The film is called Ring. It’s a cult Japanese psychological chiller that has inspired several Hollywood spin-offs. The opening of the film sees the white credits appear against a screen of inky black. The heavy strings of the background music leave you in no doubt that it’s not going to be any light-hearted romance. After a few seconds you notice the odd flicker of light,and soon you realise that those chinks of light are reflecting off ripples, and the blackness on the screen is in fact water; dark water on the blackest of nights. Like the capture of my barbel the film has a nightmarish ending but it was the sight of that dark water on a pitch black night that flashed back a memory still vivid after thirty three years.
Back in 1979, having just left school, every fishing trip was still an adventure and I had barely scratched the surface of a sport that keeps me as enthralled today as it did back then. I’d caught the usual still-water species from a local gravel pit and perch, roach, dace and chub had all dipped my float whilst trotting the rivers. But I’d never caught a barbel. My friend Dave had caught one when we’d spent an August bank holiday fishing the Thames at Bray, near Maidenhead. It was a wonderful time. Four lads with fishing rods and camping gear was a potent mix, guaranteed to deliver a see-saw of high jinks and near disaster and somewhere in between, the outside chance of a fish or two.
This chance appeared even smaller when, on arrival, we were greeted by a constant procession of leisure craft. Big open-decked tourist boats all seemingly pumping out Cliff Richard’s ‘We Don’t Talk Anymore’ were queuing far from the lock and we had no choice but to fish for gudgeon and bleak in the margins.
‘…we were greeted by a constant procession of leisure craft’
Luckily, come darkness the flotilla’s had gone and we were left to cast our lumps of cheese and meat as far as possible into the tail of the weir-pool. As usual nothing much happened and one by one we crawled into our sleeping bags underneath our wonky tents; all except Dave that is. Keen as mustard he stayed up and carried on watching his rod top by the pushbike light. At some ungodly hour in the night I was awoken by the whoops and cries for help from an over-excited Dave. I stumbled out of the sleeping bag to see Dave doing a merry dance and when he’d calmed down we gathered round to gawp at this huge beast previously only seen in books and on Brooke Bond tea cards. Under the torch light the scales glimmered gold and we wondered at its curious barbules. It weighed a hefty five and a half pounds. Dave spoke of the savage bite and the arm wrenching fight that went on and on. We resumed fishing into the dawn but no more action excited our eager souls.
The seed was sown however. I simply had to catch one for myself. Subsequent visits failed to move a barbel towards our bait and not much else seemed to be bothered by our baits either. The trouble was that unbeknown to us, Old Father Thames was in steady decline. The large shoals of glittering roach and dace were on the wane and even the ubiquitous chub were less common. Disappearing with them were the attendant anglers, and fed up with catching nothing but the odd gudgeon and perch, I decided my first barbel would have to come from elsewhere.
Four years later, and now a member of the now defunct Leisure Sport Angling Club I decided to make a trip to their stretch of the river Kennet near Burghfield. It was reputed to contain barbel of ten pounds and more! That would do for me.
‘…that would do for me’
The weir pool was the obvious spot but other anglers were already fishing there, so wandering further downstream, I came to a narrow run of steady water that ran straight for thirty meters before disappearing down a gloomy tunnel of overhanging alders. Near the top of the run, a step of a swim had been cut in the steep bank and I liked the thought of casting down towards the trees where I hoped the barbel would lie. Surely a good dose of hempseed would set their barbules twitching, luring them from their daytime cover to find my waiting cube of luncheon meat.
And so it proved. It was a muggy slightly oppressive evening. The cloudy sky meant a shadowless night, and it wasn’t until the last of the light had seeped away that the barbel finally came out to dine. Dave was right about the sudden rod grabbing bite, the great power of the first run and the stubborn resistance as it stood its ground. But I hung on and after the longest battle I’d ever had with a fish, finally hoisted a near six pound barbel ashore. I could understand why Dave had done his merry jig.
The trouble was, I did too. After the fish had been returned I was gripped by a spontaneous bout of jumping and arm waving only to slip and plunge straight into the dark water. The water sucked me down and as I slipped below the surface my short life flashed by in a micro-second of images. The late Clive Gammon in his book ‘I Know a Good Place’ described how he was swept away by a fast river in France. He managed to keep a calm mind, and remembering what he had read in a salmon fishing book, allowed his self to be taken by the current. He floated downstream in chest waders until he found an overhanging branch by which he hauled out. Staying calm and going with the current is the recommended course of action but recently on a water-safety course I learned that going for tree branches is to be avoided as you risk entanglement or being pinned against a branch. Therefore you should wait for an easy place to exit and take your chances there.
At the time I did not have this knowledge, nor Mr. Gammon’s piece of mind. Instead in a moment of blind panic, arms flailed and legs kicked as I thrashed the water, and thankfully, outstretched fingers soon dug into the soft but high earthen bank. A small underwater ledge provided a lucky footing and I hauled myself up onto the bank. Wet through I could hear water dripping onto the ground but when I shone my torch on a strangely aching hand it was not water dripping, but blood. I later learned that in trying to prevent my fall, my open palm had slammed down onto an opened luncheon meat tin. Incredibly, whilst in the river I had felt no pain but it was a different story now. An old rag wrapped the wound and I ran like mad for help.
Luckily the nearest habitation was a pub, The Cunning Man, about a mile away. I dread to think what the customers must have thought. One minute they were quietly enjoying a friendly Saturday night drink, the next they were suddenly confronted by some strange youth, sopping wet and dripping mud and blood, as I stumbled into the bar. Fortunately the landlord and staff were wonderful and medical care at Reading hospital was quickly arranged. Internal stitches and strong antiseptic couldn’t stop gangrene creeping up my arm a few days later. Without an injection I would have lost an arm. Of course, ever since then, any stretch of water is given the utmost respect; all tins especially those containing luncheon meat are left at home in the recycling bin, and as for any celebrations on the bank-side, it’s strictly no dancing.
Ian Nesbitt
