Three Men and a Barbel

Three Men and a barbel

Well, don’t! It’s never how you expect it to turn out, particularly if you haven’t fished there for thirty years! I’ve got a couple of fishing buddies, Micky and Glen, who’ve never caught barbel, and I thought that I would take them up to my old stomping ground in Yorkshire for a few days and give them a chance to catch one or two barbel. That was three years ago and I’m still the only one who has caught any!

September 2005

After a superb lunch I show the lads where I hope to start today’s fishing, Myton, but as we turn into the courtyard of an old stable block, where we park for the river, there is a sign saying that there is a match today and no day tickets will be sold. This is a bit of a blow but we elect to go down to the river anyway, and have a look.

The first swim is about twenty feet down a steep bank, there is an angler wading in shallow water. We stand behind him and quietly ask if he’s doing any good? He’s had five chub and been smashed about four times – which is promising. Walking up the river, however, the news is less good, many people haven’t caught anything, the water level is a bit low, very clear and the weather is just too warm and bright. We discover that the match ends at 4.00pm so we have time to get to our cottage, get settled in and check out some other venues for fishing in the next few days before returning to Myton, after the match has finished, to fish into the evening.

The cottage, sneaking the double bed, and farting

The cottage is quite small and sandwiched by much bigger farm buildings at each end. It’s a converted barn of some description. As we enter, we bring in our bags and place them in the centre of the small living room. I go into the kitchen to put the kettle on and as I come back I can’t help noticing that Glen’s big case has moved three feet nearer the big double bedroom. The kettle boils and I make some tea and coffee and as I bring it into the room the case has moved another three feet and is now in the doorway of the big double bedroom.

“Who’s sleeping where then?” is the inevitable question yet to be resolved. As this matter is raised Glen is standing by his case in the double bedroom, Micky and I have been shepherded towards the hall leading to the tiny twin room.

“You might as well have the big double bed then, Glen,” I say.

“Oh! All right then.” Says Glen and closes the door.

Micky and I look at each other and move our things into the twin room; fortunately the beds are quite far apart. I apologise in advance for any gentle snoring that might issue forth as I sleep but Micky is okay about it. For my part my main concern has to be farts. If there was an Olympic event for farting then Micky would have been up there with Steve Redgrave, but I needn’t have worried. On the riverbank he lets them go frequently, occasionally announcing them in advance with “Here comes a good one” or “Watch out!” As a consequence no build-up occurs.

After a quick cup of coffee and a hugely complicated bet about biggest fish, most species and overall weight, we head off to scout the other stretches of river we might want to fish.

Scouting the other stretches

Fawdington is about a mile away, up a narrow road. It’s a beautiful, warm Sunday afternoon and we take our time walking the length, avoiding the few anglers who are already there. I try and point out where the best swims might be and how I would go about tackling them. Fawdington has everything, rapids; weed beds, inside bends, outside bends, willows and deep holes but Glen is a bit put off by the steepness of the banks, which is understandable if you’ve lived in Norfolk all your life, and it looks as though this is going to be relegated to the bottom of the list.

Next we locate Cundall Lodge which is quite an organised fishery about two miles upstream of Myton. We drive down to the bank which is always a bonus if we don’t have to carry masses of fishing tackle far, and have a good look. There is a bivvy and a four wheel drive vehicle parked by a bend in the river; the fishery allows night fishing. The river looks pretty good with a nice stretch of willows on the far bank. This certainly looks the favourite for tomorrow.

Back at Myton

Back at Myton after the match has finished we decide to fish until about 8.00pm to allow us time to change before going out. In my heart I know we should fish for another hour but it’s a bit of a holiday as well as a mission. As so often happens, we have the place to ourselves.

Andy on his retro style basket, last seen in the Victoria & Albert museum, he says

Glen has chosen a swim in the middle of a long shallow run, the type commonly known as ‘cyanide straight’, and is busy legering a lobworm in the middle of the flow. We have discussed tactics and I’ve tried to pass on some of my experience but Glen thinks he’s on the Royalty Fishery on the Hampshire Avon. This will be part of his learning curve I think to myself as I make for a swim further up the stretch. I’m taking a leaf out of Arthur Ransome’s book and try not to steal from him the joy of learning

Micky has all the carp kit in the world but I wonder if the subtle approach required of a small Yorkshire river is within his reach as I see him cast a 14mm hair rigged halibut pellet under a willow on the far bank with a loud splash from the PVA parcel full of pellets.

I’m fishing a swim on a bend with a small willow on the nearside, and the current pushing over towards the far bank. I’m using a simple leger, with an eighteen inch hook link offering a small cube of luncheon meat on a 12, just as I did thirty years ago. About twenty minutes before we have agreed to finish I get a bite, a slight twitch, which I miss. The next cast the same thing happens even though I was ready for it this time. Next cast, same, again but a better bite, nothing! Glen has come over to have a chat and sees the bites I am getting; neither of us can understand why I’m missing them, it’s a total mystery. I miss five or six good bites and I’m very frustrated. It’s been a long day but I would have liked to stay a bit longer to find a solution to the puzzle.

Back to Cundall Lodge

“No, I don’t think so” he replies, as he checks the bed linen for maps of Australia.

I’m using some new deodorant, Gillette Clear Gel Cool Wave. The bathroom is a bit steamy and I don’t have my glasses on as I open the container. It’s got a screw thing at the bottom which I suppose you turn to get the stuff out. I give it a few turns but nothing happens, a few more but still no gel, then I get my glasses to find out what’s going on. I discover a foil cap over the end to keep in the freshness. As I remove the foil the pressure from all my turning results in an extra large portion of gel oozing from the end. It has the consistency of wallpaper paste and I’m reluctant to apply it to my armpits in case it sticks my arms to the side of my body and hinders my long casting.

We head back into Boroughbridge to Fish’N’Things tackle shop to buy some bait; three pints of maggots and a few bits and pieces. Jim, the tackle shop owner is very helpful and chalks some maps on his counter of the best places to fish. He suggests Fawdington or a place called Cundall Hall, but tells us to avoid Cundall Lodge at all costs as it’s been spoiled by dreadful over-fishing and hasn’t done well this season. Returning to the car we decide, rather contrarily, to go to Cundall Lodge anyway as it looked okay yesterday!

The Great Escape

At the riverside we take our time to wander along the bank to see where the best swims are. We decide on three good looking swims opposite a row of willows. Once again excitement levels are rising as we open the boot to get our tackle out when disaster strikes. There has been a devastating maggot escape from one of the new bait boxes Jim has failed to fasten properly. There must be a couple of thousand maggots in the boot of my car. Micky reacts first.

“Everything out!” he shouts.

And we set to completely emptying the boot of tackle, wellies, clothing, pizza – everything. They are everywhere. The mats have to come up; the spare wheel has to come out, the rubber trim around the tailgate door, the foam trim around the side pockets. The back of the car is totally dismantled but, amazingly, I think we got nearly every one of the little bastards. A few got tucked in the door catch which would have taken a socket set to remove; and a few were left in the well of the rear wheel arch but I don’t think any got in the car. Three weeks later and there was a short period when about fifteen dozy bluebottles hatched and flew around the car for a while before I removed them out of a window.

As my adrenalin levels subside, I take comfort in the knowledge that I have an extra thick layer of anti-perspirant coating my armpits.

I choose a comfortable looking swim on the inside of a bend, with a splendid sandy bank, universally known as an armchair swim. It looks good but once again the water is clear and the temperature is high, I’m not too confident but I don’t let my suspicions show. I’m going to do a spot of float fishing for small stuff. I’m staggered after plumbing the depth, there is an unexpected 12 feet of water in front of me which makes for difficult casting. However, there are a few dace and gudgeon about, and the chance of a chub; I’m enjoying myself.

Quiet, but a pull in the night

I can see Glen and Micky from where I’m fishing. They’re both determined to catch big barbel and have tackled up accordingly. Micky is using carp tactics with hair-rigged halibut pellets and PVA bags, casting into a tiny space between two willows. As the day progresses his approach becomes more technical with bolt-rigs and assortment of swivels and leads, combi-links and release clips. I try to advise him that barbel are often caught on the edge of willows, but he seems convinced they are lurking under the bushes, which they probably are but are not feeding during the day. Glen is using a similar strategy, with an even bigger bait cast into a bay on the far bank.

It’s a quiet day’s fishing, the highlights being my surprise at how good day-old pizza can taste; Glen nodding off in the afternoon in between phone calls and snacks; Micky’s increasingly complicated methods; and a middle aged angler – who has been fishing all night -wandering along the bank with his teenage girlfriend; he has a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp and when asked if he has caught anything, replies, and I kid you not, “I had a pull last night!”

Page 2 – Hemped up and the barbel call signs >