Dateline – September 2009
This is our fifth and probably our last year in Yorkshire fishing on the River Swale for barbel. You’d be stretching it to say we’d bagged up every time, but you know what? We have loved every minute of it.
All the arrangements go like clockwork and at twenty past nine we arrive in Boroughbridge at Fish’N’Things tackle shop for supplies. Jim is as enthusiastic as ever, but is not too encouraging about the water conditions:
 |
| Andy’s 1½lbs surprise perch |
“It’s about two foot up, and it’s got a shocking colour to it lads!” he says. “But it’ll be perfect by Wednesday!” he adds, which isn’t a lot of comfort to us as we’re going home on Tuesday! He then proceeds to tell us how and where to fish, emphasising the need to fish the slack water, out of the main flow.
At the river we head for where Jim has told us are the best swims. We settle into three swims and I take time to assess the situation. The river is up and it’s a nasty brown varnish colour that I’m told puts the fish off feeding, however, the weather conditions suggest that it will be dropping rapidly; it’s cloudy and warm with a light breeze. I’m beginning to become more optimistic.
The bank where I’m fishing is very slippery so I spend half an hour making a platform out of driftwood before tackling up and fishing the slack water for barbel with 8mm banded halibut pellet. After last year’s debacle on the River Don I have acquired a rig wallet and have tied a dozen hooks to 10lb braid. In place of my normal ¾ oz Arlesey bomb I have a cage feeder filled with soaked pellets.
About four weeks ago I attended a Barbel Society meeting where Graham Elliot was the main speaker. One tip (of many gleaned!) was to squeeze the pellets very tight so they stay in the feeder for thirty or forty minutes. This way you’ll always have some scent immediately upstream of your bait.
I alternate pellet and maggot for a couple of hours. It’s twelve thirty and I’m experimenting with a mixture of natural and rubber maggots without much luck so I remove the rubber ones and cast in with just four red maggots. I get a couple of taps on the rod end and strike into a medium sized fish which turns out to be a 1½lb Swale perch which is a great result.
 |
| Andy with his barbel of 6lbs 4ozs |
Earlier in the day we had hatched out ‘The Bet’ which was £1 for best barbel, £1 best chub, £1 best perch, £1 overall weight. I don’t bother calling the lads but take a photo for evidence, then reel in and nip around the bank to see how they are getting on.
Micky is in a nice swim with some slack water running under a willow about eight metres downstream, and a comfy, flat sandy stand. He tells me he’s had a wrap around bite while he was fiddling with his other rod and we have a big discussion about the phenomenon. How is it you gaze at your rod tip for two hours without it stirring then the moment after you’ve glanced away the tip is just returning from a giant bite? It’s one of life’s enduring mysteries.
However, he’s had a good bite which is the encouraging thing. “Were you fishing in the slack when you got the bite, Micky?” I ask. “No, out there just in the faster water” he replies as surprised as me.
Glen’s swim is even comfier than Micky’s with acres of flat sandy bank and loads of space, “Just had two colossal bites, missed both of the ******!” he says brightly.
“In the slack?” I ask. “Nope, out there in the fast stuff!” and I return to my swim puzzled at the conflicting information.
As I settle down back at my swim the wind is dropping and it’s getting a bit warmer. The clouds hang low and grey in the sky and I’m diverted by a family of long-tailed tits cavorting in the willow bush to my right hand side; there must be about ten or twelve of them.
This is one of the places where the spirit of England still lingers, the old England, the verdant pastures; grazing sheep; the majestic trees and the timeless flowing river. Dreamily, I cast out a pellet into the fast water for the first time today. Thirty seconds later the rod tip pulls round and I strike into a respectable fish.
“Daaaaah-yoh – Dah-ah-ah-yoh!” I hail the lads.
The fish takes me downstream in the way only a barbel can, swiftly and powerfully, but there is no cover and gradually, I turn its head and play it towards me. Micky has turned up and is ready with my landing net. There is no sign of Glen; we have to make allowances, he’s quite deaf these days.
After the fish has made a few lunges for safety, Micky slides the net under a 6lb 4oz Swale barbel perfect in every detail apart from having a yard of monofilament and a swivel dangling from its mouth. I remove my hook, but I’m unable to see the other hook so we cut the line as deep in the barbel’s mouth as possible and, after a brief photo, return the fish safely to the water.
At about two it starts to rain gently:
“Oooorchh-Oooorchh.” Micky’s in! I scramble the slippery bank and get to his peg at the same time as Glen. Micky has landed a 4lb1oz chub which he’s delighted about; he’s back in the game!
 |
| Micky and his 4lbs 1ozs chub |
We’ve changed our plans for a late night’s fishing due to the cloudy weather and the extra water in the river so we are fishing until half six. As the session draws to a close I’ve decided not to take any maggots back in the car, but I’ll buy fresh tomorrow. Consequently I’ve mixed maggots and melted pellets in a cage feeder and fishing 3 maggots on a 12. After a few finicky bites I strike into slightly better one and land a chub weighing 1lb 12oz, which is my first chub in eleven and a half days fishing over the last five years on the Swale!
Day Two
I’ve had a bad night! It might have been better if I’d not survived! I slowly peel my eyes open at seven feeling dreadful. It’s important to remember when you wake up with a bad hangover that this is the worse you’ll feel all day! But somehow this notion doesn’t help as I try to get ready for breakfast.
At the tackle shop we tell Jim we were getting bites in the flow yesterday, he advises us to fish the faster water today. So we dutifully head off for the straighter, faster section of yesterday’s venue.
It’s a sunny day, the sky looks like the opening scene from ‘The Simpsons’. Micky is in the favourite swim; Glen has the end peg and I’ve got the swim I caught my PB from a couple of years ago, I’m fairly happy.
The water levels have dropped and the nasty colour is a bit weaker, you can vaguely see the weed beds now. I spend the first half hour laying driftwood to make my swim safer to fish; I’m getting quite accomplished at it.
My first cast in with the cage feeder full of pellets results in me finding a solid snag and I have to break off. This sets the tone for the day! At half eleven Glen pays me a visit which is unusual in itself. He explains that for some inexplicable reason he’s not very confident and not had so much as a touch.
I spend the next ten minutes explaining why I think it’s a good swim. Cheered up, he trudges back to his swim. I decide to set up another rod and fish it down the side with a bite alarm; it worked a couple of years ago. Sure enough I get a couple of short runs which I miss due to not being ready.
The fourth bite I strike into a nice fish. It doesn’t charge off downstream so it’s probably not a barbel. It heads into the near bank and buries itself into some vegetation. I clamber along the bank to try and drag it out; it’s a 5lb 1oz chub, a personal best, I’m dead chuffed.
After the photo’s I return to the fishing but I’m afraid I’ve spooked the swim with all the commotion down the bank. There’ll be not much doing for an hour or two.
Early in the afternoon there’s a thin veil of cloud masking the sun but it’s still warm; I’m rather sleepy which is not surprising given the poor night I had. As my concentration wavers I find myself dreamily watching the swifts that have appeared, wheeling through the sky at high speed. Occasionally one will hurtle towards the river then level out just brushing the surface before climbing to join the others.
At four o’clock I hear a strangulated cry that sounds like a cross between a donkey braying and a distressed sheep, but something tells me it’s Glen! He’s got one on! I quickly reel in and make my way downstream to his swim; Micky is there already with the landing net.
 |
| Glen fights his first barbel |
The fish makes a prolonged run and I notice the clutch on Glen’s reel is paying out line almost freely. Either it’s a big fish or he has his clutch set very lightly. After two or three minutes there is still no sign of the fish. He continues playing the fish in complete silence. After a few more minutes and a few more runs the barbel is eventually brought to the surface and landed. Six pounds exactly, a bit smaller than mine but beautifully long and lean.
After the weighing and pictures I volunteer to return the fish to the water as it’s very slippery near the edge and it looks quite deep. Glen’s not as nimble as he used to be. The fish is exhausted and takes a couple of minutes to recover before swimming away happily.
At five thirty I notice another angler has arrived and is chatting to Micky. It transpires that he is Adam Perkin and has claim to a certain amount of celebrity. On the first day of this season he was fishing the same swim where Micky is now and landed two 11lb plus barbel! Which is an extraordinary feat by any definition; this is just what Micky wants, he hasn’t had a bite all day and someone strolling up telling him that he’s in the best swim on the river and how he had a couple of whoppers here a few weeks ago.
Adam settles in a spot between Micky and me and within two casts has a small barbel on! I go over to check it out and have a chat. He tells me all about the unique barbel brace he had earlier in the summer; about Sean Meeghan’s help and so on. I think he’s quite keen to fish Micky’s swim.
We pack up at six and make our way back to Boroughbridge; the pub is busy but sensible. After a quick shower we meet downstairs and inform Stu that despite his kind offer of free puddings we’ve decided to eat out at The Bull tonight; we’re getting a bit conservative these days. The Bull is on top form; chicken for Micky; a big steak for Glen and some smoked salmon tagliatelle for me which I manage to spill down my lap.
 |
| Micky nets Glen’s barbel |
Day Three
I wake up feeling considerably better than yesterday morning. I get dressed and we pay for the rooms and head off to the supermarket. Glen opts for the Morrison’s Monster Breakfast, Micky has a traditional English and I choose the traditional English ‘Lite’. I don’t just wake up looking this good you know!
Glen doesn’t say much when he’s eating but half-way through his feast Glen looks up slowly to catch my eye. He then lifts up a piece of fried bread with the tip of his knife and says “No sausage!”, then it’s eyes down to get on with the essential process of chewing once more.
This morning the river is almost down to normal, only slightly coloured, we’ve swapped swims. As I tackle up there is a brief but heavy shower which makes the bank where I am very slippery which immediately cheeses me off. The weather forecast today is for a strong southerly breeze and quite warm.
By mid morning the river just downstream where I am casting is getting quite choppy, the strong wind is directly upstream and catching the flow in such a way as to create big waves. I must still be tired because for some reason I’m fed up with fishing awkward, greasy, uncomfortable swims. I yearn for somewhere flat, dry and open.
I’ve decided to move. I don’t want break my rods down so I’ll probably walk up to The Horseshoe a couple of times with my tackle. I nip up the bank to tell Glen and Micky and it turns out that we all want to move. I tell them I’m walking and chuck them the keys and set off; it’s only a couple of hundred yards up the road.
Halfway there I’m sweating like a pig; it’s further and hotter than I thought. Micky and Glen bring the car while I head up the road. We get to the alternative car park in the farmyard and at last I’m in a fantastic swim, spacious, sheltered, dry and flat. I cast out two rods with meat and pellet, put them on bite alarms and settle down to eat my lunch which has been in my bag since this morning.
 |
| Micky’s had enough and has decided to plumb Glen’s swim |
It’s about three o’clock and Micky’s in. I reach his swim in about twenty seconds; he’s playing a barbel, his first River Swale barbel. He turns to give me a sheepish grin, “Er…I’ve not set my landing net up.”
I’m about to dash back for mine when I see the barbel down at Micky’s feet, it looks like it’s got plenty of life left in it. There is a huge swirl and the fish dives for cover under the roots of an overhanging willow tree, Micky can’t get any leverage and the fish reaches a snag and sheds the hook. A disaster that, I have to say, Micky takes rather well, I think I might have cursed a bit.
You don’t get a lot of second chances on the Swale and Micky should have had his net set up. I suppose he just thought he wasn’t going to catch one.
Half an hour later we hear from Glen, another strangled call but the message is clear, he’s into a fish. We both arrive at his luxurious swim as he is netting a 4lb chub. “Well done, Glen” we say in unison, as we admire his prize.
After the photos we spend a bit of time with him; he’s chosen an even comfier swim than mine. He’s set out his folding chair and has made two large foot holes in the sand so that he can brace himself if he hooks a monster. It’s been a long three days; Micky’s had enough and has decided to plumb Glen’s swim by climbing out on a willow branch and testing the depth with Glen’s landing net handle. I’ve got my camera at the ready just in case he falls in, but no such luck!
It’s time to pack up for what could be the last time here in Yorkshire. On the way back to Norfolk, in the car, we discuss what we should do next year. We love coming here but the success rate is a bit on the low side, an odd fish every now and then, and I don’t think it’s totally down to our lack of skill. These rivers rarely yield big bags of fish unless you’re a local and can pick and choose your moments.
