternate licking of the face and nibbling of my ears as reward.
Playtime over, I said my goodbyes to the dog and its (v.v.v. nice) owner and got back to the job in hand. A likely looking swim was located and two feeder rods were lobbed out. The first just gently dropped in over the reed beds at my feet, right into a very fishy looking crease in the water, a hair-rigged pellet on the hook, crushed boilie, mini-pellet and hemp in the feeder. The second rod was cast out mid-water about ten yards downstream, same mix in the feeder and luncheon meat being the weapon of choice here.
Both rods in the rest, they soon settled down and their lightly curved tips were nodding slightly as the current plucked at the line. It might just be me, but for the first few moments after I have cast out I watch those tips intently, every minute movement is noted, did the right hand one nod a fraction further that time, or was it the left? And all of this not now helped by the wind which was now gusting and spilling over the top of the bank every now and then, making the tips dance around even more.
After a little while you begin to dial out the paranoia enough to recognize a pattern in the movements and can put attention to the tips into periphery mode as you take in your surroundings. I became aware of a rustling in the vertical bank opposite me and every now and then I caught a glimpse of a vole (or was it a pair?) in the undergrowth.
But I wasn’t the only one aware of my little furry companion(s) opposite. I happened to look up and saw a kestrel stationed directly above them. Without going into all that ‘being at one with nature’ tosh, it is nevertheless always amazing to watch as an aerial predator hovers aloft, its head and gaze fixed firmly on its target while the wind plucks at its wings and tail feathers but never upsets its balance. Maybe it was my presence or the thickness of the undergrowth preventing a strike, either way after a few seconds the kestrel dipped a wing and peeled away, and went off to quarter the field opposite in search of snack.
As I watched it in the distance my right hand rod hooped over, the luncheon meat proving irresistible to something downstream of me. Hand swiftly to the rod butt, firm sideways strike and a good solid thump in response. ‘Game on’, for a millisecond, then the rod tip sprang back, and the unseen fish was gone. ‘Deary me’ I thought, staring at the now straight rod. Having just probably hooked and lost my first barbel in less time than it takes to blink I wasn’t best pleased with myself, to say the least.
I reeled in fully expecting to find some piece of errant tackle to blame, because it can’t possibly have been my fault, could it? Hook link twisted round the feeder? No. Hook link and/or mainline smashed by ferocious hard fighting fish and/or me striking too hard? No. Hypodermically sharp hook blunted by something? No. Squashed remains of meat still attached to hair, but everything else perfect.
I reeled in the other rod, rebaited them both and cast out again. Was the fish still there, or had the missed strike scared it off and spooked everything else around? Piscatorial paranoia set in again, not helped by the return of the kestrel which was now hovering even closer to the ground, right in my eye line this time and I swear it was gloating at my inept attempt at ‘hunting’ my quarry.
Another twenty minutes of complete inaction so I decided to move back downstream and the fishy looking swim nearest the car park seemed to be calling to me. Fortunately it was still unoccupied and I have to say it certainly looked very Crabtree-esque. Spirits lifted a bit, both rods were cast out again in the same bait combination, and I settled back in anticipation. The gusty weather had brought some black clouds scudding overhead, and I was treated to a short sharp soaking as a) the weatherman had not said anything about rain, and b) I had not put the umbrella back in the quiver. The day wasn’t getting a lot better.
Then the black clouds passed, the sun peeped out and the gods decided to throw me a crumb of comfort in the shape of a hooped over rod top as the luncheon meat did the business again. Hand to rod butt, firm sideways strike, satisfying thump on rod top and this time the fish stayed on! The river was quite narrow at this point so the fish had the choice of up or downstream, but seemed to prefer going from bank to bank. Strange behaviour I thought, but at least it felt like a good size fish. After a short, sharp, tussle it was safely in the net and heaved up over the reed bed.
So there it was, my first fish caught when specifically targeting barbel. A rummage in my tackle bag confirmed that the scales were safely at home with the umbrella, so I’ve got no idea how much the fish weighed. I did get a picture though, nice looking fish, if a bit on the plump side. I think I might go barbel fishing again quite soon, at least when I do, I don’t blank…
