Mission Impossible – The Curse of the Barbel!

Mission Impossible – The Curse of the Barbel

A story from a trip made in September 2006

I could tell that Donna wasn’t giving me her full attention.

“I’d like two rooms for Wednesday the sixth, please,” I said.

“Just a minute, love.” She replied, then, “I’ll just deal with this booking then we can get on with it,” she whispered to someone else. “Okay, that’s two singles for Wednesday the sixth, that’ll be thirty-five pounds each, okay love?” she continued to me.

That sounded extremely good value, and I dismissed the niggling doubt in my mind about how unusual it is these days to be offered single rooms. With the accommodation fixed up, there was not much else to do except commiserate with Glen who had unfortunately fallen from a ladder and injured his ankle sufficiently badly to miss the trip. He seemed in good spirits but I’m sure he would love to come with us on another opportunity not to catch barbel on the River Swale.

*******

Autumn on the Swale

Micky arrives at ten to six in the morning, we load the car, and set off for a, shortened, two day fishing break to Yorkshire. The travelling is uneventful as we chat about tactics and arrange another complicated bet. Micky has produced a compilation CD of sing-a-long music for the trip. Favourites such as Radar Love, White Wedding and Pinball Wizard speed us on our way.

Soon we are turning off the A1 to Boroughbridge; the time seems to have passed very quickly. Of course it could be that Micky was hammering along at 90mph all the way! We call at Morrison’s supermarket on the outskirts of town to buy some grub for lunch. The sandwich counter has the usual selection but I see that they have included an assortment of pasta salads they didn’t have last time and I remember that Glen had to buy his from the delicatessen. They must have noticed the sudden increase in sales about this time last year and prepared accordingly. Micky and I feel that as Glen’s not here we should, somehow, do something as a tribute to our fallen comrade so we decide that we will eat pasta salad every day at 11.00am! Luncheon arranged we proceed to the pub to check in and leave our bags.

It’s locked up; despite Donna telling me they’d be open. Micky gives the door a hard knock, but I’m getting ready to leave as we see someone coming. A man opens the door in his pyjamas (I’ve always wanted to say that!) actually he is wearing shorts.

“What can I do for you, lads?” he asks.

I tell him I’ve booked a couple of single rooms for tonight but he looks a little puzzled.

“You’d better come in.” He is looking at a large desk diary that should contain our names. “We don’t ‘ave any single rooms!”

I point to my name in the book and say that Donna took my reservation about a week ago.

“Oh! I’ve been on ‘oliday.” He takes another look at the diary. “We’ve only got this twin room available.” It’s not the end of the world, we just want to get on with the fishing, and after all we shared last year, and survived!

We inquire about eating tonight but he says that there is a function on this evening; a gun club is meeting for their annual bash. The image of fifty or so gun crazed hillbillies must have made my face drop as the landlord says not to worry. There’s always plenty of food left and he will sort something out if we get back late. We leave our bags and make our way over to Fish’N’Things, the tackle shop in the centre of Boroughbridge for some information and some bait. Jim, the owner, is not there and his wife serves us. A smartly dressed man has followed us into the shop. He interrupts us to show her a photograph of a barbel he caught two nights ago – it’s twelve pounds two ounces; an absolute monster! My spirits rise then fall. Obviously the river is fishing well but hearing this news is a bit like waiting to bat at cricket and the fellow who is just out has scored a hundred! He tells Jim’s wife that he caught it on marine halibut pellet, my worst fears are confirmed. The bait is the barbel and chub equivalent of a Big Mac and as a bit of a traditionalist I only use it as a measure of last resort.

“Where are you going today lads?” she asks.

“We thought we’d try Myton Grange”

“Why?” she asks disbelievingly.

“That’s all right. That should be okay.” The fantastic barbel catcher chips in, “the swims at the far end should be good.”

And so, reinforced by his encouragement, we stick to our plans.

Myton Grange

When we arrive at the river we load up the gear on Micky’s new wheelbarrow which is a recent development caused by last year’s sweaty trek. It certainly takes the strain out of reaching the swims at the far end of the fishery, particularly as Micky is pushing it. Water conditions are totally different from last year. There is at least another two or three feet of water and the current is running swiftly. The water is strangely tea coloured and prospects take a further dip when I see a small tree float by! Chris Yates, angling guru, says that you should take time to listen to the river, hear what it’s saying to you. It’s saying to me that we’ll probably be wasting our time, but hey! What else are we supposed to do?

We select swims and start fishing.

I’ve chosen a swim on the inside of bend; hopefully there will be some slack water but the current still seems pretty strong; and where I’m standing is extremely muddy and slippery. After about an hour and a half of unproductive legering – maggot, meat and corn – I visit Micky who has a nice swim with a level, sandy beach which looks very comfortable. He is concentrating on fishing under a willow bush where the water is relatively steady and it looks quite inviting. How is it that everyone else seems to find really comfy swims?

I can’t help noticing his beautiful new rod; a Greys Prodigy 11/2 lb TC barbel rod. You could run a small third world country on what Micky has spent on fishing tackle this year! I’m making do with a rod I got for Christmas nine years ago and a forty quid mail order reel I got on a special deal; where am I going wrong?

On returning to my swim I decide to put up my bargain float rod and mess about in the edge for some small stuff. The wind is increasing and the trees are making a noise which might make it difficult for me to hear Micky if he shouts. My mobile phone goes off, it’s Micky.

“Oooorchh-Oooorchh-Oooorchh,” he chuckles down the phone.

I hurry along to his swim where he informs me that he has captured a chub which we weigh at three pounds and eleven ounces. Unsurprisingly, he’s caught it on a Big Mac.

Micky plays his PB chub

A crisis of confidence then a quick pint

Back at my swim I notice that where I was once stood on a piece of muddy grass, it’s now under a thin film of water, the river is still rising, it’s come up about two inches since we got here! This news depresses me even more so I decide to move a bit nearer Micky. As I’m setting up next to him he is playing another big fish; a second chub is successfully landed weighing in at five pounds and one ounce, it’s not as big as Glen’s loggerhead of last year, but it’s a personal best for Micky; a further victim to fast food!

Micky lands his PB chub

Why am I thinking like this? I’m suffering a crisis of confidence brought on by my irrational rejection of modern baits. There must have been a time when I felt the same way about luncheon meat. What’s wrong with me? Am I going to get stuck in the past or what? I wrestle with my thoughts for the rest of the session until we decide to call it a day.

Micky’s PB chub

On the way through Helperby we decide to call in for a quick pint at the Farmers Inn, just to see if Hayley is still there. Glancing through the pub window there is a slender, blond waitress in the shadow of the bar. My heart skips a beat “Could it be Hayley?” I wonder. Micky is first in, but as we approach the bar it quickly becomes clear that it isn’t. I suppose that the disappointment makes this young waitress a bit plain by comparison.

We order two pints and take the opportunity to use the facilities to freshen up. The gent’s toilets has an amazing hand basin, mirror and nail brush, the sort you might expect to find in a posh London gentlemen’s club like The Sheridan.

Arriving just before eight o’clock back at the pub we are shown to our room which is about eight feet by ten with two single beds spaced about a foot apart. It’s a good job we’ve only got overnight bags because you’d be hard pressed to put a suitcase on the floor and open it. I imagine it is normally used for storing loo rolls and light bulbs. On the sides of the walls there are some marks where someone has unsuccessfully tried to swing a cat! One corner of the room has been partitioned off to become the bathroom. There is no room for the telly so it’s perched on a ledge next to the space age, portable aerial.

I shower first, using the new shampoo and gel Sue has packed, rather worryingly called ‘Surrender-for him’.

Twenty minutes later we are downstairs at the bar, order a couple of pints and have a look around. The place is crowded with gun lovers, mainly clay pigeon shooters. I catch fleeting bits of conversations about 410’s, side by side being better than under and over, down the line and tight tubes, it sounds like they’re having a good time.

The landlord recognises us and asks whether we managed to get anything to eat. After we tell him that we haven’t he says not to worry and gets a waitress to show us to a table where, ten minutes later a couple of plates of lasagne, salad and a baked potato arrive. They are brought by the landlord’s wife, Louisa, who looks very much how Hayley’s mum might look; attractive; nice figure; lovely smile and that way that northern women have of wanting to look after you.

We decide to have another drink here with the meal before we go out for a bit. The landlord says he’ll bring it over but when we try and pay the waitress says it’s on the house; as is the lasagne! Fantastic!

After a walk around Boroughbridge and a couple of pints in the jauntily named ‘Musketeer’ we make our way back to pub to catch the last few minutes of the England v Macedonia European qualifier. The place is still busy so we sit at the bar with the landlord and a few locals. Without asking Louisa gets us a couple of pints as if we are regulars; and we sit back to soak up the giddy northern atmosphere.

The chap I’m next to is on crutches, I’m not sure whether this is to stop him falling over on his way home as he is clearly blind drunk. It turns out that he is the resident inebriate but he has just had a hip replacement. I’m treated to his life story while Micky hides on my left hand side. Apparently Dennis, that’s his name, is a bit of a sad case, on his second marriage; out of work; he used to be a Scuba diver! He’s not keen on women.

“How come they always know the f*****g time, you come in late and all you get is – it’s two o’clock in the bloody morning” – or when his first wife told him she was leaving him he did the honourable thing, “I ordered ‘er a f*****g taxi!”.

Every third word is a swear word. Despite the bad language and the crude jokes, Louisa and the other younger bar girl who have finished for the night, join the group we are in while we drink up, the bar slowly clears until we are the last ones there, we make our way upstairs and into our tiny room. It’s not long before we are asleep.

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