The opening weekend of the season usually finds me back on the rivers and this year was no exception.
Despite the fact that when river fishing I rarely catch much of any note for the first couple of weeks (I usually find barbel but they are usually to busy spawning to show any interest in my baits) the draw of flowing water is always too strong to ignore. For the last couple of years Steve Plant and myself have fished almost exclusively on the upper Severn in search of its big chub and barbel but despite catching good numbers of both species and some impressive chub the large barbel have continued to elude us. So once again full of confidence we found ourselves making the 180 mile round trip to the upper reaches of this mighty watercourse. 
When in flood the river can rise rapidly and can become an extremely daunting prospect, and as the previous week had seen some heavy downpours over the Welsh hills we were keen to see the condition of the river before choosing our stretch. Our first sight of the river as it passes through Welshpool showed the river to be about two foot above normal level with a bit of colour – perfect!
We had several stretches in our minds but plumped initially for a stretch where we had spent a lot of time chub fishing the previous winter and had encountered some likely looking barbel swims. Steve settled into a swim where extensive gravels adorned with clumps of streamer weed pushed steadily under the canopy of a large willow which projected halfway across the river. I chose a swim about a hundred yards downstream of this where a long since fallen tree had caused a strong crease on the inside line. I deposited half a dozen droppers full of hemp and chopped meat on the edge of the crease then set back to enjoy the fact that I was back on flowing water and away from the pressures of work and family life. However I wasn’t allowed to dwell for too long as a savage pull resulted in me being attached to my first barbel of the season. At about five pounds it wouldn’t break any records but on the upper river we welcome any barbel that comes our way.
After releasing the fish a good way upstream I wandered down to Steve, who informed me that someone had been in HIS peg (we very rarely see another angler on this stretch) and to compound his misery not only was he biteless, but had snapped the top two inches of his quivertip. This was very serious indeed we needed to discuss this, so we gathered up our tackle and headed for one of the many country pubs that abound this area.
Suitably refreshed (my round again!) we move to our second venue, a slightly deeper stretch that has produced some decent fish for us in winter. However it looked almost lifeless without the surge of water that usually pushes through the valley during the winter months and after just a couple of hours we move on, biteless and uninspired, to venue number three.
The last venue is always chosen with care and much deliberation, as it is in that period as daylight fades and the impending gloom of night creeps in that the confidence begins to soar. We know from experience that although fish can be caught throughout the day, the time when the expectation is at its peak and the adrenaline begins to course through the veins is those magic two hours either side of dusk.
With this in mind we moved to a stretch that has produced fair numbers of bigger than average barbel for us, with unconfirmed rumours of a 13lb+ fish several years ago. After considering several swims in which to settle, Steve disappeared downstream and I finally narrowed it down to two. One had a single willow downstream and a comfortable sitting position whilst the other looked like it would be extremely uncomfortable but had a row of overhanging trees stretching perhaps 100 yards downstream, with slightly more turbulent water and several fronds of streamer weed. It had been raining on and off all day and my first thought told me to take the former swim where a brolly could be erected and the bait eased a little way downstream. However my gut reaction told me that although harder to fish, the second swim would give me my best chance of some action.
Eventually the angler in me overcame all thoughts of comfort and I was soon sliding down a muddy forty five-degree slope with just a large rod rest to hand, continually spearing the earth in an attempt to stop me from sliding into the river. I eventually got into a reasonably comfortable position, sat on a rolled up wax jacket, with bait, tackle box and landing net amongst the surrounding nettles and two large rod rests shoved as deep into the edge of the bank as I could. As there was no level ground between the top of the bank and the water, my feet were pressed up against the rests and these were the only barrier between myself and eight foot of swirling water. I deposited about a pint of flavoured hemp and some finely chopped garlic sausage into a narrow gap between the near side trees and a large clump of streamer weed. Tackle was an eleven and a half foot quivertip rod coupled with 8lb line with a size six forged hook tied direct, weight would be a simple swan shot link ledger, as although the current was quite strong I was only fishing a couple of feet from the bank. The water at my feet was quite deep but shelved up to perhaps three feet in the area downstream where I intended to present a bait. As I flicked out the bait and felt it trundle into position I remember thinking to myself that this swim wasn’t too uncomfortable after all. Just at that point the heavens opened, and with no chance of erecting a brolly within minutes I was soaked right through and could feel the damp in the most uncomfortable parts imaginable as the water cascaded down the banks behind and through me.
Undaunted, I kept my eyes glued to the quivertip looking for signs of fish in the swim. After about half an hour a couple of tremors and plucks on the line indicated that something had moved over the baited area. It is quite common when fishing so close in with a light quivertip rod for us to feel the fish moving over the line as they grub about hoovering up the loose offerings, these slight indications are usually the prelude to a confident take as a fish finally finds the not-so-loose offering!
Sure enough, according to plan, the tip pulls steadily round and a sweeping strike sees a solid resistance on one end of the rig and me sliding down the bank on the other, thankfully the rests do their job and I am playing a fish with my feet pressed against the aluminium tubing (praying it does not bend!). The fish feels heavy, but comes steadily, with no sign of the screaming first run which normally occurs upon hitting a barbel. Conscious of this I hastily loosen the clutch on my reel expecting the fish to wake up at any second, but the fish continues to come slowly towards the waiting net. Eventually it breaks surface and from the head it looks a decent fish, unfortunately ninety percent of the fish is head and soon the most deformed specimen I have ever had the misfortune to catch is on the bank. 
The difficult bit is now getting back up the increasingly slippery bank with my ‘prize’. Normally the fish, especially barbel, are returned quickly after a few moments of recovery but I needed a photo of this. Steve did the honours with the camera but was not to pleased at being dragged from under his dry brolly to photograph a fish like this. It had the head of a seven pound fish but immediately behind the dorsal fin its spine had a kink through ninety degrees the a couple of inches behind that kinked back to its original line. Despite this and despite only being half the length its ridiculously large head suggested it should be, it was obviously feeding okay and of stocky build from the vent up. As I returned him I felt a pang of pity as he shuffled back into position on the riverbed then drifted from view. 
Still, ever the optimist, I threw in another handful of bait hoping that he was part of a shoal of slightly more majestic fish that had been attracted into my baited area. Not long passed before the tip crashed round, the barbel maintaining its momentum hurtled angrily downstream towards the overhanging trees and, I assumed – never having fished this peg before – sunken branches and tree roots. With the clutch set correctly and by applying gradual finger pressure on the spool I managed to bring the fish to a halt several yards away from the first of the dangerous looking snags. For a few seconds we were at stalemate and the tackle was being tested to the limit, but by not giving another inch, the constant pressure eventually saw the tip inching back towards me as I gained line for the first time. The barbel moved out into midstream and at that point I knew there was only one winner. After several more minutes of plodding around under my rod tip I could feel the barbel tiring fast, eventually he rolled across the mesh and I dropped the rod to lift up the net. As I carefully lifted the fish towards me with one hand whilst hanging on to my rest with the other, a loud crack signalled the demise of my new carbon fibre landing net handle, fortunately I managed to grab the half with the fish in and lifted it up. God, this was awkward, every time I moved two foot up the bank I slipped one foot down, with a fish and half a landing net in one hand and the increasing darkness closing in I did not fancy taking a tumble, but eventually managed to scramble to my rucksack were the scales showed 7lb 8oz. A good looking fish totally without blemish was soon being returned in a more accessible spot and I hurried back hoping for another fish before heading for home. 
This time just half a dozen rough shaped pieces of garlic sausage were dropped in at my feet to be carried downstream, another lump was torn off, attached to the hook and also swept into position by the current. Not expecting a bite due to the recent commotion, I was pleasantly surprised when just five minutes later a gentle tapping on the tip signalled more interest, nothing happened for a few moments then the tip again twitched. I tend to hold the rod in one hand and a couple inches of line in the other when river fishing and because of this I could feel a tremble pass through the line, so I took a chance and struck. Immediately the water boiled and a very big fish hurtled headlong downstream towards the trees, I tightened down the clutch as much as I dared but this had no effect whatsoever. Pressing my finger on the spool just swept the rod round and the fish continued to take line with the rod pointing towards it. Steve and I had often joked about hooking ‘the mother of all barbel’ and I instantly knew that this was the fish we had both been after. Leaning into it as much as I dared I felt the fish reach the sanctuary of the trees before crashing through them, my heart sank. The fish was now a good thirty yards downstream and ploughing further into the jungle of dead branches and I could feel the line grating on each one.
I decided enough was enough and put my hand over the spool and held tight, the rod arched right round and began to creak ominously but eventually the fish stopped moving further away and held firm. Keeping maximum pressure on the line my eyes were now focused on the tip, praying it would start moving, after a few seconds I felt a ping and the tip started to inch back towards me, I wound down hard and pulled again, it was coming!. Inch by inch the fish came grudgingly towards me, after I had gained about twenty yards the barbel turned and took fifteen back. I was sweating now and my feet were in agony after being pressed against the single rod rest, (the other one was now a makeshift landing net handle) but I was slowly gaining line. Every time I gained a few yards the fish would take some back but I was now taking more than him every time. Suddenly, and to my relief the fish moved into mid river and then started to push steadily upstream. I shouted at the top of my voice, trying to attract Steve’s attention whilst keeping full pressure on the rapidly tiring fish, two or three more runs and each of them stopped with increasing ease and the unthinkable was starting to happen. Not only was I attached to ‘The mother of all barbel’ but I was starting to get the better of him. I shouted again to Steve, who was a good two hundred yards downstream, I knew with my precarious position he couldn’t hope to help me land it but I knew that the fish would soon break surface and if I lost him I wanted someone else to see what I already knew was something special.
The fish turned about two rod lengths out and despite the fading light I saw the head and shoulders of my adversary, at his stage my knees started to buckle. I saw the long barbules hanging from the fishes gasping mouth and the shoulders looked to be about eight inches across. Keep calm Gary, I told myself, don’t bully him too much now, my head was spinning and I could feel my heart pounding, I forced myself to stay calm. He moved slightly upstream and I sunk the landing net, the fish rolled on the surface one last time and I allowed him to drift back into the waiting folds of the net. The rod was instantly thrown into the undergrowth and both hands grasped the net, as it was now nearly dark I had only got a brief glimpse of him as he drifted over the net so I had no idea of the length or size of what lay within. I dragged the dead weight up through the undergrowth, it felt heavy, real heavy. Ignoring the stinging nettles I pulled the net onto the grass by the side of my rucksack and collapsed in a heap. Something did not look right, the bulge in my net looked wrong, I unfolded the net to reveal …….a carp, …..a bloody mirror carp, s**t, s**t, s**t ! I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it, but I have to, there he is, staring me in the face. Steve can be heard hastily approaching so at least I can salvage a bit of fun at his expense. I quickly slide the fish into the weigh sling without him seeing. 
‘I heard you shouting but I was playing a fish’. Steve said. ‘Is it big?’
‘Big, its bloody Massive’. I reply.
‘A double?’ asks Steve.
‘Easily’ says I, as I lift up the scales, the needle moves round eight, nine, ten, eleven, at this stage Steve’s jaw drops open, but a puzzled look appears on his face as the pointer settles on sixteen pounds and eight ounces.
‘What the hell is it?’ Steve asked
I said ‘its a beautiful mirror carp of sixteen pounds and eight ounces, and I couldn’t be happier’. Or at least I think that’s what I said, its all a bit cloudy now, those first few moments after capture.
Looking back I can now see the fish for what it was, a cracking fish caught after a hell of a fight in fast water and, on sporting tackle. At the time I didn’t appreciate him making an appearance, but I now look back and enjoy the experience. After all, I have not given up hope, and next week I will be casting out a line in some dark inviting pool, a weed strewn glide or perhaps a long gravel run adjacent to some overhanging willows and who knows, next time out my bait could just trundle under the nose of what we know is in there somewhere ……..THE MOTHER OF ALL BARBEL!
