Not long ago I hooked and lost a barbel on the river Severn that definitely felt bigger than the 9-pounder I had already landed. My imagination ran riot and I see that fish as at least a lost personal best. The other day Gary Knowles fished the same stretch and he too lost a barbel he thought was very big. Neither of us has any evidence or even much logic to substantiate our claims. But anglers think such thoughts very easily and very naturally unless they have no soul.
How many times do we hear about the one that got away? The monstrous fish that fought with a frightening power that had to be seen to be believed; the fish that would undoubtedly have been a personal best, or a record for the water, or even a British record had it been landed? How many monster fish have you lost over the years?
I’ve lost plenty, or so I’ve thought, following a fight from an unseen force that battled with a power far in excess of what was to be expected at the time. But now I’m a cynical old so and so, and try to find all kinds of acceptable explanations for the apparent size of unseen monsters. Experience has taught me that UFO’s (Unidentified Fishing Objects) are as much a figment of the imagination as are Unidentified Flying Objects.
Which is one of my regrets at growing older, and maybe wiser, for it is much more exciting to believe in monsters than it is to search for plausible explanations. I wish I could believe still, but alas I don’t, for when I have hooked a ‘monster’, and then later discovered the truth, I’ve realised how easy it is to fool oneself. And how easy it is to want to be fooled, which is probably more to the point.
The one factor that is more responsible than any other for causing us to think we have hooked a monster is foul-hooking, specially when the fish has been hooked in the tail. 
It happens to all of us at some time or other, particularly when we have a big shoal of fish in the swim feeding greedily. What happens is that we strike at a bite, miss it, and then hook into the body of that same fish or another fish feeding nearby. Such fish can fight like no fish you have ever hooked fairly, for when they are hooked in, or close to the mouth, we have some control over them, and we can steer them to some extent after the first few bursts of acceleration. Whereas when we have hooked a fish anywhere but the mouth, and especially somewhere close to, or in, the tail, we have hardly any control at all. A powerful fish can do almost anything it likes, for there is no way, using tackle of normal strength, we can pull it in a different direction to the way it wishes to go. It can swim faster, for longer, and it feels ‘different’, to the point where we are left wondering: ‘What the hell is this thing I’ve hooked?’
As the fight continues the line may grow weaker through abrasion, and the hook wears an increasingly bigger hole in the flesh or fin of the fish. And then the inevitable happens: the hook pulls or the line breaks. Inevitable because the fight has lasted much longer than most fights you have with fish, and the fish can pull harder than any fish hooked fairly. You are then left with a slack line and a slack jaw to go with it, and you raise the rod like a spear, ready to throw it into the hedge but pull back at the last second when you realise that the throw could cost you a trip to the tackle shop you can’t really afford. 
Over the years I’ve landed quite a few big tench, including a number over 9lb, up to a best fish of 11lb 4oz, so I do know what it feels like to have a big tench on the end of my line. Even so, tench can fool me more than any other fish into thinking I’ve hooked something really special. I bet you’ve been fooled more than once too, for every so often we hook into a male tench that fights twice as hard as a female tench of twice the size. It’s the big, muscular fins of the male that are responsible for those awesome bursts of power that drive us into thinking we’ve hooked the biggest tench of our lives. We could have been catching one or two specimen female tench over 6lb, or even 7lb, and then hooked into a 4lb or 5lb male fish that made us sit up and take a lot more notice. It is disappointing, to say the least, to find a smaller than average fish coming to the net following a fight that conjured up thoughts of something extra special.
Some time ago, while float-fishing a Cheshire mere, a pal of mine hooked a fish at 7am and was still playing it at 8.45am when the 4lb line finally gave up and broke at the bottom shot. Okay, so it wasn’t especially heavy line, but heavy enough to deal with the 3lb to 6lb tench that we were fishing for from a boat in open water. But that fish was completely uncontrollable, sometimes going off at great speed, other times just trundling away at a steady pace, and often simply wallowing just below the surface, but out of sight enough to prevent us from identifying it. My pal bent the rod into it as much as he dared on the 4lb line, and continually made it fight for every inch of line it took. Which was a lot of inches in the almost two hours it careered away from the boat every time it was brought anywhere near it. We suspected that this was no ordinary tench, and imagined all kinds of things for the first ten minutes or so. Then it became obvious that even a record tench would not be able to sustain a fight like that.
I suggested that it could be a foul-hooked fish and my pal said he didn’t think so. ‘It doesn’t feel like that.’ He said. ‘When I’m gaining line it feels like it’s swimming towards me, but reluctantly.’ Then, almost two hours later, when he retrieved a broken line, we had come to the conclusion that he had hooked one of the handful of carp in the water that were rumoured to have grown to 30lb or so. Probably a big, fat mirror that was just too heavy to be hauled to the net on 4lb line even when it was exhausted.
We discussed the event over the next few days, reliving every moment, and the belief that he had hooked a big carp became a reality to both of us. To the point where we talked about it to other friends who fished the water as though we actually knew it was a big carp, and not merely speculated that it was.
Five days later I landed a tench from almost the same spot. It was hooked fairly in the lips and fought like nothing I’ve ever hooked before or since at the same weight. Looped and knotted around the wrist of the tail was my mate’s broken line, still complete with hook and shot. It was a 4lb male fish with huge paddles, the biggest fins I’ve seen on any tench of any size. We couldn’t believe that a 4lb fish could fight such a strong, prolonged fight as it did those five days ago. We put it down to the fact that it had complete freedom of movement due to the line being looped round the wrist. Had it been foul-hooked in the tail then it could have been slowed down to some extent, but with the line being attached to the wrist a force of 4lb, or thereabouts, had little effect.
Had I not caught that fish, or had I caught it without the line still looped around the wrist of the tail, we would still have believed to this day that my mate had hooked a monster fish. A very large carp. Today it would have been a fact. 
One of the most awesome displays of shear, aggressive power I’ve ever witnessed was on the river Vienne in France’s Loire Valley. On the particular stretch I was fishing there was hardly any speed to the current, but it was, nevertheless, quite strong. I was fishing for carp with the usual boilie on a bolt-rig set-up, right in the margins. I’d had no action for quite some time, then had a run that caused the wet line on the spool to give off a mist that looked like smoke it was spinning so fast. I struck into the fish, and almost had the rod ripped from my hand. The fish took off – upstream – with a speed that had to be seen to be believed. My line was 15lb, and had I been relying on back-winding I would have had the skin knocked off my knuckles. As it was the spool screamed on the drag like a wailing banshee.
Terry Knight stood alongside me with the landing net, and when the fish had gone over 50yds, against a 3lb test-curve rod that had been hooped over with absolute contempt, with me just literally hanging on to the butt with both hands, he said. ‘It’s a cat. It’s got to be one of the big cats in here!’ Which was exactly what I was thinking myself. When another 50yds of line had been taken, against another hard turn to tighten the drag, I had to clamp down on the spool, for some terrible bad snags were looming in the distance. In the end I won that one, and managed to get the fish to the net, although very grudgingly. It was a very long, very slim, wild carp of 14lbs. I couldn’t believe that a fish of that size could fight with such power, speed and ferocity. I’ve caught wild carp before, but none that have fought like that.
But had I not landed that fish, nor even seen it, both myself and Terry Knight would have been convinced to this day that I had hooked a real monster, probably a catfish of huge proportions.
Another incident that will remain in my memory for as long as I live was the day I hooked and lost a big pike on Loch Lomond. This was not long after the Dick Walker and Fred Buller period, when rumour was rife that Lomond held monstrous pike that would easily smash the British record, which was held by a 47lb 11oz Lomond fish at the time. This pike was eventually removed from the list when the British records were re-examined and new criteria laid down. It had also been insinuated by these two extremely well respected anglers that Lomond held at least one pike that could make a mind-boggling three figures. I was one of many who made the pilgrimage to Loch Lomond hoping to hook a monster that had taken on almost greater proportions than her neighbour, Nessie herself.
Lomond is an awesome place to fish even without rumours of monsters to bolster its atmosphere. It is prone to beautiful, calm, tranquil spells that can very quickly turn into horrifying, raging, lethal periods of savage winds and towering waves. So you can probably imagine the feeling we had when fishing Lomond at that time, when a chance of hooking a monster was well and truly planted in our minds. Every run brought on a minor heart attack, and many of us, including me, risked our lives by fishing in conditions we had no right to fish in. Most of us were inexperienced boat anglers on large waters, and totally unprepared for what this often foreboding water could so easily, so unexpectedly, and so quickly throw at you. I still have nightmares at what could have happened, almost did happen more than once, and took the life of the brother of one angling friend. 
The day I hooked my Lomond ‘monster’ was one of the best days I have ever fished anywhere for pike, both for good conditions and incidents. It was flat calm and I was fishing from a boat along the Endrick Bank off Balmaha, maybe even in the exact spot where Walker and Buller hooked their monster. The day was misty, mild and calm and I was fishing float-legered trout deadbaits in a depth of 12ft and at 8am my float sent out a couple of ripples before it disappeared and line peeled from the spool of the Mitchell 300 at a steady rate. The tightness in my chest was matched only be the tightness in the line as I struck the trebles home with the Hardy Richard Walker Mk lV Palakona Carp Rod. There followed a fight better than any other fight I’ve ever had from a pike before or since – bar one, which was the fight I had with the next fish that day. That first fish weighed a little over 25lb and was duly photographed and returned.
Midday arrived and the sun was out hot and bright and the water remained calm. My float slid under again. No ripples, no warning this time. It just disappeared and the 10lb line (standard test for piking at the time) peeled off the spool very rapidly. I struck into the fish and, following a period of me giving and retrieving line, when the fish swam away from and then towards the boat, when it didn’t even know it was hooked, it must have realised something was wrong and took off for the northern end of the loch 23 miles away. It should have arrived by now, for the 100yds of line I had on the spool, plus backing (again, standard for the time) was in danger of running out when I had to pull hard enough to stop the fish or to break the line. Neither happened, for the hooks pulled instead. But I did get the dead trout back, which had a jaw mark across it that was two inches wider than the jaw width of the 25-pounder I had caught earlier. If the body proportions of that fish had been the same as that of the ’25’ then an extra two inches across the jaw makes it a very big fish indeed. I do know that I couldn’t do anything with it on 10lb line. It just kept going in spite of the pressure I put it under. Once it had made up its mind that it was going to put distance between me and the boat it did just that – effortlessly.
That fish remains my favourite ‘monster’. I don’t want to be told any rational explanations. I want to remain convinced that I once hooked a record fish, maybe even a fish that would have become a legend. The dream of that monster is going to my grave with me. Even the good Lord, or Old Nick himself, whichever the case may be, will not be able to convince me otherwise.
But let’s spoil it and be realistic for a moment. Let’s be honest and confess that if we analyse all those lost ‘monsters’ there is always a rational explanation around the corner. What we all suffer from at times (apart from the totally unromantic, seriously sceptical amongst us) is a large overdose of self-deception, mainly due to the fact that we don’t want an epic battle belittled, for when we lose one of those battles, boy, are we in a state. The adrenaline is still coursing through our veins like the Severn at full bore. Our whole body is shaking and we can’t make our mind up whether to scream or cry.
Is it any wonder we refuse to even consider the possibility that the fish we just lost was nothing special? That it was possibly smaller than the last one we landed? That it only fought the way it did because it was foul-hooked? Not on your life! The only way we are going to come to terms with the loss is if we are convinced we have lost the fish of a lifetime. And that is the story we tell our family back home, and our mates in the pub. And in the end we believe it ourselves. It has become written in stone that on such and such a date we lost a fish that would undoubtedly have broken the British record.
And all the time it was a fish considerably smaller than many of the fish we have landed over the years.But that’s life. Long live the monsters. Long live the legends.
We need the magic.
