Three Men and a Barbel

Hemped up and the barbel call signs

I will take some time out of the story to explain the method we devised to alert one another that we had caught a big fish if we were out of line of sight. We decided that we would each have a call sign that the others could recognise. Micky chose his famous cock pheasant sound which, if I can attempt to spell it in an onomatopoeic fashion, goes something like Oooorchh-Oooorchh-Oooorchh. Whilst Glen does a passable peacock like this, AaahrAaahr -AaahrAaahr; I have to say I’m a bit challenged on the farmyard impressions front so I opted for a very weak owl sound which I was never very happy about. Eventually I decided that I would use the opening line from the Banana Boat Song thus Daaaaah-yoh – Dah-ah-ah-yoh.

Choosing swims

Glen decides on the first swim which has the reputation as being the best on this stretch of river on its day. It is down a steep bank but has the advantage of only being 20 metres from the stable block where the car is parked. Micky and I set off, heavily burdened with bait and tackle, for some swims upstream that Jim has suggested. It’s a hot morning and the walk is strenuous. I have to stop two or three times for a rest before reaching the far end of the section and look for a swim. Micky chooses a nice bay in between two willows with some fine willows on the far bank. I pick a similar one about fifty metres downstream. After fishing for an hour I’m not happy with my swim, the bank is steep and I’m a bit worried about falling in, so I decide to move. I choose a swim with a nice, deep, eddying pool on the inside of a fast flowing shallow glide on the far bank, this looks more like it, I wonder how I missed this the first time.

Time for a walk, I nip up to see how Micky is getting on. Once again he is casting across between two willows to try and lure out a barbel. The fishing continues to be quiet; I inform him that I’ve caught a small chub which puts me ahead in the species match. Every dace he catches from then on becomes a possible chub! Next I walk the long walk down to Glen, which has to be six hundred metres, he is down the steep bank eating his pasta salad, and it’s only 11.15am! He is in the swim that won the match on Sunday with all the chub and lost barbel. However, I don’t really fancy it as it looks too shallow but Jim reckons it is a cracker. The truth is we’re probably not good enough to fish it. It’s not long before Glen agrees with me and decides to move upstream. I give him a hand with his tackle and he selects the swim I fished on Sunday. It certainly looks a bit easier.

“Daaaaah-yoh – Dah-ah-ah-yoh,” I holler

Into a barbel and up goes the battle cry

I resume fishing and put a piece of luncheon meat on and cast out to the tail of the swim, just where the fast water finishes and there is a deeper pool. Out of the blue I get a massive bite, nearly takes the rod out of the rest. I strike and connect with a decent fish. It bores deeply downstream and I have to backwind to allow it some line, but eventually I turn its head upstream and the long battle commences.

“Daaaaah-yoh – Dah-ah-ah-yoh,” I holler.

I reel in a bit more line. I’ve got to stop the fish from getting under the trees on the near bank and also keep it away from the fast water on the far bank. It’s a bit tricky. There is a rustle of grass behind me and Micky appears; the old bush telegraph has worked. He grabs the landing net and prepares to help me land it. The fish comes to the surface for a brief moment and I see the golden flank and broad red fins of a Swale barbel.

“Well done, Andy!” Says Micky.

A few moments later he slides the landing net into the water and I bring the fish over it and on to the bank. Glen has appeared; broad smiles all round. It’s a lovely fish weighing 4lb 14oz, a couple of photos are taken before I return the fish to the water, where after a minute’s recovery it swims away gracefully. We are all pretty chuffed and genuinely pleased that one of us has managed to catch a decent fish and we all return to our swims with renewed optimism. The normal pattern of fishing returns for the next hour or so with little of interest although I thought I might get another when a piercing, ghostly sound is heard.

“AaahrAaahr -AaharAahar” it’s Glen. “AaahrAaahr -AaharAahar”

I reel in, dash up the bank then back down again to grab my camera, then up the bank again and run a few paces then back again for the scales and sling. In a bit of a panic I walk quickly through the trees towards Glen; about 250 metres. As I get to the gate at the end of the wood, with Glen almost in sight, my mobile phone goes but I’ve got my hands full so it takes a while to answer, it’s Glen.

“Where are you?” he splutters anxiously. I’m out of breath but I tell him I’m just coming; I can see him. Micky arrives soon after. He also is out of breath and sweating, he’s had to come about 350 metres.

“What’ve you got?” we ask simultaneously.

“A chub” he replies.

We both congratulate him and ask where it is and get ready to weigh and photograph it when he tells us he has put it in his keepnet. He wants to carry on fishing as soon as possible at which point I get a bit miffed. Micky and I haven’t run all this way with cameras and scales for nothing and, in a moment of rare eloquence for me, I say:

“C’mon, get the f****r out, let’s weigh the t**t!” or something to that effect.

So we do. It is a big chub of 5lb 3oz but is unusually short and solid; Micky says this sort of chub is often called a loggerhead which somehow makes sense. Glen is now ahead in the biggest fish competition, I’m ahead in the species and Micky is nowhere.

Once again we pack up relatively early, about 7.00pm, in order to get a meal tonight, you might say we’re not committed enough, I don’t know. It’s a bit of a shame as tomorrow we have only got the morning so are leaving the natural fishing of the slightly out of sorts River Swale to fish a commercial carp puddle just the other side of Helperby.

Back to the commercial world

The pond is a bit smaller than I expected at about half an acre, with a bushy island in the middle, and is punctuated with willow bushes making natural swims. Micky picks one close by the car; I think he’s had enough of lugging heavy tackle along miles of bank. I pick a swim about forty metres away but opposite Micky where I can see him. Glen takes the next swim along the bank from me, about ten metres away. He is the first to catch; a common carp of about a pound and a half, he slides it into the landing net with an audible “Yes!”

The match is on

The fishing is bizarre, you can’t take your eyes off the float, for some weird reason the bites always seem to come when you’re glancing away for a moment. Sometimes you are just putting the rod in the rest after casting when the reel starts screaming and a fish is on, other times you wait ten or fifteen minutes before a bite. You never quite know whether it’s going to be a 3oz roach or a 6lb carp so striking is often a bit tentative. Micky is catching, Glen is catching, in between packets of crisps, but I’m not. Then Glen loses a decent fish with a bit of a splash and a curse, and I start to catch. It’s difficult to say who is winning, I’ve lost a couple of bigger fish and so has Glen whilst Micky tends to land whatever he hooks.

The mega carp method rig

After lunch things are a bit quiet, I notice that Micky is changing his tactics. I imagine he is going on the mega-carp method rig, and I’m not mistaken. Ten minutes later he is standing in the beachcaster stance with a large ball of bait the size of a small orange on the end of his line. He is aiming to cast to within a few inches of the island; unfortunately his first cast is a little inaccurate soaring into the middle of the island. I crack up laughing. Micky retrieves his line, fortunately no lost tackle which is nothing short of a small miracle. His next cast is only slightly into the bushes and he pulls back a little and the bait drops into the water, within seconds he is playing a decent fish, a carp of about 4lbs. It might not be elegant but it works.

Glen is fishing with two rods now; he is halfway through a packet of biscuits when he has a bite and strikes. Unfortunately his line is caught round his other rod and he gets into an almighty tangle and the fish escapes. I make some casual remark but Glen fails to see the funny side.

Every now and then we are entertained by the colossal swearing of a couple of Yorkshiremen who are fishing on the opposite bank to our right. I haven’t heard this much swearing for a long time, all in a good humour, but all very loud.

At 3.00pm we finish and weigh the catch, Micky has won with enough of a margin to carry the week’s aggregate weight prize. I’ve won the species contest, and Glen has won the biggest fish trophy. Honours even.

Coming soon: ‘September 2006 – Mission Impossible’