One of Those Nights

Maybe I should have turned the car around and gone home when I got caught in the ‘school run’ – a drive that usually takes twelve minutes took forty-five and Dean was patiently awaiting my arrival when I eventually got to our meeting point. He looked at me with an enquiring eye.

“Two words,” I said, “School Run.” He nodded his head in sympathy.

Over the railway crossing we went, but the gates made to stop cattle crossing the lines seemed to have a life of their own. I mused that I’d never before seen a cow hell bent on getting hit by the 7.45 from Nottingham to Skegness! The gates seemed intent on trapping me and my minimum of tackle which, incidentally, seemed to weigh a bit on the heavy side. I wondered if my wife had filled my box with house bricks as eventually, free of the gates, I had my first view of the river.

Not a soul in sight, a steady flow and the water had dropped nicely. Perfect. We made our way to the river’s edge and looked at various pegs. There were plenty to choose from and we found a nice couple of barbely looking pegs, gravel and some rocky outcrops and dead rushes just shy of the riverbank.

“I’ll have this peg” I said and Dean took his choice not too far away from his “old man”, who he thinks is of an age when he can no longer cope with the rigours of modern life and particularly should not be allowed on the river alone!

I crouched down near my tackle box and heard my all-in-one suit give up the ghost as the crotch opened wide and split from just under my… well in-between my buttocks. Somewhat aghast at this I considered perhaps that it was my punishment for laughing at my daughter’s recent visit to Weight Watchers! Not being rotund nor in the least overweight, I realised that perhaps, just maybe, three pairs of trousers and four tee-shirts under my all-in-one was not, on reflection, a good idea. Dean laughed and we got on with setting up our rods before it got dark.

Just then my eye was drawn to the grass near to my box as something orange was glinting in the fading light. I bent towards it and was about to pick it up when I saw a slither of silver at its side and pulled my hand back before, ever so carefully, pulling out of the ground a syringe that some druggy had decided to part bury, needle-up in the grass. “Bar stewards!” I shouted, as I gingerly disposed of the needle. “Someone could easily have fallen on that, just look at the dip in the bank here Dean” I said. He replied that maybe I should move to another peg so that I didn’t fall down the bank. “As if!” I thought to myself. I’m sure Mr Crabtree never got this sort of lip when he took young Peter fishing!

Tackle set up, we settled into our swims as the sun, a bright orange globe, slowly started to set in the distance. “That sun looks beautiful dad,” Dean offered and I thought to myself that perhaps, after all we were going to be on a shedfull.

Darkness descended quickly and the temperature dropped just as suddenly, there was a distinct chill in the air and I was glad of the hot flask of tea my wife had made for me. Pouring a mug full I saw Dean doing the same. The silence was broken by Dean’s mobile phone. I hate the damn things at the best of times but have been persuaded they are an evil we cannot do without on our night-time forays along the dark river banks. His hot mug of tea in one hand and his phone in the other and his eye never leaving his rod tip, I heard him shout out “I’ll call you back”. I heard him swear loudly as the mug of tea he had forgotten about emptied over his lap: a bite, and he missed it. I stifled a chuckle at his predicament, I mean here he was saying I couldn’t look after myself for God’s sake!

I remembered I’d bought a starlight earlier that day and offered it to Dean in order that he’d be able to read the bites a bit better. It wasn’t a sarcastic gesture, merely a father helping his son out! He broke open the starlight in true SAS fashion and used the tape supplied to affix it to the top of his rod. A couple of casts later Dean walked over to me sheepishly and told me that on his first cast the starlight had taken on a life of its own and projected itself into the river, we could see it glowing in about four foot of water like some deadly piece of radio-active waste. In fact it bugged me for the rest of the night as for some unknown reason I kept looking at the damn thing as it mocked me from the river bed.

It was by this time pitch black but that didn’t deter dog walkers with torches walking by the river and we could hear them calling through the night for ‘Patch’ or ‘Petra’ as they shone their torches like Stalag Luft fourteen guards in a prisoner of war camp, trying to see their pooches progress in the field to our rear. Out of the darkness a cocker spaniel bounded over to my peg and before I knew it the damn thing had snaffled my luncheon meat, flavoured with a secret barbel attractor and dyed with ‘Robin Red’, straight out of the bait box. My number one bait for the night was gone in a flash. I didn’t have a tantrum, Dean’s laughter stopped me in my tracks. “At least his owner will get a shock when his dog has bright red turds tomorrow,” I ventured. Dean’s laughter seemed somewhat out of proportion to my little aside. “Its not that funny Deano,” I said. Pointing at my newish carp holdall he burst out “It bloody is! That dog just peed all over your holdall!” I turned my head and shone my headlamp onto my usually pristine kit to see the pooch’s puddle just starting to soak in.

As I inspected the damage Dean shouted “I’m in!” he struck into his fish and I stood up and made my way to the holdall, completely forgetting about the dip in the bank, lost my footing and went headlong towards the water, knocking my flask over as I went. Dean was so engrossed in playing the fish he’d hooked he didn’t even notice as I scrambled back up the embankment. I thought myself rather lucky on reflection because had I not moved the druggy’s needle earlier it would have stuck right into me. The thought – or was it the weather? – chilled me to the bone. My right arm hurt a bit and my hand was covered in mud …wrong! It was covered in doggy doo of the most vile-smelling kind I had ever encountered. I washed my hands in the river and spent the rest of the session rubbing halibut oil paste into my hands to make them smell better.

As the night wore on it got colder and colder despite what the weather forecast had said. Bites dried up, Dean’s earlier fish had slipped the hook and we were rapless for the next three hours. Call it bloody mindedness or desperation, we just wanted one fish, any fish, we didn’t want to blank. The weather by this time was cruelly cold, a wind had whipped up and my nose and finger-tips felt like they’d been put in a deep freeze.

I watched my rod tip Intently, it trembled a little then it gave a little tap tap tap before arching over the baitrunner giving line as I quickly grasped the rod and struck. ‘A classic barbel bite’ I thought to myself. “Are you in?” asked Dean. “Bloody hell yes! It must be something special this, it feels like a dead weight”. I had visions of my mugshot in the angling papers bragging about the new record barbel from the Trent and promising to give my secret bait and rig tips in a later edition. Glory days here I come!! Slowly the dead weight came towards me and my trusty barbel rod, although bent at an alarming angle, did its job, the fish must be mine soon I thought. I caught a glimpse of her as she surfaced some ten yards out from the river. I could see her white underbelly and bright red and yellow back. Red and yellow back?? My line slackened as my specimen surfaced completely beaten and I reeled in… a carrier bag! Covered in dog doo, with a crotchless one-piece suit and bruised ego and a nose that was by now glowing in the dark, I said to Dean “I think I’ve had enough for one night mate”. He told me he wished I’d said that hours ago as he was freezing his nuts off!

We packed up in near silence, apart from Dean’s amiable banter. “One thing about the shape of this river,” he said, “it’s just the right shape for a motorway and it should be filled in”.

As I took one last look at the bite indicator glowing in the river, my headlight picking it out a treat, a huge barbel glided over it, picked it up and swam a few yards before spitting it out again. I was going to tell Dean but instead I just asked “Same time next week son? I hear the weather forecasts supposed to be good then…”