A glorious sunny afternoon, for once in this summer of discontent. The sky is a spring-like blue and the clarity of the light is dazzling. The river is high and the colour of mocha chocolate. It is gushing and gurgling and the sound reminds me of a salmon rock on the Royalty and that amazing sudden emergence of a twenty pound fresh run fish leaping for sheer joy at the thought of the prospect ahead. The balsam is shaking its myriads of policemen’s helmets and the swallowettes and House martins are outmanoeuvring aerobatic Pitts Specials in their quest for innumerable titbits.
The whole world is so alive.
After a chocolatey session, which produced hard fighting chub and a fin perfect barbel for my daughter, we trudge back in moonlight across a field of stubble. The bags of silage are compared to blue clouds in a darker sky and a family of foxes squabbling and shouting at each other are oblivious to our presence.
Summer is over but the sun is still hot and I am alone on miles of Medway. At the bottom end of the fishery I creep stealthily to my chosen swim and, delight of delights, I spook a hare at rod’s length. He bolts across and then around a field of maize stubble; he is so brown and so big and so, so fast and glorious. Holding the rod I lie back and gaze at the wispy clouds. The sun eases my frozen shoulder.
Moving to another swim a willow is spotlighted by the low rays; it is incandescent in its golden hue. A kingfisher fluoresces past on many occasions its call, as always, a harbinger of hope. The sun begins to set and the sky turns gradually from a clean pale blue to pink and grey. A wonderful day’s fishing without the need for fish.
A clear cool evening fishing by the weir awaiting moonrise and the old rod can be used with care between and under the overhanging willows. The bait is lowered a rod length out and the Speedia’s ratchet clicked a couple of turns to tension the line but not too much. The swim has been fed with hemp and bait-sized lumps of sausage: the trap is set and we await the arrival of the barbel. An hour passes and there are suddenly twitches of the line. They are there. A full Hunter’s Moon illuminates the weirpool but it is dark under the tree and the barbel must feel secure, even in the shallow water.
I am, as always, holding the rod and feeling the line. Two strong taps and the fish has picked up the bait. A strike into thin air and my hook is caught in a low overhanging branch. What to do as normally you only get one chance. I quietly pull for a break and have to tackle up again but it is only a Jack Hilton carp hook and a swan shot.
I lower the bait into the trap and within a matter of minutes the rod tip bends round and I am in to what is clearly a very good fish as the Speedia is chattering and singing. The barbel is heading up into the weir and I put on side strain. She changes direction and storms off downstream in the full flow of the weir. I ease the pressure on the rod and she slows down, more sidestrain and she moves back up towards the sill. The whole process is repeated several times; my heart is beating and my language is as never before in front of my ghillie – who is also my teenage daughter.
Gradually the barbel is brought closer to our swim beneath the willows. The whiskery lady breaks surface and we are amazed at her size. On seeing the net she barges off again and again but at the third time my daughter nets her (it was not her fault before but my anxiety) and we cannot believe our eyes. The fish is enormous and we rest her in the net while we gather our senses; she weighs 14lb 2oz and is returned to the weirpool none the worse for her experience. After calming down we pack up and head for our local hostelry where champagne is the only way to celebrate.
Another season and a new swim in the main river. It is late summer, the weather is warm and the sun is bright with not a cloud in the sky. I am alone on miles of riverbank with only Friesian cows as four-legged company and wheeling swallows and house martins as observers. There is a slight flow and the river is above normal level. I loosefeed hemp and occasional lumps of meat with a small piece of said meat on a size 8 as hookbait.
Chub soon come to the net and after several hours, with the sun having gone behind a hill, the river goes quiet. A long wait and then a savage pull on the rod and a dramatic heavy run downstream which puts the Hexagraph with six pound line on my Mitchell 300 fully into action. The fish turns when I lessen the strain and heads off upstream and towards the opposite bank. The fight is not fast but full of dogged power and I realise that after many whiskery-free sessions I now have the object of my passion at the end of my line. I seem to make no headway in controlling the fish as she moves wherever she wishes. Gradually she comes nearer, although I think that is her decision rather than mine and I see her for the first time and am struck with panic but somehow do everything right for a change. She slides over the rim of the landing net at my first attempt and I let her rest a while we both recover.
She weighs twelve and three quarter pounds, the same size as Walker’s biggest from the Hampshire Avon, and is absolutely perfect. I do not believe that she has been caught before. She returns to the Medway with grace, apparently none the worse for her efforts and I fish on for a few more casts without really wishing to catch and then head off to the pub to celebrate.
Golden evenings in heaven. The Medway can be so beautiful. A new swim in a new stretch. Bubbling carp and much later bubbling bream. It should have been easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. I have caught bubbling barbel…perhaps.
