So it goes

I've not been out fishing over Christmas as I've been feeling a bit under the weather, and the weather outside hasn't been encouraging enough to tempt me out into the cold. So I've stopped in reading and re-reading Gierach. I'm glad our winters don't last as long as the ones they get in Colorado. It's almost made me want to take up flyfishing with bamboo rods - but not quite... A little Googling has turned up a Gierach article on-line.

2009 wasn't a bad year, England beat the Aussies to regain the Ashes and I caught some nice fish. But my fishing was a bit up and down like the England cricketers' performances. The cold start to the year scuppered any chance of good barbel catches but I got a feel for chub fishing. Then the last week of the season panned out well when the weather changed for the better. Alas the good fortune didn't carry on into the spring tench campaign. I was hoping to really get to grips with my chosen venue this year but a combination of unfavourable conditions and a lack of time meant I caught just nine tench - although the ones I did catch were worth having.

Work restricted me to the one late spring bream session that went better than I could have hoped for. Then the rivers opened and I got sucked back into barbelling, because it was handy and fitted in round work, forgetting my other plans for the summer because I couldn't put a foot wrong with the barbel between July and November. When winter came back with a bang work piled up making me miss those narrow slots when the river was on form or a stillwater worth a visit.

Here's the highlights:

• Barbel - 12-12
  
• Bream - 14-06 [pb]
• Carp - dnw
  
• Chub - 6-09 [pb]
• Grayling - 1-05 [pb]
• Roach - dnw
• Tench - 9-09 (f) [pb]

[pb]= personal best, dnw = did not weigh (i.e. small!), (m) = male, (f) = female

Perhaps not as spectacular as last year when it comes to variety of personal bests, but the longer you fish the harder they get to beat and I have no complaints. The main thing is that I've enjoyed my fishing once again. New stillwaters and stretches of river have been explored and fished successfully. That's probably the greatest thing about fishing, there's always something to do that you haven't done before. When it pans out well in pleasant surroundings, which seem to become more important than the fish as I get older and grumpier, there's nothing better.

All the best for 2010.

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Back to the river

If I had got the morning's jobs finished sooner I might have gone roach fishing again, but time had run out. There were things I could have been doing but they could wait. I knew I really should have been on the river last night when it was warm, nonetheless I grabbed a belated chance to try for a December barbel. Three weeks is a long time in river fishing and not only had the trees now lost all their leaves making the ridge-line of the far bank visible through the veil of fine branches, the only greenery to be seen being ivy covered trunks, but the river bank had altered yet again with the floods. This can make finding exact spots to put the gear down and to cast baits to difficult.

It was a glorious blue-skied and fluffy-clouded afternoon. I left my fleece off under the bunny suit as I walked upstream past raddled and incontinent ewes. The river was carrying some colour, was up a foot or maybe slightly more and was warm - 7.1C. The chances of a barbel looked good. Even so I had hedged my bets and packed the quivertip rod and the remains of Sunday's maggots. An S-pellet went upstream on a barbel rod and then the feeder rod was put into action. I cast the empty feeder out until I found the distance where it would hold, then I put the line in the spool clip. Next cast the hook was baited and the feeder filled. On hitting the clip I gave the reel handle a couple of turns then set the rod down to let the tip settle. A few quick casts to get some maggots in the swim then leave it a bit longer.

When I can't be bothered tying up hooklinks for this sort of fishing, and my stillwater roaching, I use hooks to nylon. Kamasan B611s as a rule. They're a strong hook and tied to stronger nylon than most.

Lazy man's hooklinks

After half an hour I decided I wasn't happy with the S-pellet and wanted to swap it for a boilie. Unfortunately the rig was snagged solid. Either I'd judged the cast badly or a new snag had appeared in the swim. To save time I got the other barbel rod out and baited it with an Oyster and Mussel boilie before casting out to a slightly different spot. Then I rebaited the maggot rod and set to retackling the first barbel rod. I wanted to fish two barbel rods after dark.

With that sorted I wound in the feeder for a recast. The red maggots were a pulpy mess. I'd had a bite and not seen it. At least there was a chub around by the looks of those maggots. Cue greater concentration on the quiver tip. It only moved when debris hit the line. There wasn't enough coming down to dislodge a 3oz lead, but the 30g feeder would move. I would have put money on getting a few more bites.

By four o'clock it was starting to grow cool. The light was fading, but not as quickly or as soon as it does when sat indoors at this time of year. There's less than two weeks to the shortest day now, that turning point in the season when things slowly begin to feel more optimistic. It's no wonder there are festivities around this solstice. It was time to pack away the feeder rod and get serious about the barbel. The second barbel rod was baited with an S-pellet and cast downstream and well across.

There was now a narrow band of mist hovering over the river giving the water a milky look. A thin veil that was also creeping over the bank. My confidence began to ebb. I was twenty-four hours late and I knew it. The mist wasn't for making its mind up. It cleared for a while, raising my hopes. At five I picked up the boilie rod for a recast. The line plucked off something then I began to drag some rubbish in. Half way back the rubbish wagged its tail. In the torch light I could see a chub making a feeble attempt at fighting back. There had been no indication. I returned the chub then the stars appeared and the mist closed in again. The beach beckoned. On retreiving the boilie rod I saw a chunk of the bait was missing. Another chub attack with no movement on the rod tip. When the chub are feeding delicately times are tough.

As I rounded the bend the river was clear. Maybe there was a chance. By the time I had the baits out and was settled down the far bank was gone. The mist had become a fog. There seemed little point packing up and hitting the rush hour traffic. Another hour wouldn't hurt. Maybe a breeze would spring up and clear the air.

Foggy

Fat chance. Half past six seemed as good a time as any to finish. That way I could listen to the Archers in the car. The walk back was weird. The Petzl light was reflecting off the fog making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. There were no lights visible in the distance to give me any sense of direction so I had to use the headtorch. Even so I nearly managed to stumble into a fence that I knew was there but couldn't see!

The car's thermometer read 5.5c, down from 10 when I had arrived, and it fell further as I journeyed home. The forecast is for more of the same. Sunny days with night-time frosts. Maybe one more try for a barbel tomorrow, when I have the afternoon free, before something more serious over the weekend. One thing's for sure; the bivvy won't be involved.

---

Perfect?

Spate rivers really are forces of nature, as the floods in Cumbria this week clearly illustrate. When it comes to fishing them they can tricky to get to grips with at times. The day after my last session the Ribble was over its banks. There'd been little rain since the river had risen so it would have dropped by the time I arrived on Friday afternoon. How much it had dropped by remained to be seen.

My first impression was that the level was about four feet up on normal level. The tideline of beech leaves in the car park showed where it had peaked. I decided to walk the stretch and see where was fishable. As I went up river there was flotsam hanging above my head in the lower branches of a bankside tree, and more flotsam in the field. My guess was that the level had dropped some eight feet since its peak.

There are plenty of molehills in the field, some near the bank's edge had obviously been over-topped by the river, a couple had what I took to be escape holes. Poor old moley must have been flooded out. As long as the moles had made it to the surface they would have been okay. I once watched one swim some distance along the edge of a reservoir I was tench fishing. Moles are good swimmers. The beach (which was underwater) looked worth a try, but then so did a couple of creases closer to the car park.

Making my way back to the car I saw another angler coming along the river. After chatting for a few minutes we went our separate ways. Expecting him to head for the bend I used the opportunity to fish one of the spots nearer the car. A flock of goldfinches flew up and across the river as I made my way to my chosen swim. The ground was firm where I put my chair, which made a pleasant change from sinking into leaves or silt. The flow in the edge looked to be just the right pace with a slight crease being formed by a gentle bend in the river. With the level having dropped so much I expected the leaf problem to be minimal. Most would have been lifted off the margins and should all have been dropped by now. If only.

As I sat tying bags and drinking tea the rod tips gradually pulled down. The downstream lead dragged, all six ounces of it. The upstream lead didn't move. That one was only three ounces and I had a horrible feeling I knew why it hadn't shifted. After recasting the downstream rod a couple or three times, stripping the line of leaves, I had to move. The upstream rod was snagged solid. The lead came adrift and the hooklink cut through when I pulled for a break. After retackling, this time with a rig incorporating a Hair Rigger to fish a lump of luncheon meat, I wound in the leaf strewn downstream line and set off intending to fish a slack below some rapids. The other angler would be on the beach if he had any sense.

Easy luncheon meat rigging

The day was warm again, late November shouldn't be giving air temperatures in the low teens. There was a strong westerly blowing, but moving upstream the far bank took the edge off it. When I threw my thermometer's sensor in the river it gave a reading of ten degrees. If I could find a barbel in a spot where my rig would hold out success was guaranteed. They had to be on the chew.

I couldn't believe it when I saw the slack was occupied. The angler hadn't caught yet, although he said leaves weren't a problem. Lucky sod! I carried on, my right hip starting to nag. The bank was slippy in places after the rain and I think I had jarred my leg sliding awkwardly at one point. I was wishing I had left my brolly in the car to lighten my load.

The beach was well covered in water. Some deposited debris seemed to be a little further from the water's edge than when I'd walked up earlier. The flow looked as if it would be pushing the dreaded leaves across and away from where I intended casting my baits. The bank I set up on was the terrace. Previously firm ground with grass and other vegetation. Now it is covered in a layer of sandy silt. One good thing was that the deep layer of leaves which had covered the beach had been replaced by silt. There can't be many more to come down the river.

Each succesive flood reminds me that the river is constantly changing. You can see changes after every flood. Obvious things like dead trees appearing and disappearing. There are more subtle changes like sand banks changing shape and moving downstream. The silt that's deposited in the slacks must be the remains of rocks that have been ground fine as they roll down the river. I've not experienced it myself, but I've been told that at the height of a big flood rocks can be heard moving against each other as they are shifted by the current. Looking at debris on the banks you can see how sharp edges are ground smooth on everything from branches to bricks to bits of plastic. Come spring and the silt will be consolidated as next year's growth sprouts through it. As one bank erodes so another is extended.

With my chair's legs sunk in the silt the baits were cast out. Meat upstream, boilie down. The first casts went a little too far and the rigs soon shifted as leaves dragged them out of position. Dropping them closer they held for longer. I'd been expecting a rod to pull over as soon as I arrived in the swim. Four hours later things weren't quite going to plan. I should have had a netful of barbel with the water so warm and coloured. Maybe the flow wasn't strong enough to push the fish close to my bank. If my hip hadn't been troublesome I might well have packed up and headed for a different swim or another stretch.

At least the evening was warm and dry. In fact the wind dropped after dark, which was good as the sky cleared a little and the air temperature began to fall. So did the water. I noticed there were fewer leaves on the lines. The boilie rod was cast further out and more downstream. It held for longer. Even so my confidence was waning. All thoughts of barbel gone from my mind I let my eyelids rest while I psyched myself up to face the lengthy limp back to the car.

I'd only been thinking a few minutes earlier that I hadn't had a take that ripped line noisily from the reel for a while when the aching hip was forgotten as I jumped out of the chair and picked up the boilie rod. I guess any leaves on the line came off during the fight, which was pretty good with the extra water in the river. To net the fish I'd had to step down from the terrace and onto the beach, then paddle out a foot or two so the net could reach deep enough water. The silt was quite well compacted and I didn't sink up to my ankles as I thought I might. The barbel saved a blank, and wasn't a bad one at a few ounces under nine pounds. There would have been a photo of it on the mat here if the battery in my compact hadn't chosen the moment I pressed the shutter release to die on me.

The level was dropping well. Another couple of hours and it would be spot on. Every time I moved my hip hurt. I'd give it another half hour, but no longer. At half past eight the rods were stowed in the quiver, the chair strapped to the ruckbag and both loaded on my feeble frame. Off I set, only stopping for a couple of brief rests on the way, passing no other angler. I'll be dosing myself with Ibuprofen and doing some work for a rest before hitting the river again.

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Barbel karma's gonna get you

Work plans went out the window today. But as one window closes another opens. The sun was shining with heavy rain predicted to be on the way. The chance was too good to turn down. After lunch I was on my way, dazzled by the low sun. Yet again I was spoiled for choice and couldn't decide where to go. In the end I parked in an empty car park well up river. Taking advantage of the deserted bank I went for a walk to suss out a floodwater swim I'd been told about.

On my way along the river I passed a sad and sodden pink teddy bear, face down in mud, lost and forlorn. I can understand how footballs end up in rivers, but some of the other stuff (there's a broken toy keyboard on another stretch) make you think alien abduction is involved. The swim looked inviting, but maybe needed a bit more water. The level was still up about eighteen inches, probably having risen a tad since Sunday, but dropping slowly with a nice touch of colour still.

Half an hour after arriving I was setting up in a favoured swim at the top of the bend. I liked the look of the flow patterns. A boilie was cast out downstream on the crease line while I tackled up the other rod from scratch. It had started to rain so the brolly went up. Another reason for choosing this swim was that it felt more sheltered from the strong, and chilling, westerly. Lacking an ability to peg the brolly down that was a consideration. The tip of the first rod bounced back then pulled down as the lead shifted. I'd chance leaving it. The hook wasn't even tied on the second rod when the first tip began a merry dance. Then the rod hooped over and the reel started spinning. That hadn't taken long. It was only a tiny barbel but it meant I hadn't blanked and my run of luck was continuing. The rain even stopped!

Another blank saved

With two baits in the water I settled down to the customary bag filling exercise. A few were filled when the bucket lid blew off the rucksack and rolled along the bank towards the water. I ran after it and picked it up. As I turned round my brolly tumbled past me. And into the river. It was only in the edge, in an eddy that I thought was shallow. It was on its side. It would be easy enough to retrieve. I walked towards the umbrella to see it roll, the pole rising like Excalibur held aloft. Then it sank gracefully from sight. The eddy was deeper than I thought.

Now I had to try and get the blasted thing back. I wound in one of the rods and started casting around the slack. Ten minutes of fruitless casting and retrieving later I gave up. At least I now knew a bit about the slack. It might be worth fishing at certain levels. The bait was recast to mid river on the crease and I sat back to consider that my bad luck with umbrellas this season must be my punishment for catching too many barbel. I wasn't too bothered about losing the brolly. It was old and the cover was past its prime, pulling away from the rib ends and looking papery thin. The Gardner screw in pole was more heartfelt a loss. More rain fell and I zipped up the pockets on my ruckbag then tightened the cord round my jacket hood. It pulled right out. Now it would blow off my head and I'd get no shelter at all from the rain.

As I pondered which brolly to risk next time out - the amazing collapsing one (which lead me to buy two new ones, of which there is still no sign of a replacement for the exploding one) or the brand new heavyweight 45 incher - the downstream rod tip pulled over. The reel spun again and as soon as I felt the weight I knew this was no baby. The power was incredible. Line ticked off the spool with the rod hooped to its limit. Either someone had stocked mahseer or I'd hooked my brolly. I tried to get below the brolly (I'm sure that's what it was) to alter the angle of pull. As I did so the line grated and parted. The day was not going well. Another rig lost.

With a fresh rig tied and a bait out again I was restless. I don't know why because the swim looked good. It just felt wrong. The level had dropped an inch or two and I fancied a different swim. I moved the rods downstream. There were no leaves coming own to speak of, just a bit of slimy grass-like stuff. I reckoned a six ounce lead would hold well out. The rain had ceased and the sky looked clearer upwind. It only took ten minutes for a bite to materialise. True to the form of the day the rig was irretrievably snagged. Once more I retackled.

At ten to five, as the light was going, the same rod bounced. This time all went well and a small barbel was unhooked at the edge. Ten minutes after recasting the boilie rod was away again. This felt a better fish, but there was something not quite right. It was dark now so hard to see the line, the rod tip suggested that the line was entering the water rather closer than it should have been. Then everything went solid. The line was round something. I walked downstream and pulled to no avail. Back to the swim and put the rod back in the rests. Baitrunner on and line was taken. I took the slack back up and had a brew. A little line was taken then nothing. The brew finished I picked the rod up and felt for the fish. Nothing. I pointed the rod at the snag and took a step backwards. Movement. Another step. More movement. It seemed as if I was pulling the snag towards me. I began to pump line back on the reel and the snag kicked a little. The fish, as they often do after being left to find their way out of a snag, didn't fight. Not a massive fish but bigger than the other two put together.

Patience pays

By now I was considering when to fish until. If it started raining I'd pack up immediately, if not then I'd listen to the Archers before packing up. The upstream rod was fishing closer in than the downstream rod that had produced all the bites. I swapped them round and cast the upstream rod further out. At six twenty the upstream rod gave the inimitable performance of pulling down and springing back repeatedly as the lead was dragged downstream by a fish. Only a little one this time. After recasting the boilie I put a bigger lead on the downstream rod and cast that further across too. All was quiet. The Archers closing theme tune faded away. I began to wind in the downstream pellet rod. The rig was half way back when I caught sight of the other isotope performing it's upstream-bite performance. The rod I was holding was put in its rests and I wound down on the other rod. It took a while to take up all the slack but the fish was on. A second seven pounder.

I was tempted to chuck out again, but didn't. No sooner was I on the road home than I wished I had done. For the middle of November it's unseasonably mild. When I arrived the thermometer read 12, when I left it said 11. The river's in good nick, still eight degrees plus and nicely coloured. The barbel are feeding. Like my good fortune the weather can't last much longer.

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On the move

Saturday evening saw me doing something I hadn't done for a long time. Twisting up some pike traces. That done I removed my bait tubs and barbel box from my rucksack and replaced them with my cooking gear, drop-back alarms and pike box. Then I checked over my pike quiver and rods before going to bed early. All I'd have to do would be fill water bottle, throw the bacon and bread in the rucksack and get some deadbaits out of the freezer. I was going to have a day on a stillwater taking it easy. I must have been full of anticipation because I woke just before the alarm on Sunday morning. Then I turned the alarm off and considered my next move. Back to sleep. I knew the barbel were feeding on Friday. The river would have risen a touch with Friday night's rain but would be dropping back again. The leaves should have flushed through. An afternoon session might be productive.

The morning passed quickly with a little work then I swapped out the pike gear for the barbel stuff. Piking can wait until the barbel are hibernating. Lunch was the bacon I'd intended taking fishing. There wasn't much in the way of pack-up so it was honey sandwiches to accompany the flask. I was on my way on a still and warm afternoon. But with no idea where to head for. Somehow I ended up on the bleak stretch, another car following me into the muddy car park. I managed to park on firm ground. The other guys struggled a bit. After a chat we went our separate ways. I headed downstream to a spot I fancy when the river is up as much as it was. The level was falling steadily, hard to tell by how much when you haven't seen a stretch recently.

My baits were out as the church clock struck two. They held nicely on the crease and very little rubbish was collecting on the lines. Tiny fish were topping in the slack, with occasional larger swirls that could have been made by bigger fish feeding on them. Further down the river and angler was catching steadily on the float. I wished I'd picked up some maggots on Saturday as I'd half planned to do.

About an hour before dark I heard a wader calling as it flew upriver. As I spotted it I saw it jink and hit the water, disappearing. Most unusual for a wader. A split second later I saw the sparrowhawk that had been chasing it veer across the river and up into the trees behind me. Then the wader reappeared and flew back whence it came calling in continued alarm. I'm not great on identifying waders, especially at distance in the gloom against a dark river bank, but I think it was redshank.

That was all the action there was before dark. The clock struck five and a move was called for. My original plan was to walk upstream of the car park and have a try there. Back at the car my plan changed. The river higher up still would have fallen more, the leaves that had been an irritation on Friday should be non-existent, I might be able to hold out further across if I fished the same swim again. How to get there? I chose the scenic route for no particular reason other than it was easier, if longer.

It seems odd turning up to fish an evening session in the dark. But arriving at six o'clock is actually a fair bit earlier than I get to the river during the summer. It's not without its drawbacks though. You don't have time to get your casting muscle memory tuned so you can hit the same place reasonably accurately like you can when fishing an hour or two in a swim in daylight. You can't always read the flow too well either. So long as you know the swims it's not too bad though.

The sky was clear, no rain forecast until I'd be long tucked up in bed, no cars parked up meaning my swim would be free so I left the brolly in the car to lighten the load. The level had indeed fallen. I wanted to position myself further downstream than Friday. The bank, though, was deep in leaves. Even with the legs of my chair at full extension I was sat too low. The silt was also a mess. In the end I put the chair well back on almost firm ground, but had to sit with my feet in mud. An hour after packing up downstream I was cast out again. Not without trouble.

Winding in my downstream rig it had found the rock pile I was hoping held a fish rather too well. The hook had parted company with the line. That needed replacing. More annoyingly the other rig, which I'd hoped to cast straight out, maybe with a fresh bait on, had got tangled up on the walk to the swim. Try as I might it would not untangle. Sweat was running down my forehead when I arrived at the swim, I was hot and bothered, my specs steaming up making it impossible to see the knotted line. I had to cut and start again. With two baits cast out it was time to cool down and have a brew.

Again the rigs were holding easily. Again nothing much was happening. No chub or eel bites to make me leap up in anticipation. England got hammered by the South Africans and I was beginning to feel the river was going to hammer me too. The night was particualrly black. There wasn't much I could make out in the woods. But it was mild and windless. Not unpleasant. I'd give it three hours or so. I was leaving the baits out for almost an hour at a time. Nothing of note was collecting on the lines and even three ounces was holding well enough.

At ten to nine the downstream rod, with the Oyster and Mussel boilie, began doing a chub dance. The fish felt more like an eel, but was indeed a chub of a pound and a half, or thereabouts. I rebaited, put on a fresh pellet bag, recast and sat back down. This cast I chanced a little closer to the snags. It only took five minutes for the tip to pull down and stay down. Then the ight and sound show started. Immediately I pulled into the fish I got the feeling it was decent. Certainly no chub. As it rolled ready for the net the size of it's mouth suggested a scales job would be called for. With the net laying in the edge I got the sling and scales. As I stepped forward to dunk the sling my left foot sank through what had looked to be leaves on the bank but turned out to be quickleaves. Like quicksand but leaves. My foot was damp and cold.

"A double's a double"

Although the fish looked, and felt, heavier she only just scraped over the ten pound mark. Rather lean of belly she was. The fish was popped back in the net rather than messing around with the sack while I got hot and bothered again finding somewhere solid enough for the bulb release to work. The fish felt really cold as I held her for the camera. A few snaps and back she went. Out went a new bait to the same spot and time for a brew.

There wasn't much tea left. Surprisingly my wet foot wasn't cold so I wasn't miserable, but the honey sandwiches hadn't been too filling and hunger was setting in. I clung on for an hour more. The boilie rod tip had pulled down and sprung back shortly after being recast. I had a nagging feeling I knew why nothing more had materialised. Sure enough it was snagged solid when I came to wind in. Oh well. It hadn't been a bad session. I'd put some effort in and caught.

A nice run of settled weather wouldn't go amiss right now, even if it means the river going low and clear. I could get that stillwater pike session in, or do some serious chubbing. But the weather is predicted to be unsettled this coming week, so it's looking like barbel fishing will have to be slotted in when the time is right. If that fits in with work commitments.

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The Lancastrian Salt Circle

My morning was spent dealing with a customer and visiting the bank. When I returned home it was lunch time, after which the sun broke through and spurred me into action. I was spoiled for choice as to where to go and what to fish for. A stillwater roach session was considered. Or would it be a short pike session on a drain, river roaching or barbelling? My customer had had a few barbel on Wednesday. That decided me. There'd be colder conditions for the roach and chub later in the winter.

Yet again a silver trail led up my rod quiver to a missing pellet and a chewed boilie. It's time to get the salt out and ring the floor where the quiver stands. That'll sort the buggers. With winter on its way I have switched to my Korum Ruckbag. I don't need the extra carrying capacity of my Aqua rucksack as I'm now wearing the bunny suit and waterproof bib and brace from the off. My fleece gets folded up and stuffed into the chair which is clipped to the bag. And very nicely it all carries too.

I wasn't sure what state the river would be in. There'd been rain since Sunday, but dry spells too. At first glance it looked to have risen. But when I arrived at the swim I'd fished last it had dropped some eighteen inches. I carried on upstream, disturbing a female goosander that winged her way upstream, and fished two rods close in where the water was slower than the main push. I spent three quarters of an hour tying up bags of pellets and watching the upstream rod tip, the rig cast a little further out, gradually pulling down. The spool on the baitrunner turning ever so slowly as leaves gathered on the line. I wasn't convinced by my swim selection so the rods were moved, followed by the rest of the gear.

The move had put me on the beach, or rather up the bank from it as the river was still a good foot or more up on NSL. The willow was on dry land today though. The bank was covered in freshly deposited leaves and other vegetable debris, with a covering of silt in places. Quite a difficult surface to walk on. I was just in time to switch the radio on for the start of England's first match of the South Africa tour (a twenty-twenty evening match) - SA being two hours ahead of us. Sanity has returned and I can again fish and listen to cricket.

Almost back to normal

As the light faded so the sky clouded over. There was rain forecast to move in later. I was hoping it would be much later, but it wasn't. Up with the ancient umbrella (my broken one has not yet been replaced) to discover a new hole in the cover. Near the pole, so it won't let water drip on me directly. I was glad there was no wind as this brolly went into retirement when the loop at the top where guy ropes attach broke off. I poured myself a cup of my flask tea, I use QT instant tea with milk in my flask, and I thought how similar the colour of the tea and the river were.

Now it was dark and rainy. The wind seemed to be picking up, coming off my back for a change, putting a bit of north in it. Rain had reached the cricketers too. I poured another full cup of tea and contemplated my tactics. Hope was fading although the rigs were holding out well. With the water temperature quite low at 8c I am in winter mode and like to leave baits out as long as possible. Every so often, at least thirty minutes, I'd move the baits around the swim. Not having any clues as to where the barbel would be with the level as it was, and not being able to hold out where they usually were, that seemed like a good strategy.

With one sip taken from the cup, the radio barely audible above the pattering of rain on the taut nylon of my brolly I heard a faint whirring sound. The isotope on the downstream rod, which had been cast further downstream still, wasn't where it should have been. It was much nearer the water and the rod was arced right over. Somehow I put the cup down without spilling the tea and grabbed the rod. There was a fish on, but it wasn't a big one and was easily dragged over the net. I left it in the margin while I finished off the brew before it went cold.

With a fresh bait cast out I took shelter once more. England were handed victory courtesy of Messrs. Duckworth and Lewis, and I felt I had been too. At eight I packed up. The recently dropped silt made the usual path out of the swim rather slippy to negotiate fully laden so I took an alternative route. Here the incline up the terrace was less steep but the silt soft like snow. So I used the snow climber's technique of digging the toes of my boots in to make steps. It worked a treat and I was up on the top of the bank without mishap. The rain was easing. the wind, however was not. The further I walked from the lee of the escarpment the stronger the wind blew. What rain there was in the air was coming almost horizontally. Back at the car the wind was howling through the beech trees.

Driving up the lane, the rain stopped completely and the thermometer reading a degree warmer than when I had arrived I wondered if I had left too soon. On the motorway, as rain lashed across the carriageway and the car was buffeted I thought not. Back home and it was warmer still, rainless but windy. Maybe I had. But best not risk it. That wind was going to get worse - and it is Friday the 13th!

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Slimed

For the first time in ages the day dawned dry and stayed that way. There had been sunshine between the showers all week, but as soon as I thought I'd get the gear together another heavy shower would set in. So I spent the week working. Sunday was too good to miss as the temperature soared and the sun shone. Well, got pleasantly warm.

Things didn't go smoothly. First of all there was a strange smell rising from my rucksack as I packed the flask and food. This was traced to my lucky cap. It wasn't exactly savoury to start with but the mould growing on it put me right off wearing it. Another cap was thrown in to take its place. Then I got the rods out and found one boilie gone and the other chewed, a shiny mess of dried slug slime encasing it.

Nice

I knew the river would be up and coloured. Earlier in the week the barbel would have been feeding hard, the mess of leaves would have made fishing difficult so I wasn't too worried about missing out on that pleasure. The car park was empty, which surprised me with the sun shining after a week of rain. I'd have plenty of river to go at. The level was high, about four or five feet up. There was a spot I fancied would be fishable and sheltered from leaves. That was where I headed, looking for other likely places to drop a bait or two in later.

The field that had been mown a few weeks ago was now short but lush grass, and in the distance it was being grazed by sheep. Sheep in the valley are a sure sign of winter. The cattle are in their sheds to prevent them churning up the land, while the sheep's dainty hooves do less damage. Across the water a few leaves were clinging on desperately to the trees on the lower slope of the bank, the high branches that catch the wind now stark and bare.

With the river so high I was set up on the first terrace of the bank, my baits dropping on, or just past, where my chair would normally be placed. The rigs held out pretty well with the main flow angling across the river. For a change I had one rod baited with a lump of luncheon meat. A sure fire floodwater bait. So I'm told.

I'd normally be sat beyond the willow

Occasionally a rig would shift. Few leaves were fouling the line though. But no bites materialised. A kingfisher alighted on a lone hogweed stalk to my right then zoomed off, low across the water. A grey wagtail landed and wagged its tail. A lightning fast thin brown streak passed from right to left turning into a wren when it stopped. As the light began to fade it happened. The tip of the meat rod began to jag down. As I reached for the handle it stopped. Then jagged again. It had to be a chub. That's all I ever get on meat. It sure felt like a chub when I tightened to it. But it wasn't. It was an unseasonable eel.

The river was on its way down. Dropping at least an inch an hour. The leaves becoming less and less of a problem. For some reason I wasn't happy. At twenty to six I packed the gear as the mist began to rise from the water and headed downstream. Hovering at sheep-level was a pall of mist, the air above it clear showing the warm lights from houses on the ridge to the north where the river had flowed in the distant past. A belated bonfire burned in the distance, having resonances more to do with the coming of winter than the punishment of a terrorist. There's something ancient about the valley after dark.

The spot I most fancied fishing was below a big slack. The bank quite steep, but grassy. I think I'd left it too late, though, as the depth was less than I'd have liked and the level seemed to be falling faster. That's one problem of moving after dark when the river is on the way down or up, you can't get a good look at the flow patterns. This is made more difficult when you don't know the stretch all that well. There is a spot I know, but no longer have a ticket for, where I'd have been confident, and happy, to fish with the river as it was. Or I would have a few years back. It could have changed since I last fished it.

Although the sky had cleared I wasn't feeling the cold. My feet were warm. Even so my heart wasn't in it. By eight I'd had enough. Partly it was because I didn't have much confidence in the swim, or the options open to me. Also niggling away at me was the urge to spend a day by a stillwater for a change.

The car's thermometer read 5.5c, rising a couple of degrees as I left the river. It didn't seem that the forecast frost was likely. When I looked out this morning it had arrived. The cloudless blue sky and still air suggesting winter is on its way.

---

Full moon

This time I managed to set off an hour earlier. For some reason it didn't help matters much. The afternoon was so gloomy I had the sidelights on as I drove to the river. There were five cars in the car park, and with a long walk to the river I envisioned having a long walk back to the car without fishing. As it turned out I passed four anglers, one landing what looked like a chub from a distance, on my way to the bend. Above him there was plenty of room before the final angler's spot. In fact when I settled in my chosen swim I might as well have had the river to myself as I couldn't see any other anglers.

The walk had taken longer than expected, partly due to struggling over two stiles, stopping to look at a swim closer to the car, and stopping to put my waterproof jacket on when the rain started. Oh, and nearly getting lost and tangled up in a thorny thicket didn't help.

Where I was fishing the gravel was covered in a thick carpet of leaves. Maybe more than six inches deep it was like walking on a thick pile carpet. So many leaves were there that what looked like the edge of the river wasn't. Not only were there leaves sunk to the bottom in the visible margin, there was a false bank of waterlogged leaves. Netting and returning fish would be fun! Because of this I put the rod rests in well back from the water on firm ground, my landing net laid across the quaking mass of leaves, its handle propped up on a bankstick. That long handle might prove useful in keeping my feet dry.

Leaves, leaves and more leaves

My usual approach was put into action. A 15mm Oyster and Mussel boilie going upstream between two fallen trees, dropping just short enough to keep out of trouble, and a 10mm Crab and Crayfish boilie going below the biggest tree. Both with their attendant PVA mesh bags of mixed pellets. The rain had eased off so, after a sandwich and a brew, I started bagging more pellets. It would be come impossible if the rain became persistent later on.

Well back from the edge

This was the cue for the upstream rod to start banging. A typical chub bite. Or was it. When the fish neared the edge, I was paddling in the leaf soup, it took line. A small barbel maybe? No, it was a chub. A lovely conditioned fish too. I hoped it would make five, but it fell short by just under half a pound. Nice enough for a rubbish photo though. The Olympus compact I use really isn't up to much for flash shots.

A much manipulated chub

Two hours later the same rod danced again. This time the fish fell off as I was trying to get the mesh on the landing net untangled. What it was I'm not sure, I rather suspect it to have been another chub. The action wasn't really hectic. With the walk being so long, and the sole of my right foot beginning to hurt when I walked I came up with a plan. Rather than sit it out where I was and have to tramp all the way back to the car in one go, braving the thorns in the dark, I'd move downstream and spend a few hours in the swim I'd stopped to inspect earlier. By eight o'clock, having survived the thorns with one minor tangling incident, I was there. Or rather a swim lower down. This swim had been occupied when I arrived. Some bait would have gone in already...

Away from the shelter of the high wooded bank I was getting the full force of the blustery wind. The rain had come back too. I put my rods on bite alarms so I could hear them above the wind noise, then erected my ancient umbrella. I've fished this area a few times in the past and struggled to be honest. As far as I can tell it's a bit featureless. I suppose I should spend some time investigating it as it does produce big barbel and chub. But I find it a little bleak and depressing.

I'd been ensconced in the swim for an hour and a half and was dozing pleasantly when the night lit up with flashing orange and a piercing scream. Bugger me. A fish! Only a small barbel of fourish pounds. Welcome nonetheless. Would there be more? I didn't wait around much longer to find out. An hour later I was putting on my waterproofs ready for the tramp back to the car. This was noted by the rain gods who stopped pouring water from the sky as soon as I got to the top of the bank. I could see just one car in the car park as I slogged up the final rise. Luckily it was mine. The last silly sod off the river as usual.

As I rounded the final bend before entering the flatlands on my journey home, just before the spot two roe deer had crossed the road one night, my headlights picked out the unmistakeable shape of a bare human bum. As I passed by I saw that it was attached to the pasty legs of a young lady (looking somewhat 'tired and emotional') who was pulling her pants up at the side of a wheelie bin. There was a tiny snail creeping up my garage door when I returned home. The things you see because of fishing...

A modest snail

---

Not finished yet

Once again work kept me away from the river until Thursday, and then I still left it a bit late. The clocks changing has really messed my timing up. I fancied a crack at a stretch I haven't fished yet this season, but as I was running late and the walk involved is long I changed my mind and headed for the last length I fished. With just three days of the salmon season left the desperate rod wafters were out in force. There wasn't much space in the car park. Only two barbel anglers were in evidence and one was getting ready to leave. There had been a few barbel caught during the day, and the guy who was leaving even landed one while I was waiting to jump in his swim.

The river was back down, and no nasty leaves were coming down. Looking in the margins they were forming a carpet in the slack margins. Next time the river rises they'll be on the move again making life difficult. The warm weather was continuing, and while it was a balmy 16 degrees the sky was overcast, the wind coming from the opposite side of the river I was sheltered by the high bank.

It wasn't long before a chub rattled the downstream rod. I was guaranteed a good session. The baits had been out an hour, the light gone, when I had a proper bite to the same rod. There was nothing there- except a bit of twig on the hook point. After removing the wood I was attaching a fresh bag of pellets to the hook when the other baitrunner whirred. Everything was solid so I left the rod in the rest while I recast the downstream rod. When I returned to the snagged rod I could do nothing with it and had to pull for a break.

A further hour passed, with another rig snagged and lost, before I connected with a barbel of eight pounds to the downstream rod fishing a 15mm boilie. It wasn't as hectic as I had expected. At eight I moved upstream and had the baits out again fifteen minutes later. It only took fifteen more minutes for the downstream rod, with a 10mm Crab and Crayfish boilie on the end of the rig, to lurch over. A good scrap ensued and I netted a chunkier fish than the first. It was twenty minutes later when the other rod, with the bigger bait, nodded as the lead bounced down the river bed. A bigger fish was landed after another good fight. This proved to be a fish I had seen earlier in the season. The marks near its tail were recognisable, now healed but unsightly although no longer red raw.

On the mend

Every so often the wind would swing and I could hear it rustling the leaves, many evidently falling to the ground - and no doubt preparing themselves to leap into the river when it rises again. That wasn't the only sound to penetrate the darkness from the far bank. Next there was the cackling of badgers squabbling. This was followed by incoherent shouting from the small house tucked into a fold of the bank at the side of the wood. I was glad to have the river as a barrier. Everything returned to peaceful silence after that interlude of insanity.

The sky cleared somewhat and the moon, heading towards full, shone brightly. The air wasn't damp. I was wishing I was out for the whole night. As my eyelids drooped I really fancied crawling into a sleeping bag in my bivvy and putting the kettle on - maybe frying a slice of bread. Despite the conditions there was no action on the rods for ages. It was twenty past ten when the tip of the downstream rod, which I had cast further down river, twitched repeatedly. I wasn't sure what I had hooked, either a chub or a small barbel. I'll never know as it fell off as it neared the net. Twenty minutes later I had a more positive bite to the same rod. That one fell off rather sooner.

By now I was considering giving up, but I was listening to something on the radio and decided to stop until Today in Parliament came on. With ten minutes to go the downstream rod was away again. This time the fish stayed hooked and proved to be a really baby of just a couple of pounds or so. By the time I was on my way back to the car the sky had clouded over again. This weather pattern is supposed to continue for a few more days yet. I'd better have another barbel session or two while it does.

---

All good things

If I had my way the clocks wouldn't go back for the winter they'd go forward another hour. Anyway, I blame the end of British Summer Time for me making a late start for the river. I knew it would be too dark to see the state of the water by the time I got to any stretch, so headed for a length I know well enough to pick a swim on level alone and not have to see the flow patterns as I was expecting the river to be up. It was carrying about three feet. The first cast proved that this was two feet eleven inches of leaves.

My first move had been to walk downstream to check out a swim, then walk back upstream to get a bit of shelter from the wind so I could put my stove on. Having nothing in the cupboards to make sandwiches, and having left it too late to go buy anything, I'd put a pan and a tin of beans in with the stove. Even with six ounce leads on the rigs were dragging round as I polished off the beans. When I'd drunk a cup of flask tea I moved down as I thought the lower swim would be less leaf ridden. It wasn't. If anything it was worse.

Grub up

When I found a spot where one rig would hold I moved the other rod above it. That held too, but it was fishing very close in. A few light spots of rain fell as I tied up some PVA mesh. I moved camp a little to sit below the top of the bank so I could get some shelter from the almost gale force wind that was blowing upstream over my right shoulder. Although the wind was roaring through the trees on the far bank, their tops almost completely bare of leaves now, it was much reduced in force where I was. The rain got heavier so I put my brolly up. The ground now softer than it had been all summer the pole pushed in easily and I pegged out the guy ropes to hold everything in place.

The brolly was obscuring my view of the downstream rod, and the wind noise meant I might not hear the baitrunner. I dug out an alarm and stuffed it under the rod. A few gusts pushed the rights side of the brolly towards me. It was nothing much. I've fished in stronger winds.

As the night was another mild one, the rain was easing and the rigs were now holding station much better even though the rods were arcing over, I began to feel more confident. Then a gust of wind hit from in front. The brolly lifted on the pole then with a loud crack some ribs snapped and it turned inside out. I've been fishing for almost forty years. I have never had a brolly turn inside out like that and I have fished in conditions when I have had to hold on to brollies to stop them taking off, when they have almost wrapped themselves around me. I was not happy.

No comment

Of course as soon as the umbrella exploded the rain eased off. By then I'd had enough. The mortal remains of the brolly were stuffed in my quiver and the rods followed. It had been a short session - less than an hour's fishing time. I don't usually let the conditions beat me. If I'd arrived in daylight I might have found a spot where the leaves could have been avoided for longer. The inverted brolly was just too much for me. I knew that my run of good luck with the barbel would come to an end in ignominious fashion. And it had.

The irony of this umbrella fiasco is that having used the Fibre-lite brolly a few times and being happy with it I had sold my old 50 inch umbrella to an acquaintance who had had his umbrella blow across the river and into a tree last week.

They really don't make umbrellas like they used to. I'll be rummaging out my ancient, and much patched, brolly for next time. It's over fifteen years old now but the frame is still in good nick. The one that preceded it lasted almost ten years if I remember right. I can recall that in the early '90s fishing umbrellas were made in England and the trade catalogues listed spares so they could be repaired - ribs, poles, covers, the works. Not so these days. I've had nowt but trouble with the ones I've bought in recent years. If the covers aren't loose and flappy the locking mechanism fails at crucial moments, the rivets on the 'hinges' fail and now the ribs snap! You'd think someone could make a strong, reliable, not too heavy, fishing umbrella that isn't garish.

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Fishing as therapy

This week hadn't been going well. Man Flu was bad enough - constant sneezing and soaking handkerchiefs. Then work started going wrong. On Wednesday I was in the mood to pack it all in and become a hermit. When Thursday came round the world was looking rosier, the sneezing had stopped for one thing and the sun was shining. After lunch I headed to my local tackle shop, only to find a note on the door saying 'Closed for lunch. Back at 1.30'. It was 1.35, so I walked to the café to kick them out!

I picked up a bag of feed pellets to chuck into my big pellet bucket and a Fox lure box to organise my small spools of whipping thread - the unusual colours that I use mostly for repairs and tippings. They've been jumbled up in an old ice-cream tub for far too long. On the way home I bought some corn dog for butties, and once they were made I was on my way. With the day unseasonably warm the river was calling me. An evening by the river would help me get my head together and revitlise me.

A rainbow in a box

The journey was somewhat tedious, I should have set off sooner to beat the traffic, and I had no clear idea where I was heading. Would the river be up and coloured, or would it have fined off again after the rain earlier in the week? The car made it's way to the stretch I fished last time out. It's a peaceful stretch, and even if busy there's always somewhere to cast a bait.

This time it wasn't too busy. Two anglers who were packing up said it had been a struggle. The river was not as high as I expected, hardly up at all and dropping. The colour wasn't much either. By all accounts there wasn't much in the way of leaves or debris causing problems. I wasn't brim full of confidence nor was I despondent. Something would come along at some point.

It was a two boilie approach this time. One rod fishing a 15mm Oyster and Mussel - it's been doing well so stick with it, the other a 10mm Crab and Crayfish - got to give them a fair trial. Sitting on the beach they were cast well apart to cover different parts of the bend. I dropped them both a little shorter than usual in an attempt to avoid the snags, hoping fish would still find them.

I was settled down by six, the light was fading early as the sky had clouded over. The first spots of rain pattered on the river, the wind was coming from a southerly direction and the far bank keeping it off me. Gradually the rain increased in intensity and I put on the waterproofs while sat under my brolly. That was when the upstream rod tip jagged down a couple of times and I found myself pulling in a dead weight. It was definitely a fish but it felt very odd. Half way in it seemed to come off, only to come back as I took in slack. It was either very big and lazy, or something was up. When it rolled on the surface I could see it was hooked in a pelvic fin. A bemused looking barbel of some seven pounds.

Ten minutes later, while I was rebaiting, the downstream rod fishing the Crab and Crayfish bait steamed off. Just to make me eat my words about how Ribble chub never do that... This was a very lean fish of four pounds. I wondered if these boilies were chub magnets like Mainline's NRG paste. I tried NRG a few years back, both as a paste bait and a wrap with boilies. It did catch barbel, but chub (and bream) seemed to make a beeline for it and it was abandoned as a barbel bait. Please don't let the Crab and Crayfish be the same.

I'm well into the mode of leaving baits out as long as possible now. I can't see the point in putting too much bait out when the temperatures are falling. It was twenty-five past seven when the 10mm bait was off again as the rain eased. There was no mistaking this fish for a chub. A steady plod gave the game away. Barbel would eat the Crab and Cray. When netted the shoulder width suggested another camera session would be called for. It was. But it didn't go smoothly. No sooner had I got the tripod set up and a test shot taken for framing than the batteries died in the camera. Off the tripod, put in the spare cells, try again. Camera dead. Back off the tripod and battery compartment opened to reveal one put in the wrong way round. Third time lucky. Fish out of the sack, photos taken, fish returned.

Room to fill out some more

The night was warm, I was working up a sweat with the waterproofs over the top of the bunny suit and the swim looked like a whirlwind had hit it. As I rearranged it to a semblance of order the upstream rod slammed over. This fish looked as long as the last one in the net, but on the mat was skinnier and lacking in the shoulder department. Not even nine pounds. With the rain looking like it had gone for good I sat it out until half nine. My hopes were fading though. Not least because the sky had cleared and a light mist was forming. An early finish or move? Move. As I packed up the sky clouded over and the mist lifted.

Half an hour later I was settled in the swim where I had tumbled down the bank earlier in the season. It was less overgrown now with less to trip over. With the river being lower than back then I went for long chucks on both rods. It only took fourteen minutes for the downstream rod to rip off in decisive fashion as yet another chub proved my judgement wrong. A bit of a baby this time. Ten minutes later the Crab and Cray provided me with a small barbel, boosting my confidence in the bait. I thought about making another move, but by eleven thirty without another bite I decided to give it best.

Two good things gained from the session were the barbel on the new bait and the small one from the second swim. I had it down as maybe a better bet for barbel when the river was carrying extra water, but now I think there's a chance of a fish anywhere along the length. Maybe moving regularly is the secret to fishing the uniform appearing stretches. It has worked for me on another length.

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An away day

Once again an early start was avoided. I had planned to be up and out by eight at the latest, but it was nearly nine thirty before I hit the road to Stoneleigh for the Tackle and Guns trade show. After many years of driving to Stoneleigh I have finally found a straightforward route. The most tedious bit was the M6 which was restricted to a 50 limit in three or four sections of road works that weren't being worked.

I'd only just arrived when I got tapped on the shoulder by John Watson and then I bumped into my friends from my local tackle shop. And so it went on for the usual couple of hours - walking round the stands in circles, looking at new products, chatting to people about tackle and fishing - and annoying the Scousers on the Harrison stand! It's always a good day to catch up with folks, and this year it seemed to be busy.

While I was noseying around the Korum/Sonubaits/Preston Innovations stand I spied a lot of new gear from Korum. Bigger rucksacks and Ruckbag, some daftly large rod holdalls, some nice looking bits-bags and a wheelbarrow. There might have been more. Chris Ponsford gave me a couple of bags of Sonubaits Crab and Crayfish shelflife boilies - which don't smell of much - but which he reckons catch plenty of barbel. I thought I'd give them ago on my way home. The gear was in the back of the car after all.

I like freebies. But will the fish?

The good news from the show is that Owner hooks will be available again very soon. The bad news is that they have gone up in price. I might also have something new to stock, but that's to be decided by price at a later date.

With everything looked at twice it was back to the car, drink some tea and set off across country to wet a line in a river I haven't fished since March. On paper the road I'd chosen looked like it would be quick. When I took it it turned out to be a mass of roundabouts, speed limits and Sunday drivers. As I passed Magnas and Parvas in the rolling countryside, the trees in their full autumn glory, I was struck by how built up the north west is. How close together the towns are and how the villages sprawl along the A roads. There is countryside, but it is not so expansive.

The river was deserted. I walked down the bank and the popular swims were not trampled. Then again with the lack of rain they wouldn't be as badly as affected in any case. Things had changed, the Rat Hole was closed in more by the willows, the bank altered too. I drove on downstream. Here two anglers were roving with float tackle and I spent another half hour or so walking the banks. The river was low and clear, gravel beds clearly visible but not much weed to be seen. The path through the undergrowth took different turns to last year at this time. Again swims looked under fished. Some were grown over. As I retraced my steps the angler who had been in the only swim I fancied under the conditions had gone. With the swim being less than fifty yards from the car, and my legs being tired that was where I'd fish.

After dropping my gear at the water's edge I flicked away the dog turds from the grass above with a bankstick. I had no desire to put a foot, or a hand, in them in the dark. I took my time setting up. With the water so clear I didn't hold out much hope until nightfall. My rigs were in disarray. One hook was gone, it having snagged up when I wound in last time out. This one was rigged to fish a 15mm boilie. The other rig I knew had a hook which had been resharpened. With a chance of a really big fish to be had from this river I'm less slapdash with my set ups. A fresh hooklink was tied up to take one of my newly acquired 10mm boilies. Before sorting the rods out I put some bait in. Having forgotten my bait droppers, and faced with a fair flow and depth, I picked a handful of stones from the field behind me and tied up some PVA stocking - dropping a stone in with the pellet mix. Half a dozen of the weighted bags were thrown in downstream just out from the edge, then two handfuls of pellets scattered like corn over the top.

The white blob at the right is the stone

Then the baits were cast out. The small boilie went over the feed, the larger one to an overhanging tree on the far bank. It actually went in the tree but I pulled it free... The cast ended up just the right side of some debris trailing from the branches, so I was happy enough. Time to polish off the sandwiches.

There were a few leaves coming down with the flow and every so often the line on the upstream rod would look to have shifted. With darkness near I decided to have a recast in readiness. I picked the rod up and found it snagged. I pulled and the trailing debris below the tree moved. I pulled again and it all felt spongy. The debris was attached to some line that had been caught in the tree and snapped off. It was probably mono by the feel of things so I'd have no problem either snapping it or dragging it clear with my braid. Not so. I pulled hard and something parted with a crack like a whip. Braid doesn't usually do this. My line had parted and shot towards me, some of the slack wrapping itself round both my rod and the line between the rings. I tried to untangle it but ended up reaching for the scissors. The floating debris had returned to it's station.

I'd got as far in the retackling process as clipping on the lead when the baitrunner came alive on the nearside rod. The culprit was a chub of ten or twelve ounces. Fin perfect and a confidence booster for the new bait. Why don't Ribble chub always take off like that? I dropped the far bank bait short of the tree on the recast then put the near side rod out again.

It wasn't long before the big bait was taken. The bite was one of those that slams the tip down and causes the rod to rattle in the rest as it almost bounces right out of it. Typical chub bite. And so it proved. A bigger fish, but far from a monster.

A nicely conditioned chub

It was well dark by now but the fields were still being worked. Crops being sprayed and soil being rolled with heavy harrows clanking in the distance. Another of those mild nights that was a pleasure to be out in. But not one which filled me with barbel confidence. The next bite was another rip-roarer to the small bait that turned out to be yet another chub. A five-pound-long fish that I weighed at four and a half.

If I had been closer to home I'd have moved, but I was feeling tired for some reason and getting home at two a.m. didn't appeal. As Watto and I agreed earlier in the day, we fish for our own enjoyment not to prove a point. Rather than move I called it a day shortly after nine. I'll be back again. Either for barbel when the river's carrying extra water, or later on when I'll have my chub gear with me - and maybe a float rod for the grayling.

The drive home was livened up by an alder fly that had found its way into the car and was crawling over the side window in a confused manner. Until it took to the wing. Then it chose to land on my head and crawl down my neck. I can't advise swatting at insects while doing 70 in heavy traffic.

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Perfection

It never cease to amaze me how easy it is to upset people on the internet. Delicate flowers get in a tizzy now and then over what I consider to be throwaway lines. Nowt so queer as folk! Spilt milk and all that. So if you ever take offence at something I say here or elsewhere I'll let Joe E. Brown's closing words make my excuses...

If you don't know the film click here

With work going almost exactly to plan I went fishing, even though I didn't make my escape until it was nearly dark. Seeing three vehicles in the car park I expected the bend to be packed out so I'd have an ideal opportunity to give that swim I keep meaning to try a bash as it's always been free. As I approached it I saw the dim green glow of two isotopes and a red head torch in the swim. Blooming typical!

The day had been warm and with the cloud cover it was staying that way. No fleece was required under the bunny suit and no woolly hat. For some reason I can't stand wearing a baseball cap after dark, it seems to restrict my vision, so my thinning hair was exposed to the night. As it turned out the swim I fished last time out was free, but had been fished during the day. It wasn't where I wanted to fish but I was still confident as conditions were perfect - which was why I'd set out in the gloaming.

Carrying as small pellet bucket a long way can cut into your hand if it has a thin wire handle. Larger buckets usually come fitted with grips, but the smaller ones do not. If yours doesn't then the answer is simple. Pop one end of the wire out (you might need a lever of some sort), slide a length of hosepipe over it, then pop the wire back in.

Deluxe bucket modification

Just after I'd set up there were some peculiar warbling, throaty trilling noises from the wood, which then progressed behind me and upstream fading away into the distance. Definitely a bird of some sort, but what I have not a clue. Most peculiar.

The first bite was a long time coming. I'd just wound in the upstream boilie rod to find a foulhooked eel attached (how long it had been there is anyone's guess) when the pellet rod was away. The fish felt ponderous. It got slightly upstream of me, and at the point I reached to slacken the drag a notch it fell off. Checking the hook point I found it was turned over ever so slightly. A touch with the file and out went a fresh pellet followed by a new boilie. Twenty minutes later the boilie was away and a seven pounder landed. The lost fish had felt a bit bigger. There was bound to be more action to come.

The sky stayed cloudy, the wind minimal, the air toasty. It was ideal but the barbel thought otherwise. After those two bites in short order it went quiet again. A small chub took a pellet, another eel hooked itself behind its head and failed to make its presence known. I was glad I'd left the luncheon meat behind or the eels would certainly have been on it. Around eleven a light mist rose up across the fields and the air began to cool slightly. By midnight I was on my way to the car. Baffled, but not despondent. Text book conditions don't always provide textbook results.

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Don't make plans, take opportunities

It was looking like I'd be tied up pretty much all of the coming week, and there were night time frosts forecast. Better hit the river then. Another gut feeling saw the car carry on past the track it had been drawn down the afternoon before. The stretch looked deserted and the wind, chilly as it was, from a direction that wouldn't have made the fishing uncomfortable. The lure of a bank that wasn't vertical and slippy was too much. I got my timing a bit wrong though. It was getting dark as I put the rucksack on my back and made the short walk to the swim.

Out went a boilie, well upstream, then a pellet downstream. I sat down to check the position of my chair would allow me to grab either rod easily when I had to leap up and grab the downstream rod! A scamp was unhooked at the water's edge. Before I could rebait I was playing a fish on the upstream rod. A slightly larger scamp. The gear was arranged to my satisfaction before both rods were recast.

And so it progressed for most of the session. Not quite so hectic, but bites at regular intervals. The third and fourth bites resulted in dropped fish. The fourth one right at the net, which never happens to me. I didn't change the hooks or resharpen them, although they were checked, and everything else hooked stayed hooked. Hook pulls just happen. I no longer fret about them. Write them off and move on.

At quarter past nine a barbel bite resulted in a small but immaculate chub. At eleven the same rod, fishing the pellet, slammed down and bounced in the rest, then slammed down again. The fish pulled a bit at first then gave up until it was under the rod end. I couldn't work out what was going on until a large pair of white lips revealed themselves over the landing net. Peering down in the faltering light from my Petzl I saw a chub that might just need weighing. After confirming the weight I rested it in the net while I set up the tripod. Normally I wouldn't bother with a self-take, but large (to me) immaculate chub are like large immaculate (I refuse to say 'pristine') roach. Scarce. These two species always seem to lose scales as they age. This chub was near as dammit scale perfect. As ever I failed to capture this with the camera.

Almost mint

The sky was clear, the stars and aeroplane lights bright, there was no mist on the water despite the cool air and the haze up the valley. It was a pleasure to stop until midnight. I'd caught a few barbel, seven in fact- including the Kinkster which had visited my net for the sixth time this season, I think. It had been fun. I'd pushed my barbel count for the season to an all time high (which isn't saying much). But the highlight had been the chub. One big fish or a lot of middling fish? I'll take the loner every time. Then again, I do like getting the rods bent.

---

In two minds

Out and about on Saturday morning I spotted some surface feeding chub on a little river. I picked up a pint of maggots with the intention of having a dabble for them, the day being warm and dry. The attraction soon wore off, and even though I very nearly put the quiver tip rod in the sling and the maggots in the rucksack the lure of barbel was too much to resist.

Fancying a change of scenery I thought I'd head for a stretch I've yet to fish. This meant driving past a length that I have fished before. When I got close to it the car seemed to turn down the track of its own accord. This is a bleak stretch at the best of times. Once tucked down the bank all there is to stare at is the opposite bank and the sky. Occasional cows, dog walkers and anglers break the skyline, but that's about it. There's a lack of interesting looking swims too. But it's a challenge.

Boring

After parking up I walked downstream where there were five anglers enjoying mixed success. Mostly with smallish fish on the float and some better roach on the tip. I was beginning to wish I'd put those maggots in the bag. Given the choice of ten pounds of bits or one ten pound barbel there was only one winner. The swim I fancied was vacant, but with the other anglers around I didn't want to drop in between them. I turned round and headed back upstream.

While it was warm there was a chilling wind so the bunny suit was welcome. Walking to the upstream limit got me warmed up though. Nowhere appealed. Well, nowhere I could see that was fishable. Heading back to the car to wrestle with my recalcitrant flask top and pour a brew a flock of goldfinches flew ahead of me along the hedge line. I was in two minds as to jumping in the car and setting off further upstream. That niggle was there, keeping me where I was. Doing my Sherpa impression I clambered over the fence and braved two large tups in the field. I saw that one angler had gone and another was packing up leaving me plenty of space.

The swim I had in mind had slack water below it so one bait would go to its crease and the other I'd chance out in the main flow. The level was as low as you could expect and the colour well dropped out, but there were leaves coming down on the surface. Once set up on level and firm ground, rather than a mud-slimed surface that surrounded me, the baits were cast out. It soon became apparent that the leaves were forming a lane near the bank as they came round the sweeping bend - and my upstream line was in it. This didn't prove too much of a problem in practice. Leaves were collecting and shifting the lead but it would settle on the gravel and hold.

The upstream wind was cool enough for me to put the fleece mittens on. A few spots of rain threatened that the brolly would be needed, but the wind blew them over. Right on dark as I was tidying up ready to move the uptream rod tip jagged down twice and the baitrunner spun. I really wasn't expecting that! Hooking a fish close in in deepish water is always fun. Even so I soon had the fish sliding over the net. A real minter. Golden scaled, with a full dorsal spine and a full belly. With the river so clear I was pleased to catch anything from this reputedly difficult length.

Perfect

I carried the fish in the sling to the next peg where I could get close to the water, slipping and sliding on the deposited silt-mud and tripping over a tussock of grass, managing to avoid joining the fish in the river. The boilie went back out while I finished tidying the gear then I set off upstream. By the time I reached my new swim the wind had died away to nothing and I was sweating cobs.

The surface in this pitch was sheltered from the dreaded leaves. Both baits would hold out without problems. Small fish were topping regularly on the calm water. Bigger fish were crashing out too. It was warm enough to do without the mittens. The only action though was the upstream rod tip pulling right over and staying there. The baitrunner didn't complain. The rig was snagged solid. I could feel the lead bumping up and down when I pulled on the line. The hook must have been stuck in something. When I pulled for the break the hook was indeed gone. A bit of a mystery.

Ten o'clock seemed like a good time to leave. Then half past. I couldn't be bothered to pack up. It was nice to be there with no mist on the water for a change. At eleven I eventually wound the rods in and left.

---

No imagination

Although I really fancied a change from chasing barbel on the river I couldn't think of anything else to do. The prospect of rising before the sun to go piking filled me with dread, although I do like the idea of sitting in one swim all day making brews and frying bacon. So it was that after a swift lunch, I slapped some corned beef in two buttered rolls and set off to spend a sunny afternoon by the river. Originally I had thought of returning to last night's stretch but something was drawing me to Buzzard Bend.

A blurry buzzard over the bend

The car park was almost full. A game angler thrashing the water to a foam gave me hope that there might be more of his kind out and about making the most of the extra water before the salmon season ends. And so it was. Two others were wafting rods for spotty things, and two more were float fishing with success. The other angler I passed was into a barbel, so my hopes rose. They rose further when, after leaving my gear by a swim I have had my eye on for a while, I walked upstream to find a good swim free. I gave it a good look and decided that it was eminently fishable. The flow was manageable, the river was still nicely coloured though obviously lower than yesterday. Only the leaves on the surface might cause problems.

I returned with my tackle and commenced to setting up. Although I had put half a dozen big leads in the bag this time I cast out with a three ounce square pear on the upstream boilie rod, and a four ounce planing lead on the downstream pellet rod. A big bag of mixed pellets was applied to each hook and the rigs cast well out to the deeper run. They both held so I left them where they were and began tying up fresh rigs and mesh bags.

With the sky a vivid blue the sun had warmed the day more than the thermometer suggested and I had worked up a sweat walking up river wearing my bunny suit. I'd be glad of it later though. There were midges forming clouds over the remains of the balsam and the drying skeletons of hogweed. I tried to take some arty photos of the backlit flora.

Arty..

farty..

...contre jour.

With half an hour or so of good light left, and 'Count Arthur Strong' about to commence on the wireless I wound each rod in in turn to rebait and recast to avoid having to listen to him. The boilie rod first, then the pellet rod, tensioning the tips against the leads. I sat down and my eye was drawn to the upstream rod falling arrow straight. The line was hanging limp. As I reached for the handle the tip twitched. I took up the slack and a steady pull caused the line to pluck off something, and again. Then it went briefly solid before another pluck and the snag moved off.

The fish pulled well in the flow but didn't look anything special when it rolled on the surface, it's deep flank revealing its true size when it rolled into the net and stared up at me accusingly. I threw the weighsling into the net as I rested the fish while mat and scales were sorted out. After the weighing ceremony, when the needle spun on past the vertical, the fish was sacked. While affixing the bulb release bracket to the camera I heard the zzzzzzzziiipppp of a baitrunner. This barbel felt much smaller, in fact it didn't feel much like a barbel at all. Hardly surprising as it was a chub. With the chub released I took the sack from the water, took some self-takes then took the barbel upstream for release. For a moment she lay still, but upright, before waddling slowly out into the flow, diving deep and out of sight.

Nothing arty farty tried here!

Back in my swim I cast back out and sorted out the carnage of camera box and bait tubs, towel and landing net. Time for a brew. Sitting drinking it I saw two kingfishers flying downstream calling. The leading bird had a small silvery fish in it's beak. They both landed in a tangle of fallen branches and brambles where they argued for a while before flying off.

With darkness setting in the stars appeared, but no moon and no mist over the water. These came later. The mist wasn't too thick. I was still confident. A sharp chub bite to the pellet wasn't connected with. It was growing chilly. I'd caught my biggest barbel of the season, my second biggest off the river. I could leave happy. At nine o'clock I tidied the rucksack then went to wring out the sling. The Petzl light sparkled on the mat. The sling was crispy. Definitely a good time to leave. In the car the thermometer read 5.5. Damn these bright sunny, almost windless, days!

Brock was on the track again and ran ahead of me to the lane. Still lacking imagination or inspiration for a new challenge I considered carrying on barbelling to see how many I could clock up by the end of the season. It was a thought, but one probably doomed to disappoint. Nonetheless I expect I'll have the barbel rods in action again before too long. After all, they are set up, the bait is sorted, and it doesn't require an early start.

---

Don't play misty for me

The day had turned sunny and warm after the first, light, frost of autumn. So I gave the grass, and the mushrooms, what I hope will be the final mowing of the year.

The season of mists and mellow mushroomness

There had been enough rain earlier in the week to bring the river up and put some proper colour in it. After prevaricating I set off after tea, managing to walk a way upstream looking for likely slacks and creases before the light failed. In the distance a thread of blue-grey smoke rose vertically in front of the distant woods. The local aboriginals were down for a night fishing session...

I'd spotted a couple of nice looking spots but was concerned that my 3oz leads might not be up to the flow - especially if there was any amount of weed coming down. Having forgotten my big leads this might prove to be a very short session. I opted to start out near the car park.

As the level was dropping the swims were covered in slimy silt, so I positioned my chair and bag well up the steep bank. Should I hook a fish I would chance the descent into mud. While I was tackling up and setting my stall out a robin kept me company, flitting about in the few remaining balsam stalks and the willow to my right. Every now and then it would burst into song. When the light had faded the robin was silent. Bats came out though, and barn owl began to quarter the flat field on the other side of the river.

The sky was clearing and as it did so the mist began to form over the water. The taps I was getting to the pellet rod dried up. Although this caused my hopes to dwindle, the leads were holding well and when wound in there was very little weed collected round them. There'd be a chance if the mist would clear.

As the moon broke through the mist did clear. Only briefly. When it rose again it was in earnest. The river channel was filled and the mist rose higher than the fields. With everything dewy I admitted defeat after three and a half hours. If this weather pattern holds then I think the misty river will be a feature every night. Time for a change.

On the way home I contemplated my next move as I watched the air temperature reading drop below 5, but couldn't think of one that appealed. Winding my way across the flatlands I was surprised to see a pair of roe deer bound across the road and away as I've never encountered them in the area before. There must be all sorts of wildlife around us that we aren't aware of.

---

On the road again

With a heavy heart I headed for the garage to pick up my car. I had that feeling that reminded me of being summoned for a reprimand at school, knowing punishment was coming but not what form it would take. I entered the office and asked if the car was sorted. It was. I got my wallet out. "Twenty three pounds fifty, please." Was I dreaming? The plastic was put away and I fumbled through the notes. "I'll see if I've got the cash." "Twenty quid for cash." "I've got the cash!" I drove home with a spring in my step (if that's possible), a plan already hatching.

A perfect autumnal day wouldn't be completely wasted. It had started chilly then warmed, but with a suggestion of coolness, as the sun rose higher in the windless sky. A curry was thrown in the microwave and the tackle sorted out. I'd respooled with fresh 30lb Power Pro over the weekend because the level was getting low on the spools. More leads had been moulded and a few were put in the lead bag. The PVA tub had been topped up. I was ready to rock.

The drive across the flatlands was done with the low sun behind me, its warm rays giving the trees an even more golden hue. Fields were ploughed and harrowed, in some next year's crops were already sprouting. It's the ever changing nature of the British countryside and it's weather that's so special. We moan about the rain, or the sun, or the cold, but that's what makes the glorious days even more memorable. I'd been reading about Chris and Sue Harris decamping to Belize to live their dream on a Caribbean beach and wondered why anyone would want to move there when they'd lived in rural Norfolk. Nowt so queer as folk. Especially folk who like making money.

A big old moon was low on the horizon as I made my way to the bend. Passing the swim I ended the session in last time out I noted that it was miles away from the feature I thought I'd been fishing to! That's the trouble with moving after dark on stretches you don't know well. This was about half way to my intended swim, I'd just make it in time to rig up fresh baits and cast out before dark. With the heat gone from the now set sun the bunny suit was most welcome.

The river was up a midge's, and slightly tea-stained. Two big bags of pellets were used and the baits would be left for at least an hour before recasting. Right on cue the upstream rod commenced nodding. A good scrap ensued and an seven and a half pounder was returned. While I was rebaiting the single crab Pellet-O I heard a couple of clicks from the downstream Baitrunner. Looking round I saw the rod tip nodding. Two more clicks and I picked the rod up to lean into the fish. Except I leant into nothing. No fish. No rig. Cut off straight away. I knew there was something snaggy in that part of the swim but thought I had cast away from it. The upstream rod was cast out and I retackled.

The moon yesterday

Another hour passed. The moon had shrunk as it rose higher and it was beginning to shine through the trees lighting up patches of leaves as it did so. I was just thinking that the mist on the water would put paid to any more action when the upstream rod pulled down and the rod butt shifted on the sand. Another lively fight from a slightly smaller barbel. While rebaiting I noticed the hook had opened slightly. I swapped the rig for on that would take a five pellet snake.

There was an ever so light breeze swirling the mist which was growing thicker and lowering my confidence. The moon was high above the trees now and casting stark shadows. Then the upstream rod bounced again. This third fish was smaller still, not by much and still able to give a good account of itself in the deep pool.

I think the mist was affecting the camera's focusing

The downstream rod was only indicating chub bites. One time the boilie came back chomped in half. My toes started to cool down. At half past ten I packed the gear away and walked up the bank into the field, hung with a low mist glowing in the moonlight. In the second field there was no mist and the river there had none either. I don't know why but it was interesting for future visits. Back in the car it was obvious why the tootsies were cold. The thermometer was reading a mere 6.5. Time to put my fishing thermometer in the rucksack - so I can depress myself watching the temperature falling after dark!

---

The Law of Sod

I'd been a good little boy all week, working instead of fishing, which meant that the weekend and most of next week could be spent wetting a line. I had taken a detour on my way back from Liverpool to have a look at a local commercial fishery that has recently opened - out of curiosity rather than a desire to fish the place - and was a mere five miles from home when the car stalled as I turned a corner over a bridge. I managed to keep the engine running as I waited at the level crossing then, knowing there was a junction ahead and cars behind me, I pulled over. The engine died again. I put the hazards on and had a think. I fired the car up after a few minutes and drove home without any more trouble.

This has happened before and the car is likely to stall, or run like a sack of spuds, at any time. It cost something over £200 to sort out last time. So I have that to look forward to next week, and my plans to have an away day this weekend have been scuppered. With the wind howling in from the north west and having brought rain I must admit I'm not too bothered about being stuck indoors, but I can't go a whole week without fishing, so I'll take a chance somewhere close to home tomorrow.

In the meantime here's an embarrassing photo of me with my first ever barbel, caught (in 1991 during my Grizzly Adams years) on a lump of luncheon meat, touch legered on the River Dane...

Not even five pounds

...and one of my second caught on a hair rigged boilie from the Ribble 13 years later...

Over seven

...and my first double, from the Trent, six months after that.

Nearly eleven and a half

I'm lucky to have a photo of that one. The camera batteries died after the shot was taken. It was a cool January night but the Trent fished well while the Ribble had been a struggle. Looking at my results for January through to the end of the season in 2005 I made 13 trips to the Ribble for one four pound barbel, while four sessions on the Trent produced eleven - three over nine pounds. I put this down to the Trent, certainly in the lower reaches, being less prone to rapid temperature (and level) fluctuations in the winter giving the barbel a better chance to acclimatise and settle down to feed.

---

No time like the right time

That's the PAC Convention out of the way for another year. Getting up at four thirty and driving 126 miles reinforced my dislike of early starts. The only good thing is watching the world appear from darkness - and the relatively quiet motorway system on a Saturday morning. As usual it was a good day to meet people you only see once a year. Being on your feet all day after getting up at daft o'clock takes it out of you, so Sunday was a lazy day of tidying my stock away then having an early tea and heading for the river.

'Interesting' Nev Fickling looks interested...

With the warm dry spell continuing I was expecting to find a few cars in the car park and their occupants fishing where I fancied. Like a lot of anglers they were fishing to office hours and getting ready to pack up when I reached them. All too often these nine-to-fivers tell me I'm arriving at the right time as they put their gear away and head home. Especially when the river is showing its bones. If they know this why are they going home? Ah well, they had baited a couple of swims up for me. As they'd been there all day and caught a few I elected to cast out baits with no PVA bags attached.

The remaining two anglers, fishing the beach, were starting to pack up and I was thinking of moving there as they hadn't caught any barbel but had been putting bait in regularly. Cue the upstream rod hooping over! Two 8mm crab pellets had been picked up by a smallish barbel. Stop where I was for a bit longer.

It was still light when I heard a sound like a herd of heffalumps moving through the wood opposite. Then I heard the cackling of badgers arguing. They really aren't the most stealthy of creatures. I tried to get a glimpse of them but most of the leaves are still clinging to the branches. Just as soon as they had started their racket it stopped.

After twenty minutes more I could feel the beach calling me again. The downstream rod arced and the baitrunner spun. A slightly bigger fish, and a well proportioned one too. I stuck it half an hour longer then went to get grit in my tackle. A chub attacked the boilie almost immediately, without getting hooked, but it was nearly an hour before the upstream rod lurched round on it's rest. The fish was on, then it went solid. I kept the pressure up and it moved, the line grating on something before it came free. A similar sized barbel to the previous one. I checked the line and hooklink for damage before recasting.

For some reason I couldn't settle here, so decided to move again at ten. On winding in the upstream rod it snagged. A good steady pull felt as if the rig was in weed, which seemed unlikely given the depth. Things moved but grudgingly. I found out why when my rig left the water with another hook attached - and some nylon. I freed the hook and commenced to wind the lost line around my hand. There were yards and yards of it. At least as much as it would take to cast across the river. I'm sure that was what the fish had taken me through.

Better out than in

People who have never used braid say it's a menace as it doesn't rot when left in snags, yards of the stuff trailing downstream making the snag worse. My experience is that it doesn't get left in snags as it breaks at, or very near, the hooklink. Yet when I pull rigs out of the river they have nylon attached that hasn't gone at the knot. How you can leave so much line in the river is beyond my comprehension. Although having watched one snagged up angler cut the line at his rod end I'm not too surprised.

My next move was to a swim I hadn't fished before. In the dark it was difficult to get my bearings, not least because the feature I wanted to cast to was now invisible... Whether I fished the right swim or not I'll know next time I visit in daylight!

It was comfy peg to fish from and sheltered from the breeze that had died down after dark. The only disturbance being from the drying balsam pods showering me with their seeds. Clouds parted and reformed. Stars were peeping and hiding. Yet again it was a warm night with only the fleece required. A grand night to have been bivvied up somewhere. While the dry spell is forecast to continue there are frosts predicted for later in the week. After an hour I was getting drowsy. My eyes were shut when I heard a baitrunner and looked up to see the downstream rod bent over. It felt like a barbel for a few seconds before metamorphosing into a chub. Chub always seem to fill out later than barbel and this skinny four pounder was no exception.

The rods were set high as it was a long cast over shallow rocks

Midnight came, the house lights in the valley were going out. I set off back to the car wondering why someone who was never fit in their youth and whose knees and hips are wearing out would be clambering about wild river banks in the middle of the night. Driving along the narrow, high-hedged, lane from the farm I came across one of the reasons. Minding its own business was a roe deer buck that slowly turned and trotted ahead of me. Ten yards further up the road I noticed movement lower to the track. At first I thought it was a rabbit but when I focused properly it was the rear end of a badger leading the deer to the lane. Badgers always look to me like they've forgotten to put their arms in the sleeves of their coats, their fur seeming to be draped over them. At the junction brock turned right and found his way under a fence, the deer turned left and began to panic trying to get through a thick hedge. I stopped the car to let it take its time. At the third attempt it found a spot where it could push its way through. Normal people, and nine-to-five anglers, don't have experiences like that.

---

Reasons to be cheerful

Was it desperation to reach 100 barbel for the season, a day that had started wet and chilly but turned warm and windy, or having got my work boxed off early that sent me to the river again? Only one way to find out.

I must have had the intention to fish at the back of my mind because in between jobs I'd spooled up some more Tiger Braid. I decant this from the large spools it comes on to smaller ones. Usually I do this by hand but I had the brainwave of sticking the small spool on a spindle clamped in my lathe. This worked well until the spool was almost full at which stage I stopped the lathe forgetting that it spins on for quite some time. There was braid wrapped everywhere along the spindle and spilling from both spools. Another good idea in theory. I spend as long untangling the mess as it would have taken me to wind the line by hand.

What rain there had been had made no impression on the river. It was still painfully low and as clear as it gets. Not even a peaty stain in the margins. I'd just managed to avoid the rush hour traffic and ate a sandwich before setting up. As I'd expected the boss peg was occupied but this didn't worry me. I set up at the start of the run and cast into the channel.

I thought I'd heard a swift calling as I left the car park, but couldn't see any. Sitting down and looking across the river I realised I hadn't seen any martins or swallows for a while. One or two usually linger until October or later. With the leaves dry and already building up on pavements, and the equinox past, winter will be on us before we know it. By February it will seem to have been here forever.

The wind was chilling, even though the day was warm, so I put the bunny suit on - without being disturbed by a fish. The sky was blue with broken cloud, but after dark the clouds built up, the wind keeping any rain at bay. At half past six a chub saved a blank when I brought in the boilie rod for a recast. It was just there, pretending to be an eel as I wound it in.

Side hooked plastic pellet

With the river so clear I altered my usual pellet rig over to a mono hooklink with a size 12 C-5X and side hooked a 6mm Enterprise Plastic pellet. I've shied away from fake baits on the river solely because of tackle losses. This time I was in the mood to take the chance. At six thirty five, just after a recast, it was taken. The Kinkster made another visit to the bank. Looking chunky and weighing six and a quarter pounds. The next cast with the plastic pellet saw it lost to a snag. By now it was almost dark so I reverted to the usual tactics.

It works!

It was two hours later that the upstream rod was in action. This was a lovely solid fish of nine pounds four. Yet another with marks near its tail. Marks which it's been suggested could have been caused by lamprey. It only seems to be fish on this particular length that are affected though. Or maybe I've not caught enough elsewhere?

The downstream rod was fishing two 8mm crab pellets now, rather than the single pellet I had been favouring most of the season. Not for any well thought out reason but because I'd tied the hairs on a bunch of rigs to suit 10mm boilies - and using a pellet stop extended them just enough to get two 8mm predrilled pellets on with enough of a gap to the bend of the hook. At nine o'clock the double pellets were taken. This felt like a good fish. Number 99 was in the bag. It took line and plodded. Then everything wend solid. No matter what I did I couldn't free the fish. I couldn't even feel it when I fed slack line. The rig came back with a straightened hook. That'll teach me to count my barbel before they're landed.

Twenty minutes later I was shaking an eel free from the same rig. After clearing eel slime from the hooklink I recast and almost straight away was playing a six pounder. I was getting that old wanderlust again. The snagged fish, and lack of much action to the upstream rod, had set me thinking that I might be better off moving down a few yards so what would then be the upstream rod could fish where the downstream rod was now, with a better chance of keeping fish away from whatever the snag was. The other rod could then be cast downstream, possibly to where more fish were holed up. As I considered this the pellets were away again. This was almost a repeat of the first fish that snagged me, except that I could feel the line gradually plucking over things before it all seized up. The difference was that I could feel the fish when I gave it slack. What to do?

Putting the rod on the rest and slacking the baitrunner I started to move the rest of my gear downstream. At one point the fish took some line. I played it back to the snag and moved the rest of my stuff. Returning to the snagged fish there was no sign of life. The rod was picked up, I pulled, fully expecting that locked up feeling, yet something gave. I pulled again. It moved again. Had the hook become attached to the snag and I was dragging it out? The snag pulled back a bit. Could the fish be free? I took it easy, not knowing what state the line might be in. When the fish wanted to take line I let it. However it didn't want to take much and the fight was unspectacular. As soon as I netted the fish I knew I'd reached my century with a top edged six over the slips!

After stripping off my fleece from under the bunny suit, it was warmer now even when not rushing around setting up the camera, I photographed and returned the fish. Then baits were cast out in the new swim and a refreshing brew drunk.

The only time I get the logo in the shot!

A done deal

After half an hour the upstream rod, which had been the downstream rod, was off. Despite my cunning plan I felt the line pinging off something snaggy. Then the fish fell off. So much for that idea. I moved again, to the banker swim, realising that if I had only gone fishing to hit my arbitrary target I'd have packed up there and then rather than move twice in an effort to catch more barbel. The night was a real peach. Overcast, a few stars showing, warm, dry (no precipitation or condensation), and barbel on the feed. It would have been a good night to stop until dawn. The downstream rod was on the boilie now, and one bag of pellets left in the bucket. Off went the boilie. Yet another nicely conditioned fish that I weighed, at 6-14, out of curiosity.

Out with the last PVA mesh bag and give it until midnight. The rods were still, apart from a savage pull to the boilie rod that looked for all the world like it was going to carry on but didn't. When I wound in the pellet rod I saw why it hadn't been moving. The pellets were gone. The boilie rod was snagged - probably after that take - and all the rig was lost. A wasted last half hour. Not to worry though, it had been a good and very enjoyable session. I felt satisfied that I'd made the most of this Indian Summer that has seen the river low and the ground hard and dusty, that I wan't fishing just to attain targets but because I enjoy it and all that being by the water brings. It really is a magnificent obsession.

---

Too much of a good thing?

The England one-day team had made a right meal of beating the Aussies in the final match of the series, signalling a belated end to summer. With no prospect of cricket on the radio until November and the sun heading rapidly for the horizon I risked the motorway, which was almost empty. Down the lane past a patch of mushrooms, a sure sign that the mellow days of autumn are upon us, and off along the bank with my rucksack on my back. The brolly having been left at home so I could sprint to the swims before it got dark. I was wondering where the occupants of the other car in the car park might be when some crows flew up from the 'beach'. My preferred swim would be free. This time I wanted to fish a little further downstream, although I couldn't tell you why.

Fungi are sprouting everywhere

I hadn't tied up any new rigs, even though I'd opened up a hook on one of them when winding in at the end of my last session. So much for my good intentions. The other rig had managed to tie itself in a knot around the rod and mainline at some point. The rig board was looking bare, but there was one in there with a boilie still attached, so I put that on the rod with the opened out hook and cast it downstream. Then I cut off the other rig and replaced it with one that would take a small pellet and cast it upstream.

There was decided chill in the air, but to save me working up a sweat on the way to the swim I had carried the bunny suit in my chair. Now it was time to put it on - the suit, not the chair. With the river so low and so clear there'd be no action until dark. I'd be safe enough taking my boots off to get the suit on. I was much warmer with the cosy, quilted suit around me but I hadn't laced one boot up when the boilie rod hooped over and the reel spun. I managed to reach the rod without tripping over my feet but the fish cut me off almost immediately. Damn and double damn.

After tying the laces I rigged up again with the original hooklink and bait that had been tangled, and recast. Then I set to tying up a few hooklink before it went dark. It's obvious that I was never a boy scout because I soon ran out of braid, which I had been meaning to replenish for over a week...

I hadn't got the first rig tied when the boilie rod was away again. As soon as I made contact this time I gave the fish no quarter. Mishaps were avoided and a barbel of about seven pounds was unhooked in the net and slid back. It still wasn't dark. I managed to get three rigs on the rig board without further interuption then started bagging pellets. This didn't go undisturbed as the boilie rod was off again. A slightly smaller fish this time. Not yet eight o'clock and three takes.

The frenzy didn't continue. The action was like the night - quiet. Fishing on a sandy/silty bank is nice in as much as there's no slugs to bother you, but the grit gets everywhere. As soon as anything gets wet it's covered in the stuff. Putting reels down has to be done with care so they stay off the ground. Getting the banksticks in securely is a pain too as the silt overlies pebbles. A bit of wiggling around is required to prevent them from toppling over on a take.

The next take didn't come for an hour. I'd been watching the motionless isotopes and decided on a recast. The boilie was missing. No wonder I hadn't had a take. A fresh bait and bag were rigged up and cast out. I went for a stroll along the sand to stretch my legs and had to run back to the rod as the boilie had been taken. The trend is continuing of takes within minutes of casting out. This fish plodded around and even got upstream of me for a while. When netted I thought I'd be needing the camera again. My judgement really has gone to pot. Just under nine pounds, and maybe a little on the thin side.

When the sky cleared it became noticeably cooler. Being a few days after a new moon the stars were bright and there were no features visible amongst the trees on the wooded bank opposite. Then the mist started to rise from the river. As it swirled and thickened my hopes began to fade. Maybe it's a confidence thing, but I don't like mist on the water. A few clouds appeared briefly, the mist clearing, the upstream rod, now fishing two 8mm pellets, tapped. A skinny chub was landed. I hoped the mist would stay away but it came back. I was starting to not enjoy myself. I was starting to be there just to catch those four barbel that would take me to 100 for the season. It was time to pack up before the men in the white coats came to get me. The rods were in the quiver, I spun the rucksack on my back, cast a glance at the water and saw the mist had gone. I resisted the temptation to get a rod out and give it another hour. An early night would do me good.

I'll be attending the PAC Convention this coming Saturday, so I should be getting my act together sorting stuff out for that this week. A rest from the river will do me no harm - if I take one.

---

Time to change down a gear?

Six o'clock sneaked up on my unexpectedly. Time would be tight to get to the river and set up in daylight as I was going to give Buzzard Bend another bash and there's the walk to the swims to take into consideration. I searched for something to eat before setting off but couldn't find anything I fancied. The chippy beckoned. There was a queue. By the time I had wolfed down the chips and sausage it was ten to seven. Still, the roads would be clear. The stretch I was heading for is most easily reached via the motorway so that was the route I took. To be faced with a slow moving tailback. Great.

The traffic kept flowing but when I reached the junction before mine I could see it snarled up well ahead. On to the slip road and put a hastily thought out Plan B into action. Back to the stretch I fished on Thursday and if the car park was full again try a spot I've had my eye on for a while but never seen anyone fish. With the level low it could be worth a dabble. As luck would have it there was just one car and the white van that seems to be a permanent fixture parked up. With the light starting to fade I'd fish a banker swim.

The air was cooling. I'd watched the read out drop three degrees on my journey to the river. With no need to rush I put the bunny suit on for the first time this season in anticipation of the clear sky causing a further drop in temperature later. The upstream swim was free so I dropped in there, just about managing to get set up without the aid of my head torch.

The evening star shone. It grew cooler. Dew began to form. As nine o'clock approached I reached for my fleece. With both arms out of the bunnysuit the upstream rod came alive. As I played the fish the suit slowly slipped down to my knees and beyond. Thank goodness the fish wasn't a big one. Even so it gave a good account of itself and got downstream to catch the other line which set the rod bouncing. Or so I thought. With the fish safely netted I looked to see where the lines were tangled when a baitrunner burst into song. It had been a take, not a tangle!

Hopping to the rod as if in a sack race I wound down, felt the fish, then it all went solid. Phew. The rod was propped against its rest and the reel flicked into free spool. The first fish was safe so I pulled the suit up and got myself mobile again. When the first fish was returned EH arrived on the scene having just packed up and pointed out that the snagged rod was bouncing. Gingerly I picked it up. The fish had come free. It didn't put up any resistance although it was a wee bit bigger than the first fish. EH left and I now had the river to myself. Once the mayhem was sorted out I put the fleece on and then cast out!

I got to thinking how the average size of fish seemed to have dropped recently. Earlier in the season there had been few of the scamps and scampettes showing up. Now they were commonplace. Was this a seasonal movement? Did the bigger fish move out of this stretch or the small ones move in? Or maybe the big fish feed harder early on as they need more building up after spawning and the small fish don't get a look in?

Over the next hour and a half a chub and small barbel came to the party, but it was a dull affair. The best option was to make my excuses and leave in order to gatecrash a more lively bash. I stowed my gear and moved to the swim that EH had vacated. The baits, a 15mm boilie and an 8mm crab pellet, were cast out well apart before I settled down.

In the upstream swim I had felt restless and uncertain, now I was relaxed and confident. It must only have been fifteen minutes before the upstream pellet rod was away. All the recent fish have been pulling well. Perhaps it's the cooling but not cold water, perhaps the clarity, but six pounders have given me the run-around at times. This fish was certainly doing that. It was ticking line off the drag too. I struggled a bit to slide it all over the net but it wasn't until I lifted the frame that I began to get an inkling of it's true size.

Lean 'n' mean

The needle on the Avons spun round a bit further than I had expected. I must be getting blasé. These eleven pounders don't look as big as they used to do. In the sack with the cord well staked out I took my time calming and cooling down and arranging the camera. When the fish was photographed and released peace returned. Only briefly as the boilie rod tore off before I could sit down. The fish was on for a second or two, then gone. I rebaited both rods and cast back out.

By now I was feeling warmer. Glancing skywards the stars had disappeared. Looking round there was complete cloud cover. That would explain it' and why the dew hadn't got any heavier. Then the boilie was off again. Another battling six pounder was released and the rig baited and bagged. Time for another bagging session to the accompaniment of distant dogs barking. Something must have been disturbing them as I haven't heard such constant barking, from many directions, before.

There were six or seven neatly, and untidily, filled mesh bags of pellets in the bucket when I flung it aside to deal with the boilie rod. This fish didn't take much line, hardly any, but was dogged. A plumpster of fish but not too long. Looking down on it I gave it nine, maybe. It was a heavy lift though. For the second time I was out in my guestimate, and for the second time the needle spun well round. A few ounces further this time. So much for the bigger fish having gone or switched off...

With the fish sacked I stripped off my fleece. I was sweating like mad. The camera didn't take much setting up this time as I'd left the bulb release bracket attached. For the second time I put my new camo brolly up as a background - just for the hell of it rather than to hide anything, it being pitch black anyway. Looking at the photos I might as well not have bothered!

Fat 'n' lazy

By now it was midnight. Another hour and if nothing else came along I'd head home. One more six pounder at quarter past was followed by chub knocks. That was the signal to wrap it in. I was rather glad the motorway had been congested and changed my plans for me after that lot! It goes to show that being flexible pays. At least it does for me when it comes to barbel. With pike it never seemed to. Other people would move and drop on fish. I wouldn't. Mates would twitch their deadbaits and get takes. I'd twitch mine and find the only snag on the lake. With barbel I make a change - bait, swim, river even - and fish come along. Not every time, but often enough to make me willing to do it on a regular basis. Funny game, fishing.

The Dutch have their metresnoek, for Americans its 50 inch muskies, when it comes to barbel for us it's ten pounds. It's strange how we set great store by round figures. I have been telling myself that when I got to ten doubles for the season I'd have a change of venue or species. The trouble is that it's difficult to stop when you're catching. Then again, when you're catching maybe that's the best time to try something else before burning out? I suppose the alternative is to stay home and do some work. The garage really could do with a lick of paint. I'll just refill the pellet bucket and tie some more hooklinks, then I'll find the white gloss...

PS - It's that fish again... and that one!

---

I was hoping it would rain

At long last my two new brollies had arrived at the tackle shop. I went to collect them last week, but the suppliers had sent the wrong ones. For some time I've been using a 45" umbrella to save on weight on long riverbank hikes and a 50" job for shorter walks and day sessions after other species when I haven't fancied carting the Aqua brolly around. The 45 incher was starting to fall apart. I'd repaired two of the rib hinges with bent wire and the screw in bit of the pole had a habit of pulling out the brass insert it fits in. The 50 incher just annoyed me as the cover isn't tight and in a wind it flaps irritatingly.

The two I had ordered were a replacement 45 incher and a 50 inch glassfibre ribbed camo patterned one. The idea was to have the small one for the river where swims can be tight and walks long, and the Fibre-lite for lengthy sessions while still keeping the weight down. I'd have preferred the flat back version but it's a grey colour with garish orange writing on it. Okay for matchmen in their fancy dress suits but not my cup of tea.

With the brollies finally back home I thought I'd weigh them, mainly because the new 50 incher felt lighter than the smaller one. It was. A whole pound lighter. I weighed my old 45 inch brolly and found that weighed the same as the new Fibre-lite. Anyone want to buy a heavy 45 inch brolly? Out of curiosity I weighed the old 50 inch umbrella to find that was the heaviest of the lot. Oh well.

Despite no rain being forecast I slipped the new umbrella in the quiver thinking it might keep the damp off me later as I was planning to stop longer than usual. I also threw the bunny suit in the back of the car as the last few sessions had been getting a little cooler. After Monday's blank I was off to a banker stretch and thought I'd have another play with my Torrixes and this time try out my shiny XTE-A reels. I didn't buy them for barbel fishing but was itching to see what they were like in action.

I rolled into the car park before seven to find a load of vehicles parked up and what looked to me like two anglers packing up. I took my time getting the tackle out of the car when I realised they were getting ready to fish.

Back in the 80's when I fished a few really popular pike lakes in the north west it was imperative to arrive early to get the best swims. Even then you might find someone was there before you. My mates and I used to be so organised we could be out of the car, loaded up and away in seconds. We'd drive to the venue wearing our fishing clobber, everything else would be stripped to a minimum so all we had to do was jump out of the car, put rucksack on back, rods over shoulder, lock the car and go. And we'd walk fast. Nobody stood a chance!

Old habits die hard. The car door was locked, the bunny suit left behind (I could go back for it later) and I was off. Once in the meadow I got my bearings and was in the swim I fancied (I knew a couple were likely to be taken already) before the other blokes had reached the water. Job done. I put my gear down and went for a wander to see if I fancied somewhere else! When it turned out I knew the guys I'd beaten to the river I must admit I felt a bit guilty. But those old habits are deeply ingrained. Worms get caught by the early birds.

The Torrixes needed rigging up. I used a length of the mainline for the upper hooklink, and was contemplating using some for the lower too with the river being clear, but time was pressing so I put braided links on. The first rod cast out had a five pellet snake for the first time this season and was cast downstream. I was still tacking up the second rod when I heard a quiet purring sound and looked round to see the rod arched over. This is becoming a habit, a take on the first cast.

Not a big fish but one of the reels christened. The second rod was cast upstream with a 15mm boilie on the hair. At eight fifteen that rod tip indicated a dithery bite. Not like a chub bite, and hard to describe. When I picked the rod up there was nothing to be felt but the lead. When I swung the rig in the lower link and swivel were gone. It looked like knot failure, the line having a curly end. Mysterious.

It was quiet. No chub raps or anything. It was mild though, nay it was warm. The air was still the cloud cover heavy and I didn't need to put my fleece on until nine. Twenty minutes later the downstream XTEA purred again. Everything about these reels is quiet and smooth. The baitrunner lever doesn't click positively into place (which made me uncertain it was engaged), the baitrunner clicker and drag are almost inaudible, the handle turns as if on ice, and the drag is silky. I don't like them! The clicker is so quiet it would never wake you. Perhaps it's people who use these reels who always use bite alarms? You'd need them if you were going to nod off. They'll be ideal for bream fishing though, which is what I bought them for. I prefer something more workmanlike for barbel and pike fishing.

Nice - but not naughty enough for me

I took the opportunity to appraise the Torrixes a little more this time too. They definitely have a suggestion of lock-up in the lower butt. Again not what I like for barbel fishing but ideal for breaming. They'll be put away now until spring I think.

After that second fish, which had been a real baby of a couple of pounds, I started to feel restless. I wanted to move down a swim but the water there was so shallow with the ever dropping riveer level that I'd have had to wade out to net a fish. The peg below it was deeper but more awkward to fish from and a bit further down than I wanted to go. After much staring at the swims I chose to set up in between the two pegs.

I put the landing net at the water's edge in the second swim where netting fish would be easy and put the banksticks on top of the bank. The downstream rod was cast below the landing net, and the upstream one well above it. If I got a fish I would have plenty of room for manoeuvre to walk to the net. Having used my last two mesh bags of pellets I sat down and opened the pellet bucket, got out the bag filler and heard that now familiar purring. The boilie cast downstream had done the business. Another moderately sized barbel was in the net and I was reaching for the forceps. Was that a kitten? No. It was an XTEA! The snake had been taken by a slightly bigger barbel. Yet again takes coming within minutes of casting into new spots.

Twenty minutes later there was a funny indication to the boilie rod. It was a tremulous pulling down of the tip then nothing. This was repeated a time or two before I risked picking the rod up half expecting an eel. It turned out to be the biggest barbel of the night. Around the seven pound mark.

The next bite was an hour in coming and was a typical chub bite that resulted in a typical chub, followed half an hour later by its twin. It had gone midnight but I still hadn't needed to put on my bib and brace for warmth. I gave it until quarter to one then gave up. More barbel might have come along later, but when the chub switch on late it's usually an omen that the barbel have switched off.

The car's thermometer showed the temperature had only dropped three degrees. Still, 12.5 had felt cold on other nights. I can only think that it was the cloud cover and lack of wind that had helped it feel so warm. However, there had been no dampness forming on the rods or tackle box lid. The car was free of dew and the grass quite dry. I must look into the factors that govern the 'dew point'* as it affects mist/fog and I think that has some bearing on catches, so there might be a correlation.

* I've looked. I'm none the wiser!

---

A step too far, worn joints, and other things

Rather than head back where I'd fished on Sunday, like a sane person would, I headed upriver on Monday for a late session. It's not often that I fish on consecutive days. But the obsessive fire was burning. It was inevitable. As was the outcome.

The river looked to have dropped even more judging by the waterline on the stones and was running very clear. I wanted to try the hemp and pellet attack again. Two tins of hemp and an equal amount of my pellet mix were droppered in, then one boilie cast over it with another upstream. The barbel would soon be queuing up to get caught.

Bats were on the wing well before dark as they are at this time of year. I suppose the cooling nights mean that insect activity reduces as the night wears on, so the bats start feeding earlier. They must need feeding up in readiness for their winter rest. Every now and then one would hit one of the lines and set me leaping to the rod. That was about the limit of the action to be honest.

Although the sky was clear and starry, the evening star shining particularly brightly as it travelled westward, the night was mild at first. Later on a wind sprang up and the air turned cool. For some reason it didn't feel like anything was going to happen. A few chub bites came to the downstream rod in the last hour before I packed up at midnight.

A blank session was long overdue. Here's hoping the next one is as long coming. It did make me wonder if the change of tactics is a good idea. The baiting up doesn't seem to be improving things compared to the PVA bag only approach. I shouldn't have tried mending something that wasn't bust.

I had great plans for the rest of this week. Work would be done by Tuesday and the river would be my home for the next few days. Long overdue blanks arrived on Tuesday and put paid to that. Even post-teatime starts have been scuppered by customers wishing to collect their rods late on. So it's time for more rod building thoughts.

The worn joints of the title aren't my ageing knees and hips but those of my Chimera barbel rods, the tips of which have been snugging down almost to the limit the painted blanks allow for about twelve months. I'd noticed them work loose a time or two recently, so it was time to take remedial action. The solution is simple graphite spray. Most tackle shops catering for match anglers will stock one brand or other.

Look after those joints man

Tape up the part of the rod you don't want the spray to go on with masking tape, then apply an even coat to the male part of the joint. Leave to dry for a couple of hours or longer and away you go. Not only is the joint built up it is lubricated too. A much better cure than getting the hacksaw out and trimming the tip section back.

Recently I had a float rod in to have a new ring fitted to the middle section. This was a good example of the fragility of single leg rings - the missing ring had snapped, and another was bent almost flat to the rod. While float rod rings have very light frames I have seen the same happen with single leg rings on carp rods. Anyone who tells you they don't get bent must molly coddle their tackle.

While I had the rod in I gave it a look over and saw the cork handle still had the clear shrink tube on it. This is only there to keep the handle clean in transit and while on show in the tackle shop. The plastic film is supposed to be removed before the rod is used. I shouldn't have been surprised as I often see anglers fishing with shiny cork handles. If water gets under the tube it soaks into the cork which stays damp and eventually rots. In any case, the whole point of a cork handle is to have the warm feel of the cork. It seems ridiculous to cover it in cold, slippy plastic. The daftest example I have seen was a salmon angler 'stringing up' his new looking Hardy speycaster. Not only was the cork covered in shrink tube, but there was a piece of paper under the shrink. I bet if it had been a fiver he'd have stripped the plastic off pretty quickly!

Now a look at how things have changed over the last couple of decades. Another refurb job I have to do is on a NorthWestern glass-fibre pike rod. I think it's an SS6 - 11ft, 2.5lb. In it's day a highly desirable rod to own. I had the 3lb PK3, which I guess was rolled on the same mandrel. Putting the SS6 alongside a Harrison blank of similar length and test curve the difference is remarkable. The butt section of the carbon rod is about the same diameter as the tip of the glass rod! And the actions... The SS6 was considered a pokerish fast action rod. It feels terribly floppy now.

Spot the glass rod

It's odd how fashions come and go in fishing rods. The SS6 has nine rings plus the tip, which was pretty much standard. Today an eleven footer would probably have five or six if it was being built for piking, or eight if it was a barbel/specimen rod. Fashion again, probably to do with the perception that pike rods need fewer, larger, rings in order to cast greater distances than barbel rods do.

There is no one 'correct' way to ring a rod, but the aim is always to place the butt ring where line flows freely from the reel (be it fixed spool, multiplier or centrepin) and then follows the curve of the rod, compromise being made in the number of rings which give long casting, smooth line flow when trotting a float or whatever the rod is intended to do. In the case of a rod to be used with a multiplier the rings must be spaced to keep the line away from the blank, as it must on afloat rod to be used with light lines that might stick to the blank when wet. All these ringing patterns consider the rod as it is when fishing - in one piece.

So when Neville Fickling someone says the 'correct' way to ring a pike rod is so the rod folds neatly in two when broken down rigged up with the tip ring next to the butt cap (what I call Rover Ringing) he is demonstrably wrong. It's certainly convenient for the mobile angler, I like my rods made that way too, but it is not correct.

'Rover Ringing'

Here endeth the sermon.

---

One more time for luck

With the weather holding I simply couldn't resist another barbel session. Getting to the river after tea with enough daylight left to sort myself out in is becoming a tighter call every day. It won't be long before I'm having to pack some grub along with the flask so I can set off before the rush hour traffic builds up. Sundays aren't so bad and I left home around six to arrive in time to get some bait in the water around seven. This time it was pellets I spodded out to the deep run I had almost moved into last time out.

The sun was bright and low, my shadow long across the field as I walked up river. The leaves are really starting to turn to their russet and earth colours now. A few martins were feeding high above the tree tops. It won't be long before they are gone and it'll be time to start looking out for redwings and fieldfares.

Autumn's under way

The feed was put out directly in front of my fishing position. Then I took my time arranging things so I'd be comfortable and able to reach the rods easily. One rod, with a 15mm boilie and a bag, was cast upstream of the baited area. A smaller boilie went just downstream. I missed the first five minutes of the Archers while baiting up, but I sat down and poured the first cup of flask-tea of the evening to listen to the rest of it before the bag filling ritual was carried out.

My chill-out period was disturbed by an angry baitrunner and a well bent rod. The big bait had only been in the water for ten minutes! The level was down on Friday, the flow minimal. In clear water it's hard to judge the size of fish - they can look a lot smaller than they are in actuality. This 'five pounder' was giving a good account of itself. Hardly surprising as when netted it would obviously require a mugshot. A solid, but not fat, barbel in prime autumn condition. Looking just the way they should.

After unhooking and weighing the fish it was dunked back in the river, the net safely staked. It would be the first time out with my new bulb release bracket. After a bit of fiddling around I had it all sorted, took a test shot to ensure everything worked fine, then lifted a lively fish back onto the mat. Three snaps then in the sling to be carried upstream to a spot where I could safely release her. It was only as she swam away I noticed the slight two-tone colouration

That's supposed to be a smile...

Convinced I was on for a beano with the feed I'd put in I concentrated my attention on the downstream rod, which was now fishing the old faithful 8mm crab Pellet-O. It was nine o'clock before anything happened other than a few chub raps at dusk. The upstream rod had stabbed down repeatedly but everything was solid when I picked the rod up. Feeling the line I could tell there was no fish attached. I could feel the lead bumping up and down on the river bed when I pulled on the line and released it, but everything was lost when I pulled for a break. Over an hour later the bite was repeated. This time there was neither fish nor snag attached. I recast and the culprit was captured. A chub that was probably five pounds long, only four pounds heavy.

Eat more pellets

The sky had clouded over and the night was almost warm. One of those nights I could easily have stayed right through to dawn. As there wasn't much happening I wondered if I should pack in early. I was still there an hour later, still wondering when to leave. The downstream rod, which had been fishing a variety of baits and was now on a 10mm Oyster and Mussel boilie cast well down from where the bait had gone in, came alive. This was a five pound barbel, although it pulled well for its size. I'd definitely pack in at midnight. With five minutes to go the same rod began doing a chub dance. Only a smallish one. That rod was packed away and the other one followed. I battled my way through the balsam, being showered with seeds as I did so, then set off across the fields to the deserted car park.

Although the moon wasn't visible and there was cloud cover it was a light night. I stood and looked back through the trees, over the hedge at the fields and woods, wondering what I must have looked like had an 'ordinary' person seen me tramping in the dark laden with tackle, only using the head torch to negotiate ruts and stiles. It's not a 'normal' thing to do in this day and age. There were few lights on in the houses I drove past on my way home. Fewer people or cars out and about. Even the motorway that had been choked on Friday was almost deserted. Which suits me fine.

The problem I have is that when the fishing is going well I find it addictive, and I'm weak. Oh so weak.

---

Modern times

After doing some work in the morning I couldn't make my mind up what to do next. Having wasted too much time in deliberation I decided to go barbel fishing (just once more!) and chance a long walk to Buzzard Bend. I'd been listening Farming Today in the morning and the terrible issue of noise pollution in the countryside. People, who claimed to be country folk, were complaining about shooting, bird scarers, church bells and big tractors. It made me wonder what they expect from the world. These sounds are all part of the ambience of the countryside for me. Just like blanking makes catching more pleasureable they make the silence that follows them all the more intense.

Walking upstream the first field that had been lush grass and clover last week, was shorn and yellow. The second was still being worked, the rural idyll hideously shattered by two enormous tractors collecting silage making the most of the continuing Indian Summer. There should be a law against it...

The bend is deep, snaggy, and an easy cast. I leaded around then spodded out some two pints of pellets and the contents of a tin of hemp. Fear not, I hadn't bought the tinned seed. It had been acquired in exchange for some leads and pellets. With the appetisers laid I cast out the main course. A 15mm boilie on one rod and a 10mm boilie on the other, both with their attendant bags of pellets. The ritual bag filling then commenced.

Since seeing the Korum PVA mesh sold in watertight pots I have been keeping mine in a screw top container. The one shown below will hold 20m of mesh, and being clear I can see how much I have left. I leave half an inch of the mesh hanging out when I put the lid on so I can find the end easily.

PVA container

It was quarter to five by the time the baits were out, the sun still shining warm and bright. A kingfisher was having success on the far bank. There are plenty of small fish in the margins at the moment. The silage was gathered in and a natural 'silence' descended once more on the valley. A buzzard mewed, a blackbird chattered its alarm call and flew across the river to disappear into the thick canopy of the wooded bank opposite. The leaves are now showing definite signs of autumn. The air was still, I watched a leaf detach from a branch and flutter slowly to the water's surface and drift equally slowly downstream. Fish were rising noisily.

A lazy, hazy day

The river was low and clear, with it's usually light peaty stain. I was expecting kick-off time to be around eight. I wound the baits in and went for a wander up river. There was a tempting looking run with far bank snags. Not tempting enough for me to move after putting the bait in on the bend. Back in my chosen swim I dropped my rig in the margin to see how obtrusive the braided hooklink was - and took an underwater photo. The hook looks more obvious than the braid to me.

What the fishes see

The baits were recast, but I swapped the big bait rig over to clear nylon. An experiment to see if it would bring me a bite in daylight when the 'highly visible' braid might not. I sat down and swigged from my bottle of pop. Hearing a rustling in the balsam I turned round to be greeted by a fellow angler who enquired how this swim fished as he hadn't tried it. I replied that I hadn't got a clue. "This is the first time I've..." ZZZZzzzzzzz. The small boilie had been swapped for an 8mm crab pellet and a barbel had approved of the change.

Barbel fight differently in deeper water than they do in the shallows. In the shallows they use their power to cover distance at speed, in deeper water they use it to bulldog. This one was bulldogging like a good un. With the river being clear it had glistening brassy flanks. It also looked like it had swum into a big rock as a small fry. A chunky fish even so.

Son of parrot

So much for the braid putting the barbel off. Half an hour later the big boilie was taken. One all to the two rigs in daylight. There was some light cloud overhead, the evening was staying warm. A couple of days earlier I was wrapped up in fleece long before dark. This time I was in my t-shirt until eight.

Sunset in the valley

By the time the next bite came, again to the pellet, I was fleeced-up but by no means cold. The fingerless mittens were still in the rucksack and dew wasn't forming heavily. This third fish gave an unusual bite. A short zuzz on the baitrunner followed by a tapping rod tip. The initial impression when I leaned into it was of a chub. Until it started to take line. At a couple of ounces over nine pounds it was the best, and last, barbel of the session.

As the evening wore on it felt more and more like nothing else would happen. It didn't. I have a hunch that if I had put more bait in from the off, or topped it up as the session progressed, I might have caught a few more. There's no way to prove it though. I packed up at half past eleven and began the fifteen minute trudge back to the car. As I was loading the gear in the car I saw a bright green cricket on the window of the rear door. Prehistoric looking, and larger than I had imagined crickets to be.

I have two choices of route home. The short one through town and suburbs, the long one along motorway and through the flatlands. I opted for the motorway. This was a bad move with a capital 'B'. Before I had reached the end of the slip road I ground to a halt in what was obviously a lengthy tailback. It's less than two miles to the next junction. It took me an hour to get there and turn off - the tailback went on for as far as I could see. The cause was 'workforce in carriageway', four lanes being reduced to one.

Every light in town was on red, reminding me why I take the motorway. At one set I noticed movement at the bottom left of the windscreen. The cricket. It must have crawled along the side of the car. As my journey home continued the cricket carried on creeping. By the time it was in front of me I'd got quite fond of it and didn't want to drive too fast in case it got swept away by the airflow. I entered a 50 zone and it turned head on to become more streamlined. As I hit the dual carriage way I saw it brace its legs. If it had knuckles I'm sure they would have been white. Turning in to the village it started to crawl on to a windscreen wiper. By the time I parked up it had descended the other side. I thought it had an air of relief about it!

The fastest cricket in the west

---

Foggy dew

Every so often the weathermen and women get it right. The Indian Summer arrived on Wednesday morning. By noon it was red hot. So Wednesday evening saw me braving the rush hour traffic to deliver the fettled rods from Sunday. There was plenty of room on the stretch and the gear was (not so amazingly) in the back of the car. What the hell?

The drawback to Indian Summers is that the nights are long and the sun low in the sky. While midday temperatures can be high they soon fall once night falls, and they are slow rising again in the morning. By the time I had my gear in place the bank was shading me and I needed my fleece. For a change I used a spod to put some pellets out. The bait dropper would have been a pig to cast the required distance and could easily have snagged up. The baits were cast out and I began bagging chore.

I wasn't happy. After filling enough bags with pellets to keep me going for a few hours I moved. Only a few yards downstream. Just far enough for my downstream rod to be come my upstream rod and the upstream rod to be leapfrogged to fish further down the swim.

Things were quiet, even after dark. The sky was clear and a bright moon began to rise. I amused myself by bracing my head against the back of my chair and watching the moon's progress behind the leaves and branches of a tree on the far bank. It moves surprisingly quickly. After a few recasts the upstream rod began to bounce. A good scrap was had from what proved to be the largest fish of the night at an ounce under eight pounds. Ten minutes later a five-ish pounder was landed to the downstream rod followed by a repeat performance another ten minutes after that. Then there was a lull before two more fish came along after ten, and another lull before two more were caught within minutes just before eleven.

With the sky so clear there was soon a heavy dew forming on the grass, the rods, and anything else that didn't move. I expected a mist to roll over the water at some point, and it did. It wasn't heavy or constant. There was a breeze that kept it dispersed most of the time. The thermometer had fallen from 17 when I had parked up to 8.5 when I loaded the car. By the time I set off for home at midnight there was a heavier, but patchy, mist in the valley.

On the drive home I began to ponder The Abolitionist Project and its aim of ridding the world of all suffering by chemical and genetic means. If all the world was permanently blissed out on MDMA there would be no highs and lows. Life would be dull. It would be more like purgatory. Imagine being forced to fish somewhere you got a bite every cast and landed every fish, each identical to the next. There'd be no misery of lost fish, but there'd be no elation of landing a whopper. My mind wandered.

"If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same...

"Rudyard (after a lake) Kipling (not after a maker of exceedingly good cakes)

It sounds clever at first, but it's a load of old tosh when you think about it. How can anyone treat blanking the same as catching? And why should you?

Triumphs in fishing are made all the sweeter by the inevitable failures and disasters. If you catch all the time without really trying it can become a bit boring. As I have still only had two blank barbel sessions this season, and having hooked and lost a barbel on one of those, the appeal is starting to pall. It's still difficult to resist 'just one more session'. So after my next barbel session I'm going to have a change. Maybe.

---

A good move

I managed to mow the 'wild flower meadow' before the rain set in, taking the top off an ant nest in the process. What busy little fools they are. I hope I'm not reincarnated as an ant. All that scurrying around working. I suppose ants know no different though. I had been quite antlike in the morning, whipping some rods, packing a couple of orders and repairing my small brolly for the umpteenth time. I was intending to take a long hike to fish so that would cut down on the weight.

Plan B came into play when I arranged to meet someone to get his approval on a refurb I was doing. As I got out of the car the rain that had eased off returned. There being four other cars parked up I left my gear and took the refurbs to the river. I hadn't expected the level to be quite so high, maybe 12-18 inches up on NSL, stained but not muddy. The air temperature was 14.5, the rain light. With my instructions for how to proceed sorted out I had to decide whether to squeeze in where I could or go elsewhere. Having got the ants out of my pants I took the easy option and hoped I was far enough upstream of an unseen snag.

It wasn't long before the rod tips stared tapping. And not much longer before I was retackling the downstream rod after I'd lost the lot. Then the indications stopped. After an hour and a half of inactivity and bad vibes - by which time the rain had stopped, I went for a wander and discovered the downstream anglers had gone. A move was in order. I didn't want to fish the swim they had vacated, but one a few yards upstream. By half past nine I was sorted. It started to rain again. This was the pattern for the night. Light fleeting showers, with bright moonlight in the breaks.

It was an hour before the downstream rod tip pulled down. The fish wasn't on long before it fell off. This is getting to be an annoying habit. Rebait with another boilie. Recast. Sit down. The same rod tip pulled down again. The bank here was only a gentle slope so when I had skidded down it I stayed upright with any easy grace, feeling more like a kid sliding on snow in the school-yard than a pillock falling an his bum. Not that there was anyone to witness it. No mishap this time and an eight pounder was in the net.

I hate wearing a waterproof jacket so whenever the rain stopped I took it off. This left me a little chilly so I put my fleece on. The trouble was that when a shower came in I would put my jacket back on and get too warm. There was no happy medium.

At twenty past eleven the upstream rod, on which I had been chopping and changing baits, was in action. This time it was fishing two S-Pellets. It was only five minutes before the boilie rod was away. Two seven pounders in five minutes. A feeding spell!

I had no set time for my departure. So it would probably be when the flask was empty. I hadn't had a knock since that last fish so around midnight I decided on a recast. The boilie rod had been wound in and rebaited and cast back out and I hadn't wound the pellet all the way in when the boilie was taken. I dropped the pellet rod and took control of the other one. The fish didn't feel anything special. It looked to be the biggest of the night though. Holding the scales as steady as I could the needle wouldn't make up it's mind. I wedged the handle of the Avons between the arms of my landing net and used the pole as a unipod. The needle settled at last. One division short of vertical. As the photo shows it was a bit of a lean looking fish.

A barbel and a set of Avons...

I have caught a number of fish with these red marks near the anal fin from this stretch since June. They appeared to be healing on the two that had them this time. But what caused them remains a mystery.

When I eventually called it a night, an hour later, I wound the boilie rod in to find it baitless. Bugger. For some reason the river level didn't look to have altered while I'd been there, the fish might well have fed all night. I was tempted to rebait and give it another half an hour. The spirit was willing, but the tea was cold. Back at the car the thermometer showed the same figure as when I'd arrived. It had been a grand night out.

The weather forecast is for an Indian Summer this week. The work forecast is more grim. A wave of blanks is predicted to sweep in from the south any day now and prevent me putting in the two night session on a pit I've been wanting to do as soon as the weather improved. It'll have to be evening sessions on the river instead.

---

Rolling and tumbling

My fishing seasons don't quite follow the ones that go by the equinoxes and solstices. September the 1st is the start of autumn for me just as March 1st is the start of spring. So it was with the first one day match against the Australians having started with 'summer' over I headed to a river I knew would be up and coloured for my first session of autumn. The most enjoyable time to fish a river that's in flood is when the rain that caused it to rise has stopped falling. It might not be the most productive time, as I think that is the period just before and as it starts to rise. But it's usually peeing down then and I hate fishing in the rain!

The river was indeed up, about a foot higher than it had been when I arrived on Monday. Judging from the dried silt on the leaves of the bankside plants it had been a good four feet higher at it's peak. I had a look at two spots that could have been worth a try. Nothing stirred me to fish them though. The swim I fished on Monday looked good, but I wanted a change. Upstream of that swim there seemed to be a nice crease with the water by the bank flowing slowly upstream. As the better fish had both come on the upstream rod last time it seemed like a good plan to fish upstream a little way too. There was one problem. Although there was the hint of a path down the steep bank it was overgrown and no 'peg' could be seen. Climbing down through the balsam I was able to beat out a space to fish from, so I dragged the gear into place.

I followed the same line of attack as last time, leading around, baiting up with the dropper and casting one rod to the feed and one upstream then settling down to fill some PVA stocking bags. Less than a week on and summer really had turned to autumn. The upstream wind was strong and bouncing the rods in the rests. There was no sitting out in a t-shirt, it was autumnal fleece wearing weather all right, even though the scudding clouds revealed a bright and low sun that made me put on my new sunglasses for the first time since June. Most of the pods having popped and scattered their seeds by now there were swarms of pollen-backed wasps making the most of the few remaining balsam flowers.

It took a while for the first barbel to arrive. It picked up a 10mm Tuna Wrap fished over the feed at twenty to five, almost an hour and half after I had set up. I had a short, sharp 'chub' bite that I thought was suspicious. A few minutes later the reel spun. The hook pulled. It was my own fault. I was using a rig tied for a drilled 8mm pellet which set the boilie too close to the hook. I swapped the bait.

Unexpectedly the other rod was away next. A typical upstream, bounce, bounce, bounce bite that didn't set the reel in motion. A seven pounder was netted and I noticed some red spots, the colour of red Biro ink, on its belly and chin. There was another lull as the river slowly dropped. I heard the plaintive mewing of a buzzard and climbed up the bank for a look. There was a pair of them wheeling overhead, spiralling down wind calling to each other. When they had passed out of sight beyond the trees on the far bank I turned to go back to my rods.

I took a step forward, then one of my feet caught under a bramble. I overbalanced and my world went into slow motion as I tumbled downwards. I did a full forward roll and as my head came up I saw the back of my chair looming towards me. Before I could do anything to fold it down my head hit its frame and I came to a halt with an ache below my left ear. I felt for blood but there was none. Then I kicked the chair! In a week when an angler had drowned on a local drain I counted myself lucky. A small bruise and a graze. It could have been much worse.

Blue sky before the fall

When the throbbing had subsided I was rewarded by the upstream rod bouncing again. I'd cast both baits slightly further out as the level had dropped, just as I had done on Monday - never forget a trick that works. A smaller fish this time but also with red spots on its belly. I left the fish in the net in the edge and turned to get my camera. As I did so I heard a buzzing that wasn't a wasp. Spinning round I grabbed the downstream rod and a slightly bigger fish joined the first one in the net. Then it all went very quiet. No taps or twitches.

Two up

Red 'Biro' marks

I had been engrossed by the cricket otherwise I'd probably have moved swims before darkness arrived bringing rain. Heavy rain that pounded on the brolly and the river. The shower lasted twenty minutes or so. Five minutes after it had faired up the upstream rod pulled down savagely a couple of times and I found myself playing a big-headed fish that was quite short and lean. I thought it might have made nine pounds, but it didn't manage eight and a half. Not that I was disappointed, more surprised.

There are people who try to tell you that when fishing two rods one is always in the preferred spot and the other is a waste of time as it will be in no-man's land. That's twice on the trot that the rod fished away from the baited area, which should do the business, has produced the better fish, and/or more fish. It makes little sense. It's good justification for fishing two rods though.

By now the river was quite a bit lower, almost a foot, and I was wondering if the swim had lost it's charm for the barbel. The bright full moon that appeared when the clouds broke wasn't encouraging. Two eels to the downstream pellet made my mind up to go, although I listened to a programme on the radio for another half an hour before packing up and braving the climb to level ground.

---

Walking the dog down memory lane

The cupboards were bare, the sun was shining and the lawn needed scything. It was time to get my priorities right. Time to go fishing. Carrying on with this season's policy of pioneering. Well, fishing away from the banker swims, I headed for the scene of the capture of my longest standing (albeit unweighed) personal best. I have a very good visual memory but the lane to the river looked different to how I remembered it from what must have been thirty-five years ago (give or take). The dwellings were far more gentrified. However the hedge line angling to the gate, although more manicured, was just the same. The metal gate, though, was gone.

I'm sure the island was further upstream in the 1970s

It was hard to figure out exactly where I had sat on my wicker basket and trotted my float all those years ago. Partly because the river was carrying at least two feet of strong-tea-with-a-dash-of-milk coloured water. I think I found the tree that had shaded me. What was that PB? It was gudgeon. And it was a gudgeon, not a baby barbel. Barbel, even when small, have an aggressive look about them. Gudgeon are friendly, almost cuddly. Not unlike the border collie that greeted me as I stepped out of the car.

The sky had clouded over but it was still warm and muggy despite the wind. I donned my fishing boots and in t-shirt order set off upstream. My new found companion leading the way, stick in mouth. There were two anglers on the bank and they had both caught barbel. Not surprising as the conditions looked ideal. They said the river was falling. That should mean less weed coming down. Now to find a swim to fish.

Perfick!

Being unfamiliar with this part of the river I walked well upstream. Sweating as I went. Stooping to pick up my pal's stick now and then. It's hard to judge a length of river when it's carrying extra water, but a few spots looked worth a dabble. Those further up river would have to wait for another time. I wasn't carting all my gear back up there after my exertions. I turned round and retraced my steps, this time ignoring the stick bearer's pleading eyes. There were two places I really fancied, I might fish one then move into the other. Rain was forecast, however, and that might scupper the plan. As might the falling level which could make one, or both, of the swims a waste of time.

At the car I had a breather. Swigged some pop (unlike some I couldn't run down to the river for a drink on my way back) and had a couple of bites of a Lion Bar - watched droolingly by you-know-who.

My new best mate - for a while

As I did my Sherpa impression through the field I was glad to have shaken off a chest infection that had been slowing me down for over a month. I wasn't out of breath by the time I carted my tackle down the bank between the rank balsam. The furry one had bounded off ahead and was being stroked by one of the other anglers when I passed him by. How fickle dogs are. They'll be anyone's best buddy for a bit of attention. I never saw her again.

My first task was to clip a lead to the snap link on my new dropper rod and have a feel about. The depth seemed acceptable judging by the time it took for the lead to settle. It wasn't pulling out of position when I held the rod steady - it was only 3oz - and the bottom seemed snag free.

I'd selected the swim because the flow was almost a crease. I say almost because there was no defined crease line, but there was a definite increase in pace further out. A rod length and a half from the bank was where I intended placing my baits. That's where I put in five droppers of pellets. The new rod doing just what I hoped it would.

Banksticks were set up, rigs baited, pellet bags added and out they went. An 8mm crab Pellet-O downstream, the feed having gone in slightly downstream of my fishing position, and an Oyster and Mussel boilie upstream away from the feed. After making my camp comfortable I filled some more mesh bags with pellets. After half an hour, just as a light rain began to fall at quarter to four, the downstream rod hooped over and the baitrunner purred its sweet sound. That was a good start. A smallish barbel was quickly returned and the rod recast. I'd managed to get the brolly up just before the fish came along, which was a good move as the rain soon got heavier.

Fifteen minutes later I was in again on the same rod. This time the hook came free. It was quicker to wind the upstream rod in and cast it where the two bites had come from than to rebait and recast because I thought a shoal might have moved in. Then the pellet was cast upstream. The rain had stopped but I left the umbrella up as more was forecast to arrive in the evening.

I was now pretty confident of non-stop action. It was over half an hour later when the upstream rod took off - shortly after I had swapped the two rods round again. A more dogged fish that hung motionless under the rod top at one stage. The extra flow was assisting the fish making them feel bigger than they turned out to be. A nice eight and half pounder, even so.

It was quarter past seven before I had another bite. This time to an S-Pellet on the upstream rod. Another dogged fish, in the seven-plus bracketBy now the rain had arrived in earnest. It was already starting to look like dusk. By eight thirty it was pretty well dark. The river was noticeably lower by then. It had been dropping about an inche an hour. I thought I'd try casting the baits a little further out. At ten past nine the upstream rod, by now back on a boilie, was off again as I was resting my eyes! Moving the bait seemed to have done the trick.

The rain was persistent and heavy. At times it looked like the artificial rain you see in movies as it swept across the river in vertical bands. It was making listening to the radio difficult too! Just before ten, after I'd swapped the pellet for a 10mm Tuna Wrap (I have more confidence in them now), the downstream rod was in action again. Another little scampette.

I was starting to get a bit fed up of the swim now the rain had turned the soil to grease. My tramplings weren't helping matters. It was becoming a bit of a quagmire. Despite the rain it was still quite enjoyable. Apart from the mud. I started to tidy up the rucksack. Almost everything was zipped away when I was disturbed by the unmistakable sound of a barbel making off with a Tuna Wrap. I was able to grab my rods without leaving my chair, so I did just that. I then engaged the gears and pulled into the fish. As I stood up my feet were lubricated by the slimy mud beneath them and I slid down the bank onto my arse. I was on my back like an overturned beetle, being rained on and holding a rod with it's tip bent towards the river as a barbel thrashed maniacally on the end of the line.

Somehow I managed to gain an upright position and regain control of the fish, and my senses. It was another wee one that had used the flow to it's advantage. I think a double might have dragged me in! I put the bait back out while I packed everything else away, then wound in and trudged my way to the car park. The rain had all but stopped, of course.

Quite a pleasing session. Six barbel landed on a first visit. No monsters, but I never turn my nose up at an eight pound barbel or two. Four different baits had caught, further reinforcing my belief that bait is not the most important issue to consider in barbel fishing. No doubt with all that rain the river will be on the way up again, and with the weather predicted to be unsettled that might be the pattern for the rest of the week.

The drive out of the valley was like so many in previous years, along shiny wet tarmac littered with leaves and twigs blown from the trees by the autumnal winds. And yet it was still August. Is this climate change at play?

Before the rain arrived I had a mess around with the video facility of my compact camera. I tried to get footage of me playing a barbel, but failed. I had to settle for some badly framed unhooking and weighing action before the memory card filled up. I don't think Bob and Stu have much to fear. At least not until I get a proper video camera...

I'm sure the barbel police won't like the video. Well, they know what they can do with their truncheons!

---

Noises off

Yet again I hadn't intended to fish, but customers had come and gone and rod repairs were drying. I was hoping the river would be dropping after the rain of Thursday and Friday and that if I headed upstream the weed problem might be less than it was on Thursday evening. That much I got right. Swim selection was more like a lottery. With the level only about 18 inches up, not much colour or extra flow nothing looked obvious. So I picked a swim on the off chance.

The air temperature was okay, around 16, but the wind had visited the north before heading south and was quite cooling. As usual I took my time making the swim comfortable. Once the baits were out I even set up the brolly to keep the worst of the wind off me. When the other two anglers on the stretch left I had it to myself. For some reason I wasn't too confident. Daylight faded and it was already crossing my mind that a move might be a good idea. The time I set for the move was nine. That was when the upstream rod, fishing a semi-fixed lead simply because I had changed it to take that photo I posted earlier, started bouncing as the lead got dragged downstream.

With the barbel in the net I played the guessing game again. I wasn't far out. The fish weighed just four ounces more than I'd thought at 7-12. It had some sought of sore, or ulcer, on it's 'chin'. Not a fish I recognised.

A blank saved

This was when the woods opposite woke up. Something barked for a few minutes. I wish I was more of a countryman and could tell you what it was. I know it wasn't a dog. My guess is a deer. Whatever it was stirred the owls into action. Twitting and screeching. A heron squawked down river. A farm dog barked. It was like visiting a zoo at feeding time.

I'd started out with the six ounce leads that were still on my rigs from last time. It was soon obvious they were overkill. I'd moulded a 3oz square pear lead when I last had the melting pot going and thought I'd try it out, despite the scales telling me it's a few grammes lighter than my 3oz grip pears. It worked okay. Until the next take came. The rod tip bounced, I pulled into a fish then it all went solid. I put the rod back in the rests with the baitrunner on for a few minutes. Nothing moved. I walked downstream and heaved. Nothing happened. I walked upstream and heaved. Nothing happened. I got opposite the rig and pulled. And pulled. Something gave.

Before

The lead was gone, but there was a twig attached. The braid had done it's job of opening up the hook and the paperclip had released the bomb. The large eye on the large eye swivel was deformed. Having had one break in the past when pulling out of a snag I don't trust them for using with hooklinks attached. I checked the line over while attaching a new lower hooklink and both the mainline and the upper link near the swivel were frayed. I cut back the damaged line and retied. I'd snagged up on a previous cast to that spot, so this one went a little further downstream, more directly across from me.

After

On a whim I swapped my previously productive Mussel and Oyster boilie for one in Spicy Shrimp and Prawn. I'd half-heartedly tried these before and not had a bite. Nothing ventured. At ten past ten the baitrunner on the downstream rod started slowly ticking as it was picked up. A better fish than the first by a pound. I think I try different baits to relieve the monotony more than anything. Whatever I chuck at barbel seems to get eaten!

Ten minutes later the upstream rod was in action. A smaller fish of 6-10 that had two hooks in it's bottom lip. One was mine. I did my good deed for the day and removed them both. Looking at the mono (about 6 or 8lb [it measured o.28mm, so probably 8lb]) attached to the hook it appeared that the knot had failed rather than the line had been cut, it having a curly end.

Two hooks to remove

At bang on eleven the Spicy Shrimp was off again. A dogged fight ensued and another eight pounder was landed. It also started to spit with rain. By the time I had the bait back out it had turned to proper rain. With it hissing on the river and pattering on the brolly it drowned out the Round Britain Quiz on my radio. So not all bad!

After half an hour the rain had blown over. The wind seemed lighter, or had maybe swung round so I was more sheltered from it. Although it was now pleasant to be out again the feeling that another bite might materialise waned. I stayed on until after midnight hoping the packing up process might encourage a fish to pick one of my baits up. It didn't.

---

Short and not too sweet

I'd found a blank that might just turn into my ideal dropper/tree rod with a little hacksaw work and was toying with building it up yesterday evening. But there was a nagging voice in my head. Rather later than usual I was driving towards the river. I'd hedged my bets by taking a route that gave me a couple of options for tracks to follow. As soon as the first turning approached I flicked the indicator on and was pleased to see just one car parked up.

The river was up and carrying some colour. The air was warm and the sky overcast. It could be a nice muggy barbel night. I wanted to try a new swim and after lugging my gear down the bank I droppered in some pellets, using the botched rod I'd cobbled together last week, above a willow. There was a fair depth close with a good flow, so the dropper was the answer. I then took my time setting up the rods, shoving in the banksticks and finding somewhere I could get my chair reasonably level.

There was a strong breeze blowing upstream, but the willow kept it off me and it was quite a comfy peg, if a little cramped, to fish from. The plan was to leave the baits out for as long as possible. A 15mm boilie down to the tree and a 10mm boilie cast upstream. The 3oz leads were holding nicely, but after an hour I recast the upstream rod. A good job too. How long the bait had been missing is anyone's guess. Those 10mm Tuna wraps are okay, but a pellet stop makes them split. I really should have used a normal hair stop. I swapped the boilie for a drilled pellet.

The church clock chimed nine and the isotopes were already glowing brightly against the starless sky. The clouds had merged and thickened. Half an hour later the rain came. It started light at first. It wasn't long before it got heavier. Like a fool I'd left my brolly in the car so I decided to tough it out. Sitting there hunkered down with my jacket zipped up above my chin, the hood pulled low over my eyebrows and my specs steaming up my mind went back to the wettest day I have spent in a boat.

It was on Chew reservoir, and not only did it rain solidly all day but it was windy too. With both anchors down it was still like being on a switchback ride. I was sat at the front and the driving rain was so bad that my boat partner at the stern had to sit with his back to me. Not only were we wet and miserable, we couldn't even lighten our mood by chatting about surreal topics like racing-pigs as we have done on similar occasions. We were 'glad when we'd had enough' that day, but we weren't quite the last drowned rats back at the lodge!

After ten minutes of water pooling on my lap and running up my sleeves I cracked. I went for the brolly. After fiddling around for a few minutes I got it stable, the high bank behind me making the job difficult. On winding in the baits I'd noticed the drilled pellet had gone. Things were not going well. I rebaited both rods and cast out again. The rain immediately grew lighter. Then stopped altogether. I took the brolly down...

The sky now lightened and the Plough appeared. The wind was picking up, not quite creating white caps on the water, but making quite a ripple against the flow. I thought the pace of the river seemed to be increasing too. It must have been, there was certainly more weed coming down and the rod tops were pulled down further. One rig moved. Then the other. A couple of recasts and a snagged lead later it was time to break out the big leads for the first time this season. They did their job. But by eleven twenty I'd had enough and conceded defeat for only the second time on the river since June. It was due.

I'd only fished for three hours but the conditions had been changeable to say the least! The car's thermometer told me the air temperature had dropped from 19 to 13.5. Those chilly single figure, bunny suit, nights are getting closer.

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All purpose barbel rig

Recently I've mentioned upper and lower hooklinks on my barbel rigs. I thought that as there's been a lack of photos recently I'd brighten the blog up with some pics of my barbel rig and a description of how it's put together and why.

The first thing threaded on the line is a large eye swivel. This could just as easily be a small eye swivel, but the large eye's ones are cheap. This is followed by a 6mm rubber bead, and a size 8 Power Swivel is tied to the end of the line. A paperclip is attached to the free eye of the running swivel. The paperclip is a weak link should the lead or feeder snag up on the retrieve or when playing a fish.

The basis of the rig

To the free eye of the Power Swivel I tie either a length of 15lb Amnesia or 35lb Tiger Braid to form the upper hooklink. On the rare occasions I am fishing mono mainline instead of my usual 30lb Power Pro this upper link might be tied from a length of mainline. How long an upper link I use is pretty random. It's never less than three feet and can be almost six feet. The longer it is the more I can cut it back if it gets damaged. A Power Swivel completes the upper hooklink.

Rig, upper and lower hooklinks

The lower hooklinks are tied up in advance to suit the baits I'm using at the time and are stored on the rig board in my Korum Rig Manager. All bottom links terminate in a loop tied using a Sensas Easy Loop. The link material is usually 35lb Tiger Braid, sometimes 20lb Tiger Braid and occasionally 15lb Amnesia.

Lower hooklinks stored on rig board

You can use whatever lines you like for constructing either of the links. Coated braids, fluorocarbon, anything you get on well with. I just happen like braided hooklinks and have found Tiger Braid to be as abrasion resistant as any braid (the 35lb is tougher than the 20lb though) - and it sinks. It's also a damned sight cheaper than braids sold for making hooklinks!

The thinking behind the rig is simple. You get fewer line bites with long hooklinks than you do with short ones. I have found I catch more barbel using them. Most damage to hooklinks occurs close to the hook - usually within three or four inches. If you use a long one piece hooklink it's difficult to cut it back and retie if using the knotless knot to attach the hook. It soon ends up shorter than required, and this is wasteful. Having the hooklink in two sections cuts down on waste as the upper section lasts a long time. This is less so if you use mono for the links as I don't trust knots to last in mono and after losing a fish due to knot failure I recommend using a fresh upper mono link at the start of every session. If it wasn't for this I'd used Amnesia all the time for the upper link. Braid can be left on for ages without any worries. So I stick with it. If you do use Amnesia give it a stretch to take the remains of any coils out before casting out.

The swivel to which the lower hooklink is looped serves not only this purpose, but also pins the last few inches of the rig to the river bed. Although I use a sinking braid a one piece hooklink can still loop up and result in foulhooked fish. The weight of the swivel almost completely eliminates this.

I don't claim to have invented this set-up. I did arrive at it independently though, through a process of evolution. It's easy to swap from straight lead to feeder. It's almost as easy to swap lower hooklinks. If needs be I use my hair needle as a knot unpicker. I have used a snap link in place of the lower swivel, but they are more expensive. This is a consideration if fishing where tackle losses can be high. A snap link isn't as heavy as a swivel either. I suppose it could be covered in tungsten putty, but I like to keep things as simple as possible.

If you prefer to use a semi-fixed lead then there is an easy and cheap way of rigging that too. Just replace the rubber bead with a tail rubber and jam the large eye swivel over it. A convenient advantage of this arrangement is that when breaking the rod down the lead doesn't need removing. The large eye swivel is easily slid off the tail rubber so the lead slips neatly in the pocket of the quiver like a running lead does, and doesn't rattle against the blank half way up the rod like it would on a conventional semi-fixed clip.

Semi-fixed alternative

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The night of the small white slug

A last minute cancellation by the brickie saw me dashing to the river to squeeze a short session in. I had a swim in mind, and it being a Monday night was certain it would be free. It wasn't it was occupied by two Barbel Bite Alarm Billies. Never mind. The swim I'd caught from last time out on this length was vacant.

The river was still low, despite the rain earlier, and I droppered out some pellets to the channel then out with the baits. I had less than an hour of daylight with not much to watch apart from a flock of sheep on the opposite bank. And they weren't very entertaining. The two anglers downstream were for ever tweaking their alarms. I found this mildly irritating. I have nothing against using bite alarms for barbel fishing, or any other fishing, as I use them. In fact I had my rods resting on two. The difference being that mine were switched off. They'd remain that way until I started to feel sleepy, which was unlikely on this occasion as I was only fishing until midnight.

The sky was quite clear, the air temperature falling after dark and dampness accumulating on the rods and my fleece. I put my waterproof jacket on to keep the damp out. It's hard to imagine that twenty-four hours earlier I had been sweating under a cleared sky, it was definitely more like autumn. With no rain forecast until the early hours the brolly was stashed at home.

Unusually I only had one chub/eel bite before the light went, and none after. As I'd seen the anglers below me catch a couple of eels in daylight I was surprised at that. By eleven I was resigned to a blank. The eyelids were drooping and I almost switched on the alarms.

Walking to the swim through the rain soaked nettles and balsam my bait bucket gathered a couple of small white slugs. As the session wore on I found one on the butt of a rod - which was unpleasant. Finding another had crawled into a fleecy handwarmer pocket of my jacket was more unpleasant still.

I thought the flow had picked up a little, but the darkness made it hard to tell. Then I noticed that the flat rock by the water was no longer dry. I shone my head torch on it and, sure enough, the river had risen a few inches. The rigs were still holding station but that probably explained the intermittent bleeping I was hearing from down river.

Alarms or no alarms I was in no doubt when the downstream rod signalled a bite. Barbel have an amazing ability to impersonate a snag at times. They manage to hang there, apparently glued to the river bed. Keep the pressure on and they move eventually. Once they do shift they know how to pull back. This one scrapped well, but even having been hooked in six or more feet of water I managed to make it swirl on the surface. After a couple of dicey moments near the marginal rocks, and a lot of splashing around on the top, I netted a thickset fish that weighed spot on eight pounds.

Minor chaos had ensued as I unhooked and returned the fish. During which time a small white slug had slithered on to my chair. With everything back to normal I sat and relaxed again, the blank having been saved. I'm due a blank on the river, so it wouldn't have been too painful to endure. I'd only gone fishing because I could, the sole barbel of the night really had been a bonus.

It was getting on for half past eleven by now. I felt a spot of rain. Then another. Then more hissed on the river's surface. I put my hood up. There was no malice in the rain. It was hardly even drizzle and soon gone. Nonetheless when the church clock chimed twelve I packed up - discovering a small white slug on my rucksack. When I was loading the car to return home I found another small white slug. I bet the car's full of the slimy blighters now.

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The night of the cow pat

My plan to do an overnighter on Saturday, returning in time to listen to the Test Match on Sunday, went out of the window when the brickie phoned to say he was coming to do some more pointing. No fishing on Saturday. Sunday dawned wet up north, but fine at the Oval. By the time England had humiliated the Aussies I had done some work and was raring to wet a line. The persistent rain had turned to showers, it being dry as I set off. Would there have been enough rain, early enough, to have coloured and raised the river? No. It was even lower and clearer than on my last visit.

Swim choice was difficult. Only the cows were on the bank and I could fish anywhere. I opted for a swim that I had only ever fished before in flood conditions. Then I had taken barbel from under the rod end, but now that was shallow and I was casting across to the tail of the gully. Deeper upstream, shallower downstream.

I took my time arranging the gear in the swim. There's a ledge that can be fished from but it's cramped. Setting up above it would raise the rods and help keep the line out of the rocks anyway. The problem was a large, crusty, cowpat in exactly the place I wanted to sit. I put my chair more or less on top of it. Two baits were out by eight. One was an S-Pellet Tuff 1, the other a 10mm Tuna Wrap - a bait I have little faith in, but seeing as I was sent four tubs of them I might as well give them a try.

It had started to drizzle. As I'd left my feeders and dry feeder-mix in the car I set to making up some PVA bags under the brolly. With the river being so clear I thought I'd tie up a mono hooklink to see if that would give me a better chance of a bite in daylight. I had a hook selected and the spool of Power Carp ready when the upstream rod was away. The Tuff 1 had been snaffled by a lively scamp that was hustled into the net. As I lifted the net from the water I heard the baitrunner on the other rod start whirring. The net was popped back in the water, arranged hastily to prevent an escape, and a second little barbel, maybe half a pound heavier, joined the first one in the net. That hadn't taken long!

With the water being so clear they were both bright looking fish, the oft mentioned coral fins complementing brass, gold and bronze scales and creamy belly. I admired the pair briefly before unhooking them both and slipping them back over the net cord. I was going to take a photo of the brace, but the battery in the Olympus compact was flat and I couldn't be bothered getting the other camera out.

The drizzle turned to rain. It was dark by now, still warm despite the wind rustling the leaves of the trees making a sound barely distinguishable from that of the water tumbling over the rapids downstream. Not a good night for bats, but one or two came out to feed. There were plenty of midges about for them. Midges that feasted on me every time I flicked on the Petzl.

I'd swapped the rods round and replaced the Tuff 1 with a 15mm Mussel and Oyster boilie. The boilie I had positioned close in. There had been a few fish swirling there when I arrived. Although shallow, it appeared to be a little deeper near the bank than a rod length out. Some pellets had been scattered there in preparation.

When setting out my little camp I hadn't placed the chair quite right. Every time I stood up my feet went through the crust of the cowpat and I'd slip. Breaking the skin on the dung also released it's aroma. Enough was enough and I moved brolly back a touch and the rest of the gear was dragged into position to keep it dry. Much better.

At ten, to my surprise, the 10mm Tuna Wrap that had been cast upstream tore off. This barbel was a little bit larger. Maybe six, maybe seven pounds. Somewhere in that range. Fifteen minutes later the margin rod hooped over. At first I thought it was a small barbel, but it was chub. A pristine fish of four pounds or so.

I gave up on the margins and cast out across the river. Almost straight away the bait was taken and I leaned into a barbel that cut me off half way up the three foot hooklink. I've not been cut off like that for ages and was a little bit annoyed. A 15lb Amnesia upper hooklink was tied on and the 12lb Power Carp lower link I'd tied up earlier added to see how it performed. I never found out. After a decent wait I went to wind in for a recast and the rig was snagged solid. The Power Carp snapped, and the Amnesia was frayed. I trimmed the frayed section and attached a braided lower link. At eleven the new rig did the job and I weighed a belligerent eight pounder that refused to come to the net. It even looked angry on the bank and swam of contemptuously when I released it upstream. That fish had an attitude problem!

After an hour of inactivity, the sky having cleared to reveal the constellations beyond a few wispy clouds, I got an urge to move upstream a few yards. Hardly had the Tuna Wrap settled in the new spot when it was taken. A funny take. The rod tip dipped and the baitrunner spun, then nothing. A repeat and I grabbed the rod and pulled into the fish. Then it was gone. Cut off again, this time near the hook. I couldn't believe it. It only took five minutes for the fresh bait and rig to work their magic. Another six pound barbel which proved to be my fiftieth of the season.

That was enough for me. I'd had to get a session in before I went doolally as I'm not sure when my next chance to fish will be. I reckon it's time to start looking for some bigger fish when I get that chance.

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Déjà vu

It was back to the home of the killer ducks to conclude the dodgy deal of last week. Coming through the farm my way was blocked by machinery - again! This time there was a horny handed son of toil mending a trailer and he happily moved the vehicle. After concluding business at the riverside I plodded upstream and had a look around. There was a spot where there was some faster water pushing across to the far bank that I fancied, but the swim was occupied by a grazing cow that wasn't for mooving (sic)...

The next swim down was more comfortable to fish from anyway, and as I was thinking of stopping until the early hours for a change that had played some part in my choice. This time I baited the downstream rod with an S-Pellet - as much for a change as anything, the upstream continuing to fish a small crab Pellet-O. Although it was breezy the spot I was in was sheltered. There was cloud cover and the car's thermometer had read 22 when I parked up. It could be a muggy night ahead.

The first visitors to my swim were the ducks. Milling around in front of me and murmuring to each other softly. Next to show up was a barbel. It only took forty minutes for the S-Pellet to steam off downstream while I was in the middle of tying up some fresh hooklinks. A bit of a better scrap than had been the case in this area ensued, the fish proving to be only six pounds or thereabouts. Even with the river low and clear fish can be caught in daylight.

Darkness is arriving at nine thirty now, the cloud cover speeding its approach. At five to ten, with the headtorch most definitely needed, the S-Pellet tore off again. This one was obviously a bigger fish, and again scrapping harder than the barbel had been previously. Looking in the net I couldn't believe it was another double. Sure enough it was. Now it was time to fight with the self-timer on the camera. I'd had a dry run at home as the bulb release I had ordered over the net had yet to arrive, so I knew what to do. The timer on my Canon can be set to take a number of photos in sequence - so should be ideal for fish photography.

Anyone who tries to tell you that a self timer is suitable for taking good trophy shots of fish either holds dead fish up to their camera or is an idiot! I managed more photos of flying fish and my knees than decent pics.

Take 1

Take 2

I also notice that because the camera focuses when the shutter button is pressed the balsam is perfectly sharp - the fish not. Self timers? Pah! Nonetheless, despite a little more messing around than is usual it didn't take long and the fish swam away strongly when I slipped her back in the shallows. I hope that bulb release turns up soon.

After sorting myself out again I put a fresh S-Pellet on the hair, a fresh bag on the hook, and recast. The brew had just been poured when the bait was taken. This time it was my kinky friend visiting my net for the fourth time this season. Barbel are intelligent? Ok. Whatever.

In the past the feathery fiends have left me alone after dark. I assumed the swam off somewhere to roost out on the river away from predators, but this night they came begging like shadowy spectres. I threw them some more pellets, but down from where my rods where to try and stop them invading again.

For no other reason than to see what would happen I swapped the S-Pellet for a boilie. It took about three quarters of an hour for that to get picked up by another fish in the six to seven pound bracket. The wind had dropped and the clouds were breaking up. A few stars shining, but not enough for me to make out the constellations. An occasional breeze would spring up momentarily making me wonder if this was a lunar effect that is rumoured to occur. The clouds closed up again. It was, indeed, a muggy night.

By midnight I was getting the feeling that the action was over. Bed seemed a better prospect than the riverside so I left it to the cows, the bats and the owls. The car thermometer read 18 as I pulled away along the track.

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Sunday driving

Glue was setting, the day was dry, I had a plan. It didn't work out. The way to the stretch I had in my sights was blocked by a tractor and a laughing farmer. They seem to take perverse pleasure in barring your way down narrow lanes. I formulated another plan.

It was only seven thirty but with the threatening cloud cover was dark enough to require the side lights. I'd have to get a move on to be settled in before dark. Joy! There were no cars parked up. My new plan was to fish away from my usual haunt on the outside of a bend. I stumbled down the bank, pitted with hoof marks and littered with partly grassed over rocks, to see an angler on the far bank, his rods pointing towards the channel I had hoped to fish. I suppose I could have been belligerent and claimed the 'half way rule', but I don't like fishing opposite other anglers even if they are out of casting range. There was plenty of vacant river to go at.

I wandered up and downstream a ways. The river looked inviting, but the bank somewhat treacherous and the water rather a long way down. Given time I could have worked out a way to fish safely and to net fish. That was time which was running out. For some reason I didn't feel like dropping in a well known swim. The recaptures and fishing by numbers has got a bit tedious despite catching plenty of fish. Back in the car with a third plan and upstream to the length I'd fished on Thursday.

Just in case there was anyone else there I had a quick walk to the swim I fancied, one up from the previous session, and found it vacant. The entire length was free in fact. I was soon back and tackling up. Following the failure of the rod I had last used for the bait dropper I had cobbled something together from some aborted rod conversions I'd tried over the years. It had come out at eight feet, in two very unequal sections. It chucked the dropper okay though. What I'm trying to achieve is a shortish rod that will lob out a dropper while still being suitable for barbel fishing under trees and in tight spots. That would allow me to carry the one rod for the two jobs on another river I fish. I might be getting close.

Anyway, the pellets were duly deposited slightly downstream, out from the rocks, in the channel. The level was down from the previous session here and the marginal rocks in the first swim I'd fished were even more exposed. This swim looked less hairy for playing fish. Good enough reason to fish it.

The boilie rod went over the feed, four or five droppers full, with as big a bag of pellets it was possible to make attached to the hook. I'd leave that out until it was taken, or dragged out of position by weed. The pellet rod was cast upstream and further out with a more reasonably sized bag of pellets on the hook.

The first thing that drew my attention to the sand martins was their chattering. They were sweeping over the far side of the river seemingly without flapping their wings as if they were rocket powered. The ease and speed with which they fly must make their long migrations pass quickly for them. Straining my eyes in the failing light I could see that they were flying to the nest holes in the far bank sand-cliff. I doubt they have broods to feed, so I'm assuming they use the burrows to roost. They'll soon be gone, being one of the first summer migrants to arrive and the first to leave. No doubt the winter floods will inundate their deserted nests, maybe even crumble the entire bank.

Despite the commotion the dropper caused it was only ten or fifteen minutes before the rod tips started tapping. At five past nine the boilie rod hooped over even though it was set low. Barbel really do scrap well when hooked close in. This fish really had me fooled as it took line with the rod arched into a near semi-circle. I couldn't believe it was 'only' a seven pounder. Much more fun that pumping in fish from distance.

More taps and twitches were seen. Mostly to the pellet rod. I suspected eels and sure enough one finally hung itself. Then a chub took the boilie and tried to drag the rod in. It fought pretty well on the heavy gear, convincing me I had hooked another barbel for a while. I made a pig's ear of netting it. The first attempt being a complete failure. I was sure the fish was in the mesh when I lifted it. My eye's aren't what they used to be! Second time round I got it right.

It was gone ten thirty by now and there was a light drizzle falling. I had my waterproofs on and erected the brolly to keep the rucksack dry. Five minutes before eleven the boilie rod was off again. The fish was away at speed. I picked the rod up and was trying to stop the fish with finger pressure on the spool's skirt before engaging the gears. My baitrunners are set pretty tight, almost as tight as the drag, but I made no impression. Probably a good thing as this allowed the fish to get well out and away from the boulders in the edge. It slowed and I flicked the lever to the off position and began to apply some proper pressure.

All through the fight the rod was at its limit, the fish took some line, made a few serious lunges and at one point I felt the line pinging off something. It was quite nerve racking not knowing exactly where the fish was in relation to the potentially line cutting rocks. As soon as I had the fish on the surface I bullied it into the net. No mistakes this time.

The ritual of staking out the net was gone through and the scales readied. This time my guesstimate was optimistic, but not my too much. A long fish that I wouldn't mind meeting again later in the season. I slipped her back in the net to rest while I set up the camera. The swim was a bomb-site by now. I'd collapsed the brolly and slung it in the balsam after the landing net pole got tangled in its ribs. It had stopped drizzling by now. My jacket had been removed and hurled on the back of my chair, the pellet bucket on the seat. The rod was chucked next to the umbrella. I calmed myself down and took my time.

Chaos

Tripod and mat in place I was sorted. Or so I thought. First press on the bulb release which I had repaired with Aquasure after it split, and used successfully last week, failed. I checked it over and there was a hole in the repair. I tried to remember how the self timer worked, and failed. Two snaps of the fish on the mat and I slipped down the now treacherous rocks to the water's edge and released her. She was raring to go and quite a sight to watch gracefully working her way through the jumble of stones back into the channel. Daft as it seems I'm sure it is the moment of release that we often enjoy most.

Bulb release required

Another shower came in on the wind forcing me to put the brolly back up. The rods were unmoved. I contemplated leaving for home at the next break in the rain. That came at midnight. It lasted until the umbrella was back in the quiver. Back on with my jacket and the rain stopped. It had been an eventful outing that hadn't gone entirely to plan, although the outcome couldn't have been scripted any better - a nice fish from another new-to-me swim. If only it was always so easy.

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Field testing

Looking at my newly built Torrixes got too much for me to bear. Two of them had reels fitted and were slung in the quiver. Despite the rain earlier in the day the river was still very low, lower than it had been two days earlier, but only the usual angler in his usual swim when I arrived. Unbelievable on a Saturday evening. I took my time tackling up the new rods and had two baits in the water by eight thirty. Although I built them for stillwater fishing I know some people rate them as barbel rods and I'd have a good chance to put a bend in them with a fish on the end.

I should really have rigged them up with braid for a fair comparison with my Chimeras, but my spare reels were loaded with mono and I'm lazy. They cast the three ounce leads well enough. The tips deflect more than the Chimeras do. I didn't chance a bigger lead. I suspect that the mono may have accounted for the slightly spongy feeling on the cast. The real test would be playing a fish or two.

There was a slight chill in the brisk westerly, a hint of autumn on its way, the sky clear. It was only half an hour in when the upstream rod started bouncing rapidly. This was caused by a cheeky little chub of two or three pounds. Not the most arduous test fro the new rod. The next bite, to the same rod, was far more positive. The baitrunner spinning slow and steady. The rod took on more of a curve. Again, it could have been the mono, but things felt springy. The fish wasn't big, in fact it was the third visit to my net for The Kinky One.

Hello again

Ten minutes after recasting the rod was away again. A slightly bigger fish that I slipped back fifteen yards downstream where the margin was slighlt deeper. Where I had set up the margin was so shallow that I had to paddle out to net fish with the pole at full stretch. The barbel hadn't powered off, it sat in the edge either resting or bemused.

I'm fairly sure that this fish was a recapture as it had some raw marks near it's tail. I've had a few fish in this size range bearing these marks, and I'm pretty sure they are the same few fish. Earlier in the season I had put these marks down to spawning injuries. I'd have expected them to have healed by now. So I'm not sure what the cause might be. The fish are feeding well enough and filling out though.

Mystery marks

Another ten minute break and the 'runner was turning again. Another pea-in-a-pod fish that I unhooked in the net and pushed out into deeper water. The next fish took half an hour to take the bait. I think this might have been because I had run out of tied up pellet bags. With more tied up I'd wound in and rebaited. The bite came quickly after that. I weighed this one at a shade over seven pounds to keep my guessing eye in. With the fish in the sling I carried it to the deeper spot.

I was a little surprised to see the second barbel of the night was still where I'd left it. Lying quietly fanning it's gills. This isn't unusual. Quite a few times I've slipped a fish into shallow water and it has stayed there for some time. They come to no harm, so long as they can maintain their balance and remain upright, and eventually waddle off. The fish I was releasing was a real live wire and thrashed its way out of the sling. As it regained its freedom it brushed against the other fish. This must have stimulated something in it's fishy brain and it swam off following it's boisterous shoalmate. It was quite a sight watching the the pair of them swimming over the shallows heading upstream and slowly fading from view.

As I was playing each fish I looked up at the curve the rod was taking on. More tippy than the Chimeras, and I feel a little lighter in test curve - despite what it says on the tin. I'll be doing some comparative deflection tests in due course. The rods are definitely lighter in weight than the Chimeras and I think will be perfect for their intended purpose of hurling method feeders towards the bream.

At five to eleven, under a starry, but mild and mistless, sky I wound in the downstream rod which had remained undisturbed by fish. There was something on the end in addition to the boilie. Whatever it was was small. I expected an eeel, but it turned out to be a barbel of a pound, maybe less! Over my shoulder a band of cloud was moving in. I thought I might need the brolly, but it soon blew over without depositing anything wet on me.

Small and greedy!

That was it for the night. I stopped on until twelve thirty when the flask ran dry. Bites having dried up I guessed there'd been a feeding spell and it was over.

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Now, then, forever

Driving across the flatlands I turned one of the many ninety degree bends and ran straight into a wave of overwhelming nostalgia. On my left was field of half-dried hay being turned in the late summer sun. The grass lying like a loosely thrown duvet over the ground. The next sharp bend turned right before I could change up a gear and there was a wheat field, motionless. The early evening light throwing the Naples Yellow ears into chequerplate relief.

Nostalgia for England is not Bob Cratchet in the snow or Heathcliff on the rain-lashed moor, it's Constable, Housman and larks ascending in the brief, nameless period of low sun and still air between summer and autumn. I don't remember which route I took to the river. I was lost somewhere in the past that was also the now.

The river was flowing peacefully when I arrived to fish a spot EH had shown me on Tuesday. It had the vibe and I wanted to try it out. After struggling through the vegetation I took my time getting set up. A quick lead around and I knew it would be snaggy. Big rocks in the margins and cobbles on the river bed. With the flow pushing through under the rod ends I droppered out some pellets. I was trying a different rod for this. I was hoping that the nine footer would double as a rod for tight swims. It was a bit lacking for the dropper. Back to the drawing board - or I should say the blank pile.

Even while I was baiting up the mallards arrived. Not my friends from downriver, a more bolshy bunch. I chucked a couple of broken boilies in and the ducks dived for them. Bang went that idea. With the baits in place I sat down for the inevitable PVA bag tying session. The warm evening made this a piece of cake. Although not hot I was able to sit out in shirtsleeve order until gone eight. By which time the rod tips had already started twitching to the attentions of chub. I didn't expect any real action until the light had gone.

The swim was a comfortable one, and as I was sat a few feet above the waterline, fishing close in, I was able to keep the rods low. This positioned the tips at eye level, preventing neck ache, and the isotopes glowed brightly against the silhouette of the opposite bank as dusk turned to night proper. When the bite came I wasn't expecting it.

The downstream reel buzzed wildly and I found myself playing the fish before I knew what was going on. The marginal boulders made for a tense, interesting fight. I managed to clamber down to the water's edge and with the fish beaten drew it safely over the rocky jumble into the net. A fish of six or seven pounds was unhooked in the river and swam slowly back over the ledge to deeper water.

More taps and twitches were coming to both rods. It was almost an hour later when the upstream rod slack-lined repeatedly. This was no barbel, no chub either, but an eel. It was flicked off the hook into the water.

A clear blue evening sky heralded a starry night. And a starry night would mean a drop in air temperature that would allow a river mist to form. I was surveying the river for mist - a killer of sport - which was light and sparse, when I glanced upstream and saw the moon's orangey glow through the leaves of an ash, I think it was an ash, on the far bank. Not quite a half moon, not quite a crescent. A Samuel Palmer moment and the nostalgia swirled round me. The polythene wrapped silage bales opposite seemed as timeless as standing stones.

By eleven thirty the mist was thickening. For the first time this season my toes were feeling chilly. I tidied my gear away without interruption, climbed the grassy bank and loaded the car.

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First blood

For a change, and a challenge, I thought it a good idea to fish a different stretch of river. It's often hard to leave the comfort zone when you've had a good session or two but then again you can try to ride your luck elsewhere.

I'd checked the weather forecast on the BBC website and rain was predicted to arrive after dark. I put the brolly in, just in case they were right. As I got out of the car on arriving at the river to meet a customer at five the rain arrived. Just a light shower that soon passed. After doing the dodgy deal I got back in the car and set off to look at another stretch I had yet to fish. Half a mile along the road the rain came back. Heavier and more persistent this time. Knowing that a walk would be involved I carried on to the stretch I'd walked on Sunday. I could fish closer to the car there.

Getting the gear out of the car I realised that I had no PVA bags of pellets tied up, and trying to tie them under a brolly would be almost impossible. I left the rucksack and rods in the rain and jumped in the back of the car with my pellet bucket. I spent fifteen minutes or so making up pellet bags and eating my butties before trotting (more like limping!) off upstream.

The rain eased as I walked past the only other angler on the bank. I dropped my tackle by the first swim I fancied, but I was compelled to have a look at the next swim along. There was definitely something about it. Maybe the flow patterns appealed subconsciously. The gear was moved and carried gingerly down the bank.

The first task was to cast a lead around to get a feel for the swim. Then I droppered out some pellets upstream and about a third of the way across the river. Some more pellets were thrown downstream (I forgot my catty) about a rod length out. An 8mm crab Pellet-O went upstream and an Oyster and Mussel boilie downstream. By six thirty I was settled in with the brolly up - rather pointlessly as it turned out. The high bank at my back made it difficult to get the brolly angled to get any real shelter from the light rain, especially with the upstream wind that was blowing. Still, it wasn't cold and the rain was more of a drizzle.

Even with the rain there were swallows wheeling around and twittering. They will be feeding up ready for their long journey south. There was certainly a good hatch of some sort of flies on the river so they should be well fuelled.

It wasn't long before something showed an interest in the pellet. The rod shook and the line fell slack, but there was nothing attached when I wound down. Then there was a really sharp chub knock on the boilie rod. I thought I might be in with a chance of a fish of some description.

As the light was starting to fade, early with the heavy cloud cover, there was another shake of the pellet rod and this time the line fell slack, and slacker, eventually moving downstream and into the wind. That had to be a hooked fish. Sure enough there was a fish kicking when I got a tight line. Eel. Fortunately lip-hooked and not wrapped up the line it was easily flicked from the hook.

Half an hour later the boilie rod started dancing and a feisty chub of some four pounds was netted. That would do me for a first session on the stretch. I hadn't blanked. I'd fish until ten come what may. I'd seen enough of the stretch to want to return.

At half nine I started to tidy the gear away. I'd put the rods on my short sticks with the alarms attached. While I was sorting the gear out I switched the alarms on. There not being anyone around to disturb should one go off. The rucksack, chair and bucket were carried up the bank and I was stood watching the rods for the final few minutes when the tip of the pellet rod tapped. I was watching it for further movement when the other alarm sounded out a one-toner. The rod was pivoted round on the rest and the butt off the deck!

I grabbed the rod and applied finger pressure to the spool as the fish continued taking line against the baitrunner. I flicked the 'runner off and started to make some impression. Not being too sure what the river bed was like in front of me I leaned into the fish and it came upstream. When it passed me and carried on upstream I was beginning to wonder what it might be. As I stopped its powerful run out to mid-river it rolled over on the surface and soon after was in the net. Nice! I staked the net and scrabbled up the bank for the scales - the sling was in my quiver still by the rods.

A starter for ten

The fish looked a 'nine', but felt heavier. The Avon's needle removed any doubt by spinning round more than 360 degrees. Back in the net for a rest while I sorted the camera out. There was more of that damp stuff falling now, so I threw my towel over the camera while I carried the fish up the bank. A few snaps then back to the water. As soon as the mesh was submerged the barbel was trying to swim away. I dropped the net cord and helped her over it. Away she went, swimming strongly out of the beam of my head torch. I finished packing the rods and net away. I ate a Nutrigrain bar before trudging back to the car damp, but satisfied that a combination of instinct and watercraft had put a fish on the bank.

---

Sitting by a river throwing in pellets*

Although England managed to bat for longer than I thought they would the collapse still arrived before I'd finished whipping all my rods. Nonetheless, despite the day turning cloudy and threatening rain, I stuffed an early tea down my neck, left the brolly at home and headed for the river.

First stop was to look at a new-to-me length and have a walk. Even with the overcast I worked up quite a sweat. Then headed off to visit my feathery friends. It wasn't long after I'd set out my stall that they arrived, milling around in the edge waiting for the pellets they knew were coming. They were the only companions I had as the river was deserted. It looked as if the stretch had seen a bit of stick over the weekend though, with trampled grass in a few places.

With the baits out I sat back to relax with a brew. I was idly watching the rod tips when I heard rustling and a quiet 'peeping' sound in the grass to my right. The feathery horde wasn't satisfied and wanted more. There are two missing from the brood since I first made their acquaintance but the remainder are almost fully grown now. Even so, mum still keeps a watchful eye out for them.

Beware - ducks!

It took me by surprise when the downstream rod sprang into life. It only felt like a small fish but was proving difficult to get under control. When I saw the boilie hanging from a pectoral I knew why - it was foulhooked. With the river low and, more importantly, clear it was vividly coloured. Bright coral fins and deeply brassy scales. A fish for the future.

Dusk still lingers with hatches of flies coming off the river, but the long shadows come earlier. Summer is showing signs of drawing to a close now. Swallows were flying high, far above the wood on the far bank, leaves now turned dark shades of green with hints of autumnal browns in places.

I had pulled the upstream rod out of a snag, fraying the hooklink, and was tying up a second spare one after recasting when that rod was away. A decent fish by the feel of it. A well filled out none pounder as it turned out. Fifteen minutes later the same rod jagged down a few times and I lifted into a fish that felt equally good. Then it fell off. I'm still not convinced by the S5 hooks in smaller sizes for barbel fishing.

Half an hour went by when a sharp take to the downstream rod stopped suddenly, then the tip jabbed again. I expected an eel, so a small chub was a pleasant surprise. A fresh bait was attached to the hair and recast. Barely had I sat down again and the same rod was in action again. No chub this one. Immediately I picked up the rod and bent into the fish it took line. Always a good sign.

Sure enough, it was a cracker. Another solid and chunky fish. The bigger fish have lost their early season flabbiness and with the clear water are looking good.

Throw pellets out, wind barbel in...

When I was returning the fish I noticed that it had a slightly deformed barbel. I'll have to check back through my photos to see if it's a fish I've caught before. [Yes I have and at the same weight. Which is odd as it's on the web at over a pound heavier... Must buy some new scales!]

A closer look

There were some strange noises coming from the far bank woods after dark. The first was a rather loud bark. Just one. Then later there were sounds of things crashing through the undergrowth. This didn't sound like deer, which can sometimes crack a twig or two. Maybe badgers, they can be less than subtle at times. One thing I doubt was causing the noise was the big black cat that I have heard is prowling the valley. It's strange how talk of big cats sometimes spooks you. Last time out I packed up early because I couldn't get the animal out of my mind and kept looking over my shoulder! This time it didn't bother me. Even though I'd had an unexpected feline encounter as I approached the river.

Coming down the bank I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of something stalking in the long grass by the river. It's long tail twitching in anticipation. How amazing that I had only heard of the 'panther' a few days before and there I was, face to tail with..

...a small white kitten that bounded off in fear as soon as it became aware of me!

I was too lazy to fill any more pva bags of pellets, so when the last one was used up I started to tidy the gear away at eleven thirty. Five minutes into this process the upstream rod was off again! Just a small one, but nice to finish the session off. Why low and clear conditions put people off I really don't know. Barbel can be caught, and in daylight too. Okay, the biggest fish of the session came after dark, but I'd had a couple before the headtorch was required. Still, I'm not grumbling.

* With apologies to John Gierach

---

Harrison Torrix blanks

There's been a lot of speculation about a three piece fifteen foot barbel rod from Harrison's. It's been announced on the web in a few guises by at least two rod builders. I've had enquiries about this blank myself.

Yes, there is a blank. One Torrix lay-up blank. One test curve. One tip. As of my latest visit to the factory earlier this week that's it. If you read anything to the contrary it might well be rubbish! From what I hear there is not much chance of any progress before October.

There is a new production blank available now though. A 12ft Torrix in 1.5lb with an eleven foot version to follow. I've not seen one yet so don't know how it compares to the 1.75lb - which I think is nicer than the 2lb. Less tippy.

At last I have got my hands on a 2.5lb Torrix blank (three of them to be accurate) and having taped some rings on it and run some line through them I think I have found my long range bream blank. If anything it's a 'light' 2.5lb. In a side by side comparison the overall power seemed pretty similar to my beloved Chimera 3s. The action a little more tippy. Not as stiff in the butt as the 2.5lb Balllistas I recently got rid off, and softer in the tip than the Chimera 3. It had that 'something' that immediately felt right - it may well become a Dave's Fave.

I'm pretty sure it's just what I've been looking for. The Ballista tip on the Chimera butt was close, and the Torrix is similar - and lighter too. I can imagine it being okay for barbel fishing, but there is something about the way those Chimera 3s bend, and bend, and bend that is perfect for the way I fish!

All I have to do now is decide on a build. At the moment I'm thinking Alconite guides and that's about as far as I've got. Or maybe SiCs? A 30mm butt ring seems likely, but how many more, and what size tip ring I can't decide. It'll probably be six plus tip - 30mm to 10mm. Cork handles, abbreviated Duplon, full or split Japanese shrink? So many options!

I chucked some pellets in the river on Wednesday night. Then reeled in some barbel. Not much more to it than that. A trained monkey could have done it.

---

All's well that ends well

I hadn't planned to fish, but late on I got the urge. The flask and pellet bucket were hastily filled, the brolly removed from the quiver to cut down on weight, and off I went. I headed downstream of where I had fished last time out. Although the river had dropped a foot or so, was still falling and quite clear, I was strangely confident.

I was low on S-Pellets so had thrown in some near two year old Dynamite Oyster and Mussel shelf-life boilies for a change, and one went on the downstream rod with a single 8mm crab Pellet-O on the upstream rod. There was hardly any breeze disturbing the leaves or the few clouds in the blue sky. A great evening to be by the river. All that was needed now was a fish or two.

Only half an hour in the upstream rod was away. Almost literally! The rod rest hadn't been pushed in too well and toppled forward as the rod headed towards the river. The fish was lively but not too big. As it reached the net the hooklink parted. Cut off near the hook. Damn. Just one of those things and nothing to get too upset about. I was sorting the rig out when the boilie rod signalled a tap-tappy take. This felt like a much better fish. Just as I was planning the photo session everything went slack as a large swirl appeared on the surface of the river. The upper, mono, section of my hooklink had gone at the knot. And I'd checked all my knots before casting out. Double damn.

The rod was thrown up the bank, not in anger but to get it out of the way, and I went back to sorting out the first rod. Not having any small bait rigs tied up I looped on a boilie rig and cast this rod downstream before tying up some new rigs and retackling the rod that was out of action.

I'd not long recast both baits a little further across before that burst of activity, but now I was wondering if the lost fish would have killed the swim. The pva bag stock was topped up. The sky clouded over. Should I move swims? When the upstream rod went again I thought I might stick around. Only a little one, but third time lucky. Twenty five minutes later I was perking up when another gentle take to the small pellet resulted in fish that pulled a fair bit which, once in the net, looked like a scale and potential camera job.

The fish was left in the net while I wetted the sling and zeroed the scales. With the fish on the bank I was confused. I was certain I'd caught it on the pellet rod, but there was a boilie hanging from it's bottom lip. It was the fish I'd lost earlier! Both hooks were removed, lifting my spirits as I felt I was righting a wrong. The Avon's needle stopped short of vertical, but I wasn't disappointed. Ten minutes later another fish was landed on the same rod. Things were picking up.

Hooked twice, landed once!

Cloud cover was breaking up and reforming. Constellations appearing and disappearing. Dew was forming on my tackle box and bucket lids, the grass and my woolly hat. The light from my headlamp was growing dim and flickery. In the even dimmer light from my spare I fitted new batteries. Now I could see much better to slide pellet stops into small hair loops.

This was one of those nights when I was glad of the red filter on the Petzl too. Midges were drawn to the white light and getting up my nose. Not metaphorically up it. Up it! Insects had been a nuisance when playing fish too. One daddy long legs in particular. Fluttering and crawling over my specs. With all this bat food on the wing it was no surprise that Nora and her sisters were out in force. As well as getting the adrenaline flowing by flying into the lines between real bites they were also hitting the line when fish were being played. A disconcerting sensation.

A greedy scampette of about a pound was the next fish to pick up the 15mm boilie. This was followed by a second eight pounder to the same bait. I was beginning to think packing the boilies had been a good move. Five minutes later a fish fell off. Were things going to go to the dogs again? When another nine pounder was landed to the pellet rod at quarter to twelve I put such foolish thoughts to the back of my mind. While the action was continuing I'd stop later than planned. The next fish I landed had already seen the inside of my net this month. It was the kinky one. I'm sure most of these barbel get caught over and over again, only the easily recognisable ones being noted.

I read Casting at the Sun by Chris Yates last week. His wacky ways must have infected me because I found myself thinking that it was some kind of piscatorial karma that was the cause of my upturn in 'luck' since removing that lost hook. Really it was that the barbel were havin' it!

Half an hour without a bite and I was planning my departure. The small flask was emptying fast. My stomach beginning to demand a top up. Another fish came along to the crab Pellet-O. The first chunky looking fish of the season. Most of the fish are still looking a little lean and tatty but not this one. I guessed it would be the third nine of the night, but I was wrong. I popped her in the sack and set up the tripod.

Two test shots to get the framing then do it for real. One shot was fired off and I moved forward to better fill the frame accidentally taking a second shot. Ready for the proper pics and the bulb release failed. I checked it and it was deflated. I removed the bulb from the tube and it filled with air again. Another try and nothing. A squeeze of the bulb revealed a draught coming from it. It had split. The fish was slipped back.

Oops!

Come what may I'd give it another thirty minutes, but I'd tidy the inessentials away. With the rucksack packed the downstream rod woke up. This fish was more typical in appearance. Quite skinny, but longer than the previous one and only three ounces lighter. I couldn't face messing with the self timer so photographed her by the rod. Was there more to come?

Karma?

As it turned out, by the time the flask was finally drained, there wasn't. I packed up, again, and tramped my merry way back to the car through damp grass and cowpats. Then home for a slice of toast and a mug of hot chocolate before bed to dream of a large golden fish in a small pond. I blame Chris Yates.

---

Win some, lose some

It was breezy, from the west, overcast but dry. Boredom had set in so the river beckoned. There was a hint of colour beneath the ruffled surface, a surface maybe eighteen inches up yet dropping. The afternoon had brought out a few more hopeful souls, who had been catching a few. The favoured pegs being occupied I wasn't phased and dropped in between them at seven thirty.

Small taps occurred almost immediately I cast out, but no firm offers. A fish or two were landed either side of me, small barbel. My first fish, a chub of about two pounds fell for an S-Pellet fished downstream shortly before nine. I changed the two 12mm crab Pellet-Os on the upstream rod for a single 8mm version, and straight away I hooked a little scamp of a barbel that shot hither and thither before falling off as it reached the shallows.

The wind died, or maybe swung round to a direction that sheltered me from it, and in the quiet birds of all sorts could be heard singing before roosting. Then the valley fell silent save for the occasional distant vehicle or 'plane as darkness descended.

It was an hour later that the upstream rod produced a small chub, less than a pound. Book at Bedtime had finished on the radio when I decided to have a change of attack. I wound in the upstream rod, rebaited and recast - further across than before. Thinking I might as well put a fresh bait on the other rod I had my back turned to the river when I heard the whiring of a baitrunner.

One of the anglers downstream had passed me by saying he couldn't buy a bite, and I'd said I was in the same boat. As he headed back to his peg I was playing a fish. It felt like a decent one too. As mentioned in previous posts the fish aren't making long runs at the moment. It still pulled hard though. In the light of the Petzl it looked close to tripod size. The scales stopped a few ounces short of the arbitrary mark. A nice fish nonetheless, but still in slightly flabby post-spawn condition.

The recast pellet was taken within minutes by a four pound chub, then by a six pound barbel. I'd found the spot all right. The next cast had also only settled for ten minutes before it was picked up. I was busy filing PVA mesh bags and by the time I had grabbed the rod the rig was snagged. I tried the usual tricks; altering the angle of pull, opening the bale arm, putting the rod in the rest with the baitrunner slackened. After ten or more minutes nothing had happened. Feeding slack line it seemed the fish had gone. Pulling for a break that was what the line did.

I retackled in hope, fairly sure that the loss of a fish would have put an end to sport from that spot. Certainly for as long as I was planning to fish for. Sure enough the upstream rod remained motionless. The final fish of the night was another small chub that took the downstream bait five minutes before midnight. That was my intended departure time, but having had some recent action I stopped a further thirty minutes. Just in case. It was not to be.

As I approached the gate the beam from my headtorch picked out numerous pairs of glowing eyes. The cows were peacefully chewing their cud and, although they turned their heads, ignored me as I wound my way between them. However, a couple that were standing seemed to give me sideways looks. If cows can think I'm sure they were considering me stupid.

---

Bagging up

The test match was over for the day, rod repairs spinning while they dried, my only prospect was some paperwork - so I filled a flask and left the paperwork behind. For a reasonably nice Saturday evening in July the roads were quiet. As I neared the river a barn owl flew across my path. Being out so early it probably has young to feed.

For the first time this season a familiar van was in the car park. I checked the bucket of feeder mix that had been in the back of the car since Tuesday night and was pleased to see it hadn't gone mouldy. So the feeder would be my first line of attack with bags of pellets the back up if the feeder mix ran out.

To my surprise the owner of the van was packing up having caught one barbel from the heavily coloured, but falling, river. I didn't need much encouragement to drop in the swim being vacated as it was the one I fancied fishing anyway. The river had been a lot higher, about four or five feet higher by the looks of things, and the bank below the 'tideline' was quite slippy. Even worse where it had already been trampled. I set my chair up on reasonably safe ground.

It wasn't long before the marauding ducks arrived. They are growing fast and as greedy as ever. Unluckily for them I had no spare bait, but threw them a few crumbs of feeder mix anyway. They were soon rooting around, scrabbling over my landing net pole and bumping into my rods and reels providing an entertaining warm-up act before the top of the bill rattled my rod tips.

The headline act made it's entrance after an hour. The upstream rod tip, the bait cast to a long crease, started to bounce slowly. I picked the rod up to feel the line and the bouncing continued. So I wound down and bent into whatever it was. Certainly not a chub. The S-Pellet had scored again - and the 'dodgy' S5 hook. As has been the case most of the time this season the barbel took its time to wake up, being little more than a heavy weight until it neared the net. At this stage I was on slippy ground and not too keen on shifting my feet in case I slid, or fell, into the river. This meant I had to net the now irate fish using the full length of my nine foot landing net pole. So it took a bit longer than normal. Clearly a fish in need of the scales - and a photo next to the scales might be called for. Those scales called for the sack and tripod.

You can't beat a bit of prebaiting...

While taking three quick snaps I saw the downstream rod had pulled over and was pointing well downstream of where the feeder had been cast. After walking downstream a few yards to release the fish from firm ground I picked up the second rod and leant into another dogged weight. This turned out to be a real surprise, and a new river best. Possibly a personal best as I can't recall having caught one with such length and depth before.

Baggin'

With both rods sorted and recast after that burst of activity I needed a brew. Forty minutes later, at nine o'clock, the upstream rod was away again. Another nodding bite rather than a four foot twitch. This fish was into the flow straight away and got carried downstream, so it fought a bit harder than the first barbel had in the initial stages, but once in the slower water it came in easily. As I was going to carry it to the release spot in the weighlsing I clocked it's weight at over eight pounds.

The evening was cloudy but dry. Cloudy enough to keep the stars in bed and make darkness arrive earlier. There was a wind blowing from the west that died after dark so the night was mild enough. At quarter to eleven, after a series of rattles and pulls to both rods, the downstream rod tip imitated the actions of the two bites I'd had on the upstream rod. A barbel that I put at around six pounds was quickly netted - after it had tried to drag me into the river as my feet lost grip in the now very slippy mud at the water's edge. Again I was to carry it to the water for return in the sling, so I weighed it out of curiosity. Seven pounds. When you stop weighing smaller fish you get out of practice with the guestimates I suppose.

Quarter of an hour later I had a repeat bite on the downstream rod. This felt like a smallish barbel on the way in, so I was confused at how slim it was at the net. Hmm. Eel. As I started to tidy my gear prior to a midnight finish a light drizzle made its presence felt. Good timing.

---

Feeling deflated

For once I did some forward planning and had a bag of my hemp/pellet feeder mix thawing in the afternoon sunshine ready to try out some big cage feeders I had acquired. It had softened up nicely and I was contemplating getting the gear together when the sky darkened, rain fell, thunder cracked and lightning flashed. Sod it. I'd stay home.

Now that's what I call a swimfeeder!

As quickly as it had arrived the storm passed over. Reasoning that it was heading towards the river, at a good speed, the flask was filled and the car loaded. If I timed it right I'd arrive at the river with the grass wet but the sun shining. I set off and immediately detected a rhythmical low thumping sound coming from the rear of the car, the faster I drove the faster the thumping beat. Keep going and see what happens. I was close to the exit from the motorway when I heard a clattering under the car and the thumping stopped. Must have been a stone in the tread of a tyre. On to the dual carriageway and they thumping returned growing stronger and stronger. Puncture.

I was a short distance from a turning into a lane so slowing own I made the turn and parked up. Ten minutes later I had cleaned the dirt off my hands with some freshly mown grass and was on my way again. When I arrived at the river the swim I fancied was occupied by a rather damp looking angler who had got caught in the downpour I had cleverly avoided. The river had fallen a foot or so from Sunday and the colour was dropping out. I set up above the peg I had fished last time as that was a bit of a slippy-slidey mess.

Once set up with two feeders cast out my feathered friends came to see me. Again I had half a pint or so of old casters and maggots with me and having decided most of them were floaters and not worth putting in the feeders I let the ducklings have a few. The rod tips were pretty stationary. A very occasional twitch, but nothing even remotely strikeable. The feathery critters were getting brave. More pecking of boots and clambering over rod butts. Then one discovered the maggot box. You'd have thought it hadn't eaten for a week the way it attacked the casters! It didn't take long before there were five little beaks pecking away in the box and the casters all gone! I guess the bran must have been a bit dry as the ducklings were quick to the water for a drink.

When dusk arrived the rod tips came to life. Eel pulls, chub knocks and rattles. Still nothing conclusive. I think the angler upstream landed a fish of some sort, but he was gone before it was fully dark. Even now there is still a trace of blue in the sky around eleven when the stars are visible. If it hadn't been so cloudy, there'd been a couple of showers, it would have stayed light quite late.

To be honest I had half expected a return to the one-chance all evening situation when I realised how clear the river was. And true to form it came shortly after eleven. A proper barbel bite that set the reel spinning. It came after I had swapped the rods around and cast the double 12mm Pellet-O rig upstream and the 11mm S-Pellet downstream. This one had taken the crab Pellet-Os. A fish of some six pounds that was unhooked in the net without being weighed.

The sky had cleared and darkened when I packed up at midnight, the feeders having got a seal of approval. The only drawback to them is that being so large you soon get through a lot of feed. Half-filling them is the answer to that one.

---

That's more like it

What a refreshing change it makes for the England cricket team's tail to wag. Okay, it shouldn't have needed to wag, but for once they didn't do their domino trick and collapse one after an other. Another refreshing change was made to the river by the heavy rain on Saturday night. The water was quite heavily coloured, up about a foot but obviously on its way down, and still flowing at a manageable pace where the barbel live. The sky was blue with clouds, it wasn't hot but pleasantly warm and no more rain was forecast. Great!

I was setting up, having had the pick of the pegs, around eight brimful of confidence of a fish before dark. The usual rods were back in play, reels filled with the usual 30lb Power Pro. The downstream rod fished a single 8mm crab Pellet-O as a banker bait, the upstream rod had an 11mm S-Pellet Tuff-1 as a change bait. So far it's been the crab all the way this season, but it's early days.

An angler and his daughter had come own the river for a walk and we were chatting and watching the cheeky ducklings when he told me the upstream rod was away. The tip was doing the upstream-drop-back dance and I pulled into a fish of about six pounds with red sores on its left side near the tail root. Not a bad start. A fresh S-Pellet was attached to the hair and another scruffy bag of mixed pellets twisted onto the hook. It had been in place for less than a quarter of an hour when the process was repeated. This second fish fought a bit harder and had me fooled until it slipped into the net. A similar sized fish also with red sores near its tail. There were two that looked like bite marks. Was it the same fish? I hadn't paid too much attention to the marks on the first fish so I wasn't certain.

On winding in the downstream rod for a recast to get some more bait out I found the rig to be snagged. A walk downstream and some heaving got it free. Unfortunately the hook was slightly opened up. Not having a rig that was a direct replacement I put on one that took two 12mm Pellet-Os and cast that out.

The young lass was getting cold and bored so my companions headed for home and I had the river to myself. The lowering sun was shining gold on the tops of the far bank trees, the day falling quiet. A few minutes after nine the upstream rod signalled a chub bite. I picked the rod up and felt a tapping but the fish was going nowhere. I 'struck', felt the fish then it went solid. Damn. Steady pressure and something pinged free, then something else and I was in. No chub either. A heavy weight was pulled across the river until it hit shallower water and woke up. Maybe it's the warm water or low oxygen levels but the barbel aren't pulling hard, just holding station or cruising slowly. When the big head and broad shoulders came into sight as I drew her over the net I knew the scales would be needed. As I was arranging the net in such a way the fish was okay and unable to escape I saw the downstream rod come alive. As soon as I connected with the culprit I realised it was an eel. It had taken the two Pellet-Os and was neatly lip hooked so easily released.

Slimed!

With the scales zeroed on the wet sling the net was lifted ashore and felt satisfyingly heavy. A quick lift of the Avons showed I'd landed my third largest Ribble barbel. Hastily sacked I set up the camera after ensuring the fish was upright. Back on the bank I unzipped the sack and was surprised to see a length of braid coming out of the fish's mouth. Closer inspection revealed the braid was attached to a swivel and some mono. Forceps wouldn't reach the hook, nor would my large disgorger, so I cut the braid as short as I could. My guess is that rig had been lost and the fish had swallowed the bait rather than having been hooked and lost. Barbel don't usually take baits that deep. As usual the fish needed no nursing on returning to her natural habitat. Time to rebait both rods and get back at them.

What a big head you've got

It was now that I realised all three fish had been hooked, and landed, on a size 8 Korum S5 hook. The pattern I had cursed last time out. Oh well. Half an hour later the same hook landed another smallish barbel which again had red marks near the tail on the left flank. This definitely wasn't a recapture of the second fish of the session as I'd looked carefully at the marks on that one and one appeared to be an incision, but was it the first one? I'll never know. Nor will I know what had caused the marks.

Ten minutes later my trusty Owner C-4 on the downstream rod hooked a barbel that was taking some getting upstream - when it came adrift. Four fish on the 'dodgy' hook and one lost on the 'never-fail' pattern? There's no making sense of it - if they are going to fall off, they'll fall off!

Nearly an hour later, by now well into darkness, the downstream rod was away again. A five-ish pounder being swiftly unhooked in the edge, likewise a similar sized fish just before eleven. Odd that the daylight fish had come to the upstream rod, those after dark to the downstreamer. The next hour was undisturbed by fish so I packed up at midnight, the grass and my gear damp with dew under the clear and starry sky.

---

Experimentation for experimentation's sake

Yesterday's brainwave was to take two of my SS12-204s down the river, complete with Korum S5s on the end of the rigs. I wanted to try the rods out, although I know they'll handle the fish and leads up to four ounces. The only spare reels I had were loaded with mono and I've been told the hooks are good for barbel - despite them being similar in shape to a pattern I had bumped off/pulled out of too many barbel with back in 2004.

The river was nicely coloured, had been up a foot or more and was dropping. Not much flow though, but hardly any debris or weed coming down either. Three other anglers were on the stretch but a good peg was free. Arriving after seven I took my time rigging the rods up, and as I did so the resident family of mallards arrived. I'd taken my old maggots-turned-to-casters from last week with me, so I threw a couple of hands full in the margin which they eagerly devoured. Like feathery locusts they were! To try and get the ducks away from me I scattered the rest of the maggots in the next peg and left them to it.

With the baits cast out I set to tying up some more hooklinks using the S5s. A few taps and pulls came to the downstream rod. Nothing positive. Probably eels or chub. As I couldn't be bothered filling a flask I'd taken the stove and kettle along and was soon relaxing enjoying a brew and watching the swallows flying high over the river and the wood on the far bank.One of the anglers upstream landed a small barbel. Another guy lost one - his 'strong' 8lb hooklink having parted.

Then they returned. Not content with dabbling in the edge of the river they were on the march towards me!

The marauding horde advances

I suppose it was the innocence of youth, but the ducklings knew no fear. I threw them some pellets and they were clambering over each other to get at them. Once the pellets were devoured they came closer. One pecked at my boot, the others surrounded me. Some spilled pellets under my chair stood no chance. Even the flash from my camera didn't scare them off. I was terrified!

Mum stands guard as the horde regroups

True to form it was a one take night, and that take came just before eleven. Not having isotopes on the rod tips I was relying on the baitrunner for indication, but there was just enough light for me to see the tip of the downstream rod pull down slowly and steadily before the baitrunner started to creak. A single 8mm crab Pellet-O had done the trick again. As soon as I bent into the fish I could feel the horrible springiness of the mono. It didn't feel like a monster, but it was a decent one. Half way back it woke up and peeled some line against the clutch. Then it was gone. At first I suspected a cut-off, but no. The hook had come free. I checked the point for sharpness, rebaited and recast. Maybe it's just one of those things, but the S5s will be consigned to the bream/tench box. I have found them good hookers for those species but they had lived up to my suspicions about their shape for barbel. Give me a short shank/wide gape with a slightly curved in point every time.

It wasn't long before the same rod pulled over again and some line was taken before I picked up the rod. I knew straight away that the culprit was an eel. A bit bigger than usual at around a pound, and lip hooked so easily released.

The next time the tip pulled down something pulled back briefly, then everything went solid. After a long walk downstream to alter the angle of pull and much heaving against the stretchy mono something eventually gave. The hooklength had parted, but the stop-swivel had pulled through the rubber bead and large eye swivel in the process. Had I been on braid all that would have been a lot easier. Every time I fish for barbel with mono I wonder why I do it. I can't see any advantage it has over braid.

Retackled and rebaited the rod was cast out again. By now it was gone half past midnight, the almost-full moon starting to shine through the gaps in the trees. I doubted the barbel would show up again. One more brew and I was heading back home. Knowing that one take, two if you're lucky, with maybe the chance of a low double is probably why I took different tackle with me to make the session a little more interesting. Time for a change I think.

---

All night long

Sunday evening and again the river was all but deserted. A rainbow greeted me as I descended into the valley. Rain greeted me as I got out of the car. That set the pattern for the night. Showers of light rain that took ages to pass over with the lack of wind. It was warm rain though, so not dispiriting.

Arriving around seven fifteen I took my time selecting a swim. I was going to be there for the whole night so wanted somewhere comfy to set up camp. I know it's not the way it should be done... The swim I eventually chose was reasonably flat and grassy, with just enough depth of water in front of me to make netting any fish I might catch easy. It's a swim I have caught from before, so it wasn't purely selected with comfort in mind.

The baits were out by eight and left there for over an hour before rebaiting. The water was still clear so it would be after dark when I expected action to commence. Even with the cloud cover it remained surprisingly light until after ten thirty. Another couple of weeks and we'll start to notice the nights drawing in though. This midsummer period of long evenings is short and should be savoured - preferably by going fishing!

I thought I'd noticed the river level beginning to rise before it went dark. If it was on the up it was a slow rise. It gave me a confidence boost, nonetheless. At twenty past eleven that confidence was rewarded when the red lights started flashing and the bite alarm sounded. As I was doing an overnighter I thought there was a good chance of me nodding off at some point, so the alarms had been brought into action.

It wasn't long before a seven pounder was being returned. Rebaiting the 8mm crab Pellet-O took a while sat huddled under my brolly, but ten minutes later the rig was back in place. I'd hardly got settled in my chair when the same rod was away again. This time the barbel was a couple of pounds smaller. I was now anticipating a feeding frenzy. Needless to say I was mistaken.

Almost an hour later the same rod came alive, but my strike met with feeble resistance and a strangely eel-like spinning sensation was transmitted up the line. Luckily the culprit was a small, but scale perfect, chub of about a pound. At one o'clock the upstream rod, fishing an S-Pellet was in action with a tapp-tapping bite. This also felt like an eel, but a bit bigger than the usual bootlaces. Then it fell off. The slime all over the rig told me it had been an eel. I'd been saved the trouble of wrestling with it by torchlight, thank goodness.

My eyelids grew heavy. The alarms didn't disturb my slumber and I awoke as darkness was ever so slightly beginning to retreat. I'd been asleep for some time so I rebaited both rods. Just before four, with the dawn chorus in full flow, I was thinking that this period of half-light might be the last chance when the downstream rod slammed over. This had to be a barbel. It wasn't. It was another chub. Again scale perfect, but somewhat bigger at a shade under three pounds. Half an hour later, with the rain well and truly gone, I packed up. The river had risen, but only three or four inches at the most. It will take three or four feet to really get the barbel going at the moment I think

The drive home was along deserted roads. Deserted apart from magpies and wood pigeons. What the attraction of tarmac is for these birds I don't know, but there they were, dozens of them. The magpies hopping and the woodies waddling. If they weren't on the road they were perched on the street lights. Not everyone's favourite birds, but both have remarkable plumage when you look closely. I could see the sun in my mirrors, breaking out from behind fluffy clouds. A great time to be out and about.

---

In the (relative) cool of the night

The heatwave arrived and day time was not for fishing. By the same token long summer evenings are not made to be spent watching telly or surfing the infernalweb, so I threw some barbel gear in the car, picked up a couple of chocolate bars and a bottle of pop from the Spar shop and hit the river. Still low, probably been up and dropped since last week, I had the stretch to myself again. After a red hot day it was a muggy, cloudy evening with a light westerly that died away after dark. I was quickly set up and fishing by nine thirty. It wasn't long before slow pulls started showing on the downstream crab Pellet O rod. I had a horribly slimy premonition. Sure enough when the pulls stopped and I wound the bait in it had been engulfed by an eel about a foot long. A new hooklink was required.

I had gone back to fishing with the PVA stocking bags. Mainly because I didn't have time to thaw out some feeder mix for this last minute session. I also like the way the freebies are closer to the hookbait. But I suppose there are times when fish might hang back from the free offerings, when a feeder could be a better bet. Or you could attach the bags to the lead instead of the hook to achieve a similar result.

While watching the rod tips I heard a disturbance on the far bank and saw a falcon fly up to the tops of the trees where it glided around in a faltering manner. At first I thought it was a kestrel, but I soon realised it was catching insects. The first hobby I have seen in the valley. Travelling light I didn't have my binoculars with me to get a better look.

Twenty minutes after the first eel it's twin came along to the same rod. And they say eels are in decline... The air temperature was 23 when I arrived and it wasn't falling fast. There was no need for my fleece until eleven, and even then it wasn't really essential, not even when the sky cleared a little and a few stars appeared.

Darkness saw a few sharp taps, and more than a few more violent raps as Nora and her mates flitted around over the water in search of the numerous flies. Those bat bites really can rattle the rod and get the adrenaline flowing. At eleven the adrenaline flowed for the right reason as I hooked and swiftly landed an eight pound barbel. The fight was unspectacular apart from a couple of attempted runs. On returning the fish it needed no resting. Low levels and flows, hot weather and high water temperatures keep anglers off the river. Fishing isn't always hectic, but barbel can be caught, and if landed in short time they come to no harm. That's my experience anyway.

At midnight another silvery eel hung itself on the downstream rod. They certainly like the crab flavour pellets. All the while the other, upstream, rod fished a 10mm Tuna Wrap. A couple of twitches were all the action they produced. Hard to imagine the eel's didn't fancy them given their catholic taste. While I have caught on the larger Tuna Wraps they haven't been the best of barbel baits. I don't think I'll be bothering with them again.

By half past one the rod tops had stopped moving so I headed for home, the car's thermometer reading 20. Maybe it's worth putting an overnighter in while the nights are still so short and warm? It would certainly be a pleasant way to spend a night. Or perhaps I ought to try and catch some 'proper' eels somewhere else?

---

The shortest night

With all the work I could get done out of the way, and the T20 World Cup finals over in short time I was getting twitchy as I hadn't wet a line since Monday. In anticipation I'd prepared some hemp and fancying a dusk into dark session thought I'd fish the feeder for a change, so I'd tipped in some crushed halibut pellets to soak up the hemp juice and form a binding, and attractive, mush. Originally I'd planned to set off around eight, but by the time the Archers was over I could stand it no more. An hour later I was walking the banks of a deserted stretch of river that didn't seem to have been fished much during the first few days of the season.

The river was painfully low, bare rocks showing that are usually betrayed by the disturbance they create on the surface, and hardly any flow on the bend. Small fish were topping and splashing, so it didn't look as 'dead' as it can. The level had obviously been higher judging by the damp line on the rocks and there was a slight peaty tinge. I wasn't expecting action until dark so took my time setting up.

I'd tried to travel light by leaving the rucksack behind and putting everything in my bait carry-all. It didn't really work and I felt more disorganised than usual. By quarter past eight I had two feeders out, one fishing an 8mm crab Pellet O and the other a piece of fake maize for a change. It wasn't long before the maize was replaced by a 10mm Tuna Wrap. I'll save the plastic baits for a time I know there are plenty of barbel to be caught.

A 50g cage feeder was all that was required in the slow summer flow

The wind was light and the sky cloudy, but it being the day of the Summer Solstice darkness was a long time coming. At eleven it was as dark as it would get. Few bats were seen, and fewer chub pulls. Unusual. My intention was to fish until about one. By midnight my hopes were starting to fade when I heard the sweet sound of a baitrunner spool spinning and saw the downstream pellet rod arced over for the first time this season. There was a satisfying steady pull on the end of the line, it felt like it might be half decent. A couple of runs and I was starting to play the 'guess the weight' game. When the fish hit the light from the Petzl it looked smaller than it felt. In the net I wasn't sure. Three months since I'd last seen or weighed a barbel and my powers of weight estimation had deserted me.

The scales revealed the answer, just on nine pounds, maybe a shade over. Not a bad way to kick off the river season and nice to get a bend in a rod again after a couple of blank tench sessions. Would there be more barbel to come?

Off the mark

As it turned out there wouldn't. There was a slight sign of hope when the same baitrunner burst into life when the adrenaline had worn off and my eyelids were starting to droop half an hour after returning the barbel. That turned out to be a chub of some three or four pounds that soon gave up the fight. By one I was wide awake again and decided to give it another hour. By quarter to two I'd had enough and began to tidy the inessentials away. As I did so drizzle started to fall. Time for bed.

Driving away I turned into the village to hear a loud metallic rattling and screeching sound coming form some part of the car. I pulled over and shone the head torch underneath expecting to see something dragging on the road. There was nothing. I set off again and the noise quietened until I turned another corner when it came back only to fade away on the straight. At the next bend, crossing a bridge, the screeching started as I turned the wheel, then shut up and came back as I turned the other way over the bridge. Once more I pulled over for a look. Nothing to be seen. Having had a wheel bearing fitted last week I decided to take the wheel off. None the wiser I put it back. I'd set off again and if the noise was there I'd call the AA. Off I went, there was a bit of a squeal then it went. Round some bends and silence. I drove home expecting a wheel to fall off at any moment. By the time my head hit the pillow at 3.30 dawn was cracking a smile

Back to the mechanic today for an inspection I think. Cars? Can't live with them, can't fish without them. The most important bit of tackle you have.

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The finishing post

Apologies in advance for a long and rambling post, but I packed a lot into the final two days of the river season. With a bit of a result on Thursday it would have been foolish to fish elsewhere on Friday. Saturday would be more of a problem as that river was bound to be busy on the final day as would my local river. I'd kip in the car Friday night then play it by ear. So it was with this half-plan in mind that I set off after snaffling a bag of fish and chips to see me on.

There'd been some light rain earlier which was forecast to move away and leave the final day and a half of the season dry - but windy on Saturday. Sure enough as I drove past the Lion's Den there was a line of brollies down along the 'hot' stretch. Nobody on the opposite bank though, but I wanted to get back where I'd left off and try to fish the swim that had been occupied on Thursday. Four cars in the car park suggested there might be a problem. Sure enough the swim was taken - by a bloke who had just moved in to it... Chatting to him before heading on upstream he revealed that he'd be moving after an hour or so as he had to be away early.

This session was to start like the previous one with a long walk to the other side of the fallen willow. I dropped my gear some twenty yards from where I fished the other day and went for a wander. As I reached the next likely looking swims the rain came back. So I went back to my gear and erected the brolly. I'd fish there until dark, maybe move a few yards down for an hour. The rain didn't last long. The sky was overcast and the wind light. The river wasn't much different to the day before, a tad warmer and maybe slightly less coloured. Still good though.

Nothing happened. Not a twitch. Nowt. I went and fished one rod in another spot for half an hour or so but it didn't feel right. At seven fifteen I packed up and headed downstream hoping the swim I fancied would now be free. It was. An eight mm crab pellet went down towards the overhanging branches, two S-pellets to the upstream crease. Chub pulls started to materialise, first to the S-pellets then to the crab. The takes to the crab pellet were real rod rattlers. The tip flying round as far and with as much force as a barbel generates when it heads for the sea. The difference being that before the baitrunner gave line the tip would spring back just as quickly, the rod literally rattling in the bite alarm.

After each bite I'd leave it a while and wind in to check the pellet was still intact. Even though I'd replace it if it was. Nine o'clock would be my set time to move. At ten to the downstream rod slammed round and back again. Should I wind in and move? Should I hope the bait was still attached and leave it where it was? Should I do the right thing and rebait and recast? I did the latter.

The church clock chimed nine. Bag packed, chair strapped to it, wind in the upstream rod. With my back to the river so the light from my head torch wouldn't shine on the water I was putting the hook in a rod ring to break the rod down when the alarm bleeped twice. I spun round cursing the chub. The alarm bleeped again. Maybe the fish was hooked? Another bleep and I dropped the rod I was holding and 'struck'. Chub on! A few initial thumps as per usual for a chub then it came easily. Under the rod tip it woke up a bit and proved surprisingly difficult to get up to the surface. When it did it had a typically big gob. As it slid over the net I saw it had a hell of a gut. It also took a while to slide over the net cord. Was it the long fat chub that had previously eluded me? Looking down on it as I staked the net out I thought it might be. I kept telling myself it was good five to save disappointment.

Now I had to unpack everything to get at the tripod and camera, and the scales. When on dry land the chub was even more impressive than it had been in the water. A good length and the fattest I have seen. The needle of the Avons described a full 180 degrees and some. I lifted the scales again to make sure I had read them right. Yep. It doesn't look much in the photograph, but chub rarely do for me.

Long and fat - the fish, that is!

Once photographed I was soon returning the most impressive chub I've seen. Not without mishap. The patch of mud that my right foot sank into over the top of my boot had looked very solid. Just as it had the last time I stepped on it. Fool.

With all the gear packed away for the second time in fifteen minutes I was on my way to what turned out to be the final swim of the night. The week's fishing was starting to take its toll on me. Apart from an aching back I was starting to doze off and the prospect of wrapping myself up in the sleeping bag was very attractive. At half ten that was what I decided to do.

Half an hour later I was cosy in the back of the car by the side of another river. I soon drifted off. My mind must have still been working because when I woke a couple of hours later I couldn't get back to sleep trying to plan for the last day. The wind was picking up. When the alarm sounded at five thirty I was awake again. The wind was now roaring through the bare branches of the trees. I was still undecided. I really wanted a crack at the Lion's Den but couldn't face the crowds. The Burdock swim is a reliable spot. I got up, put on my bunny suit and boots, and carried my gear to the peg. I felt rain so put the brolly up. The rain was just a few spots and soon passed. The sky clearing and the sun shining warmly I left the brolly up to keep the wind off my back.

Still feeling dozy I had my alarm switched on. The swim is too tight to fish two rods. Well, I have fished two but the upstream rod has only produced one smallish barbel. The place to cast to is some twenty yards downstream. An awkward cast given the surrounding willows. Willows that have been trimmed back since last year, since July in fact. The area has seen a fair bit of 'swim clearance'. It's obviously been seeing some attention this season. I noticed what looked like barrow tracks to one swim. Quite why I can't fathom. There's a stile to traverse by the car park and the swim is less than a hundred yards away. Still, just like rod pods, if you have a barrow these days you have to use it...

I'd settled in and it was time to put the kettle on, then fry the bacon later. Disaster! I had two gas bottle to choose from when I packed the food bag. One was three quarters full, the other about a fifth. I could visualise the fullest one sitting at home where I'd left it. I made the brew then had to ponder whether to fill the flask or cook the bacon. Reasoning that I could drink cold water but that uncooked bacon sarnies wern't too attractive the bacon won out.

My attention elsewhere I heard a single bleep. The rod had leaped out of the alarm! There's a strong flow in this swim, being on the outside of a bend. All you can do is hang on during the initial stages and allow the barbel to tire themselves on a long line against the bend of the rod. When they tire you have to lead them upstream. Brute force gets you nowhere. Steady pressure brings them up slowly like a dead weight. Everything went to plan and a weary barbel was drawn upstream of the net and allowed to drift down into its folds.

At the start of the week I was wondering if I could make it to ten doubles for the season. By the end of November I had caught eight and ten for the season looked easy. But then I'd thought that in October 2007 when I was on four and suffered a famine until the final night of the season. Now, with less than a full day to go I was on nine. Was this plumpster number ten? The scales said it wasn't. It was my 90th barbel of the season though - meaning that one in ten had been double figures, which I consider a decent percentage. It also meant I hadn't blanked at season's end, which is always satisfying.

Plump, but short

The wind continued to howl, the sun was bright and warm, I fancied a change of scenery. As the days have lengthened so the prospect of sitting in one swim all day wasn't too appealing. After managing to boil enough water to fill my flask I packed up at half nine, the stretch still devoid of anglers. I wasn't sure exactly where I was heading except it would be downstream. On a whim I stopped to look at a length that I have walked a couple of times but never fished because of the difficulty in accessing the river bank to fish and partly because of the cattle. It's not that I'm scared of cows or bullocks, it's the fact that the car parking is in the field and cattle damage cars. This time the field's only occupants were some far off Canada geese.

I walked to the river and the banks had been cleared. This work had revealed some tasty looking swims. Most more suited to summer fishing, at least to my eyes. Shallow streamy stretches lined by rushes, and similarly shallow runs with tangles of branches. I went back to the car, removed the brolly from the quiver to cut down on weight, and set off. Two baits were put out close in in a spot where the river narrowed. I had a slower crease upstream and more pacy water below it. There wasn't much depth but there was enough colour to give me confidence.

The wind really was blowing, barrelling up river creating small white capped breakers. The rods were bouncing in the rests, I felt like I was getting rosy cheeks. After less than an hour I wanted some respite. A wander further downstream found me some even more inviting, slightly deeper, swims under large trees. One had clearly been fished for chub in recent days. There were tell-tale crusts of bread on the bank. I was soon back with the rods.

As crab pellets had been doing the business I decided fish them on both rods. The S-pellets were removed and three crab pellets took their place. Because the hair had been tied to accommodate two 16mm pellets (and I'm lazy) I threaded on two 12mm crab pellets sandwiching an 8mm pellet between them.

Crab Pellet-Os

It wasn't long before the tip of the rod fishing the big bait signalled a chub pluck. Even under the trees the wind was sapping my enthusiasm. Two swans sought the haven offered by a cow drink on the far bank to rest from struggling against the wind. A hare lolloped across the field opposite while a lapwing wheeled and called above it. Had it not been for the wind I could have spent some time working that area. The big bait was taken again, this time the chub was hooked. A real beauty. Bold and brassy. Not quite a five but, as always with a first fish from a stretch, still pleasing. Time to go seek shelter.

A chub

By now I was feeling peckish. Back at the car I chanced frying some bacon on the last of the gas. It just made it. The flame flickering and dying just as the fat began to crisp. I reckoned that further on down river I could get out of the wind in one of the swims I'd fished a few weeks ago. Sure enough they were sheltered. I couldn't believe there was only one angler on the stretch - getting blown about in a productive, but exposed, swim. He was welcome to it!

Rods out I started to nod off as the swim was not only sheltered but getting the full benefit of the sunshine. I awoke to hear a car boot closing. Another angler had arrived with the same idea as me - to get out of the wind. I'd had one chub pluck, nothing conclusive though. With three, maybe four, swims that were out of the wind the new arrival chose to fish the one directly below the bush I was fishing to. Another move was called for. I wound the rods in and took one to check out a swim I hadn't inspected before. It was pretty interesting. Four or five feet of slower water close in with a neck down area in the river just above. It was protected from the wind too. It didn't speak to me though. I went back to my swim, packed the gear and headed for the car.

By now it was half four. I'd have time to look at the Burdock Swim again and if it was taken to head on to where I'd fished the previous two days. Driving down the lane to the river I saw what looked like sheep droppings all over the track. Sure enough as I drove into the field there were sheep everywhere. Ewes and their young lambs. Some of the lambs were tiny things and completely unaware what a car is. They made no attempt whatsoever to get out of the way. Quite the opposite. They walked towards the car. Further into the field where the track is quite deeply rutted there were lambs aplenty. They were small enough to make use of the ruts to shelter from the gale! I managed to drive round the lambs and reached the still deserted car park. It was going to be an interesting drive back dodging lambs in the dark!

Almost twelve hours, many miles of driving, and a bit of bank tramping later I had a bait back out where I'd started the day. Although surrounded by scrub and trees I put the brolly up to make for a pleasant last few hours. I was, by now, feeling the full effect of almost five days of fishing. Fresh air, sleep deprivation, exercise. I was starting to flag and could easily have headed for home. Not least because the food, like the gas, had run out.

At long last the wind started to drop as the light faded. The radio weather forecast predicted Sunday would be a day of light wind and high temperatures. Obviously... I was listening to an interesting Profile programme on R4 when the brolly suddenly lit up with a bright green flashing light and the air was rent by a high pitched wail. Either aliens were invading or I had a take. The rod being hooped right round rather hinted that aliens weren't involved.

The fight was a repeat of that from the first fish of the day. There was one difference. The weight I was trying to draw upstream felt heavier. The fish looked to be just as well filled out, but longer. I staked the net while I sorted the sling and sack. Taking the weight of the fish as I lifted the net by its arms it felt satisfyingly heavy. In my head I was guessing at eleven pounds. I was only an ounce out. My biggest off the stretch and number ten for the season. For the second time this swim had ended my season on a high. The fish was sacked briefly before the photos were taken.

Number ten

For release I put the fish in the landing net where she lay upright, gills working slowly, her head out in the flow, the mesh supporting her body. After a minute or two she moved her body gently from side to side and slid out of the net disappearing deep into the darkness.

Time to chill after sorting out the mess my swim had become. I rebaited and recast. I might as well. The spirit was willing to sit it out until midnight, but the body wanted some scran and to fall asleep. At eight thirty the rod was wound in and the river season was over for me. All that remained was to negotiate the sheep and hit the tarmac. Sure enough with acres and acres of grass to go at they were congregated along the track. At one point I had to get out of the car to shoo the dopey bleaters away.

Who says sheep are stupid?

My right hip hurts, my back aches and my 'good' knee is giving me gip. It's been a great end to the season but I'm all fished out - for now!

---

Three down, two to go

Catching barbel is fun no matter what their size, but catching big ones is more fun. With half a dozen modest fish under my belt already this week it was time for an away day. Not knowing what the river would be like I called in for some maggots en route. As soon as I saw the brown water I knew they were surplus to requirements.

Two other anglers were chatting in the car park by the riverside and one of them was a tench fishing acquaintance I hadn't seen since I bumped into him on this length of river last winter. It turned out that he was suffering a barbel famine and was off chubbing. I'm not sure why he was moaning about the lack of barbel after his golden summer of 24 doubles though! I hadn't planned on fishing the Alley, but it looked good, and there were just the two other anglers on, plus a roving chubber.

First of all I'd walk upstream, well past the Alley, to fish a a spot that looks like it's mid way between access points on the map and so I had usually approached from the other end. It turns out to be a much shorter walk going upstream. D'oh!

I spent an hour with a lump of meat fishing a slack behind a bush. A spot I hadn't tried before but looked the part. Tucked down the bank the wind was going over my head and I felt the full benefit of the warm air. The sky was bright but cloudy. Another grand day to be on the river bank. With the water coloured, up a foot or so and over eight degrees I was brim full of barbel confidence.

The first move involved fighting my way under a big old fallen, and chopped up, willow. Under this was the remains of a barbed wire fence and a stile. Over the fence and there was ditch to negotiate - with tree trunks for stepping stones. Going back in the dark might be fun! Now I was in familiar territory. I dropped in below a run of willow bushes, the meat going on their edge and a single 8mm pellet (crab, naturally) being dropped in downstream just in front of some overhanging grass. I sat back and relaxed.

No need to always fish 'beachcaster' style

The fieldfares are still around, although it won't be long before they head north again. A noisy flock of twenty or so flew into the top branches of a tall willow on the far bank before flying off to roost. Watching swans grazing in a distant field is a peculiar experience. What's more surprising, when you know what a performance they make of landing on water, is how easily they do it on dry land. Luckily the majority of them stayed where they were and didn't become a flotilla of white annoyance going up and down the river all night.

I have little faith in luncheon meat. It was changed to a couple of S-Pellets by half four. Originally I'd intended to move before dark. However, the swim gave me confidence and I sat there until seven. The only action being a slow chub pull to the S-Pellets. I packed the gear and braved the fallen willow. I thought that carrying all my gear over the 'stepping logs' would be more troublesome than it was. The fence proved to be the sticking point. Literally! Once through all I had to do was avoid falling off the path that follows the crumbling bank edge.

The swim I had in mind to fish next was occupied. Not a big deal there are plenty to chose from, and I chose the Gate swim that I have caught from before. By the time I reached it I'd worked up quite a sweat. The baits were positioned as before, the S-Pellet upstream to a crease, the crab pellet down to trailing branches. At eight there was a tap or two to the S-Pellets. This then developed into what looked like the tip action you get when a chub has hooked itself and isn't swimming off. I pulled into the fish. Or I would have done had there been one there. Instead the hook flew into the grass at the water's edge and refused to pull free. I slid down the bank, flashing the light from my Petzl everywhere and making a bit of a commotion to free it.

A fresh bag of pellets was applied to the hook and the bait recast. I'd give it half an hour on the off chance I hadn't scared any fish in the swim off then move again. Time to make up some more pellet bags. That done the pellet bucket was put back in the carry-all and I relaxed again. Hardly five minutes had passed when the isotope on the downstream rod became a blurry shooting star describing an arc towards the water. The baitrunner whirred into life and I grabbed the rod, stopping the spool with a finger before knocking off the baitrunner.

The fish wasn't moving. I thought I felt the line pinging off something. Maybe it was snagged? I kept the pressure on and then the fish thrashed on the surface. Now it was coming upstream. Relief! It felt like a decent one too. The first time it came to the net it looked a scraper double. The net was wrapped over itself and I had to flip it free. The fish powered off again, and again. When I slid it over the net I had to slide it further than I'd anticipated. Looking down as it rolled on its back in the mesh it was deep flanked, broad shouldered, solid and immaculate.

The net was staked out while I got the mat, sling and camera sorted. Then the fish was lifted ashore in the net, unhooked, weighed and four quick photos taken. It's a shame we don't have long to look at fish when they are landed. Some of them are worthy of admiration. But that's why we photograph them I suppose. Back in the water as soon as her tail was free of the folds of the sling she powered out into the river. Is that the best part of catching a big fish?

Broad shouldered, solid and immaculate - the fish, that is!

I needed a rest after all that! An hour later I was on the move again. It was a quiet night. Not much traffic along the lane. While still mild it was turning cooler. The moon was high and hazy behind the clouds. The flask was all but empty. The fish weren't biting. Quarter to eleven and I packed up making plans for the final two day assault.

---

On the tourist trail

I was in hunter gather mode this morning after visiting the Post Office. Among other things, I hunted down some pork pies and gathered a packet of frozen peas as I roamed the supermarket! Those tasks complete I filled my belly with sausage and mash then made two corn dog butties and was on my way.

After lugging my tip rod and a pint of maggots to a coloured river yesterday I almost left them behind. Reasoning that I might as well throw them in the river as leave them to turn into casters I took them back again. The river had dropped - in level, colour and temperature. Having arrived around two the maggot feeder seemed a good option. The upstream rod fished a piece of Spam for a change.

Although the day was overcast it was warm, almost 13c, and the wind light again. Only one regular was on the bank, just having a look before fishing so I let him have the swim I fished yesterday - he'd been blanking and I felt generous. Besides, I was going to fish upstream anyway...

It wasn't long before the double red maggots were picked up by a small brown trout. A blank saved after a fashion. An hour or so later on an identical bite produced something that fought differently and felt a bit bigger. I was hoping for a big chub, but it was a small barbel. Definitely a blank saved this time.

They look a bit different from this angle!

The next bite was identical. It produced another sea trout, as did the following bite to maggot. I've said it before that I don't understand why people fish for these spotty creatures. They fight like mindless idiots, dashing all over the place with no sense of purpose and then they cartwheel out of the water for no apparent reason. Maybe when they get bigger they are worth standing in a river wafting a stick and a bit of string about for like two loonies on the river today.

A tourist

By the time the third trout of the day had been returned it was time to prepare for dusk. The tip rod was stowed and a pellet rod broken out, the bait cast to the area the maggots had been going in. Things were quiet. It really was a joy to be out on a day that was almost warm. Lambs were playing King of the Castle on a pile of hay, their plaintive bleats echoing along the quiet valley. Bats were on the wing as dusk fell, no doubt feasting on the glut of small flies that had been drifting past all afternoon.

There was a slow, deliberate pull down of the rod tip followed by a sharp spring back to the meat. Probably a chub backing off with the bait then dropping it. The next bite came after dark to the pellet. A tip bouncer that resulted in a three pound chub. Half an hour later the tip did it again. This time it was a hard scrapping, but smallish, barbel. I'd heard there was a kinky one in the stretch. If that wasn't it there must be two.

Another for the oddity list

Thirty minutes later and the tip bounced for a third time. Another barbel, but normally proportioned and straight of spine, if a little smaller. The evening was warm enough for me to have to remove my woolly hat for a few minutes. I was getting the urge to dust off the bivvy and do an overnighter. By nine I thought it would be a good time to leave. Back at the car and the thermometer showed it was still 12 degrees. On the drive home the cloud started to clear and the big, bright moon was shining again.

Not much work to do tomorrow. I should be out and about after lunch - if not sooner. If only I could make up my mind where to go.

---

On the home straight

Today turned out better than expected - weather-wise and work-wise. By the time my courier called to collect I'd got the rods whipped up that needed doing and the sun was shining after a drizzly start to the morning! What's a boy to do on the final Tuesday of the river season? Butties were hastily made and gear hurled in the back of the car.

Driving into the valley the blue skies had a real springlike look to them. The sky was a warmer blue than of late. The grass in the fields was greening up and the trees hinting at buds with a less stark appearance. The river was up a good foot and carrying colour. That there were only three cars in the car park amazed me - especially as two were game anglers. I was purturbed to see the familiar figure of EH heading back to his van, though. It was only five o'clock and he'd had enough of blanking. Still, it meant I could fish his swim, over his bait!

I didn't race to cast out but it wasn't long before I had two rods out. Almost immediately I had a tentative enquiry to the downstream rod fishing my now obligatory single 8mm crab pellet. Five minutes later the rod top started bouncing and a small barbel of a couple or three pounds was soon returned. Of the months I've fished for them this season only December has been completely barbel-free. A small achievement - but much better than the lengthy barbel famine I endured last winter. Especially considering how cold this winter has been.

Only a baby - but a March barbel nonetheless

The woods opposite were alive with bird song of all sorts, including the first green woodpecker I've heard this year. Well before sunset the owls started their hootings. Sunset is coming later now, the heat went out of the day well before the sun had gone but when it stays light until after six-thirty it lifts my spirits. Once the clocks change it will be light until almost eight and spring really will be here. I even carry on working later when the evenings lengthen - which makes for more fishing time by getting more done each day.

As the sun set the stars came out in a crystal clear sky, not much later the moon shone brightly casting an eerie light across the fields and the tree tops. I was, of course, listening to the final test match from the West Indies and it was gripping stuff. As the tea break was coming to its end the downstream rod bounced again. This barbel was a little bit bigger than the first. The upstream rod had been motionless. Both remained immobile for another hour. Had it not been for the cricket I'd have packed in. The air temperature had dropped considerably to about 3.5c from the daylight high of over 10. The water temp was a pretty steady 6.7c, so action could have been more hectic.

I'd had a recast of both baits at eight. Ten minutes later the downstream rod came alive for a third time. This fish held station against the well bent Chimera 3, giving occasional thumps for a few seconds before everything went slack. It felt like the dreaded cut hooklink as I could still feel the lead as I wound in. But no. The hook was still attached. However the pellet had gone and the pellet stop was broken. I can only assume the fish had never been hooked and was pulling on the pellet lodged in the corner of its mouth.

A fresh bait was rigged on the hair, a new stop attached and the hook nicked into a PVA mesh bag of pellets. Again it was just ten minutes before the rod was bouncing. Another juvenile was netted and returned. By now all my gear was covered in dew and the moon was making me squint. Funnily enough I wasn't feeling cold. The test match reached its climax and I packed up.

Four more days of river fishing left for this season. Decisions, decisions...

---

The madness continues

Saturday morning was spent annoying match anglers in the local tackle shop while I was picking up a pint of red maggots and a tub of 12mm crab Pellet-Os. It being another warm day I expected the river to be packed out on a Saturday near the season's end. It was busyish, a foot up and coloured, a little cooler, but barbel had been caught. The peg I fished on Tuesday was free. It seemed as good a spot as anywhere to settle in. I'd taken three rods with me, the two usual Chimera 3s and a mongrel that I wanted to try out. One of the Chimeras cast a single 8mm Pellet-O downstream and the mongrel cast another upstream.

I sat down, tidied my gear and poured a brew from my flask. The cup wasn't half drained when I heard a baitrunner whirring and looked up to see the Chimera tip pulled over. Ten minutes in and I was returning a six and a half pounder to cat calls of derision from another angler whose swim had died!

Aye, eye!

Just over half an hour later I caught sight of the mongrel's tip stabbing repeatedly down and I pulled into a heavy feeling fish. Then I remembered the rod wasn't as powerful as the Chimera. It had a lovely through action though. This barbel was little heavier. I changed the rig over to fish one of the larger Pellet-Os. Just before 5.30 that bait was taken. Alas, I pulled out of the fish. My fault entirely, I should have tied on a fresh rig with a bigger hook and a longer hair. I swapped the mongrel for my other Chimera which was rigged like this and replaced the S-Pellet that was on the hair with a fresh one.

Dusk was falling but the action dried up. A few chubby rattles and taps but no proper bites. Darkness settled in and it stayed nice and warm. A good hour into darkness a three pound chub picked up the downstream bait, then a few minutes later the upstream rod started bouncing. This was to be the biggest, and last, fish of the session at seven pounds. I fished on for two more hours before winding in. I didn't fancy a late night as I planned to fish again on Sunday.

I was up with the lark on Sunday morning. A lark that had had a lie in... Even so I was on the road by nine. With the weather forecast to turn cold again I wanted to spend as much time on the bank as I could. If I had a plan it was to fish one venue for a few hours then hit the big fish stretch into dark. My plans changed and I ended up driving to a spot I hadn't fished since September last season - almost a year and a half ago. I set up in a swim near the car park that I had fished before and had a bite straight away on the maggot feeder. Then nothing more, even though the water was encouragingly warm at 8.3c and carrying a little colour.

The sun was shining, birds were singing, larks ascending. I was tucked away in the willows and sheltered from the still cool wind. Pleasant as it was I wanted bites. So I went for a walk downstream. Things had changed considerably. Swims I hadn't been able to see for the vegetation the last time I ventured this way had been made accessible. And they all looked inviting!

The first one I settled in was a rare old sun trap. There was enough heat in the midday sun for me to strip off the bunny suit and the fleece. However, it only took a wispy cloud drifting in front of the sun for me to put them back on again. It's still not summer. Like the majority of these swims it had overhanging bushes at either side, slackish water under the rod tip and the main flow creating a crease beyond the bushes. A bite came fairly swiftly to double maggot. A small chub.

Small but pristine

A switch to lobworm resulted in a positive bite and a fish that jagged like a perch before turning into another chub, a little larger than the first and with a throat full of mashed red maggots. There was a robin quietly singing in the bushes to my left. I threw some maggots towards it and it began to pick them off one by one, flying into the willows to eat each one in peace before returning for another. While I was relaxing watching the robin's comings and goings I noticed some fishing line in the willows. I untangled and removed most of it, including the rig that was attached.

Carbel rig

There are carp in the stretch, I've caught one, so I guess it could have been a carp rig. My guess is that it was used for barbel though. The short hooklink suggests an angler who either buys his rigs ready tied or can't think beyond carp rigs for anything - or both. I know short hooklinks catch barbel, but longer ones work much better. And there really is no need for a fixed rig like that on a river either. Still, I have another lead in the bag!

I planned to move again at four. That was when the quiver tip tapped again. Undeterred I moved anyway. After dropping my gear in one swim I moved it again to a more open swim with a bush directly upstream to my right and another a good few yards downstream. The flow was slow under the rod end, but not slack. It was an hour or more before I had a good pull to the lobworm. The strike unbelievably failed to connect. On inspecting the hook I saw the worm was balled up over the point.

The last of the clouds cleared from the sky and, as the sun lowered towards the top of the far bank, the air cooled. A cock pheasant chased a couple of hens about the field of sprouting crop on the other side of the river. A hare ran silhouetted along the ridge line. Two signs of spring as sure as the larks, lambs and motorcyclists I had seen and heard earlier in the day.

Another sign of spring

The isotopes were almost aglow when I started getting finicky plucks on the quiver tip. They weren't enough to make me stay. But I was unsure where to move to. I'd try the big fish stretch. This meant packing the gear in the car and a bit of a drive.

It was an hour later that I was setting up one rod in the Rat Hole by the bright light of a crescent moon. Even though I was out of the wind, now dropping in strength, I was getting chilly. After a couple of hours with the last of the tea in my flask cold, my nose colder still, I packed up. When I was putting the rods in the quiver I realised why my nose was so cold - there was some of that dreaded sparkly stuff on it. Back at the car the thermometer read 5.5c, but the roof would have made a nice skating rink for small animals. The gritters were out on the road home. My plans for a frantic end of season barbel campaign look to have been scuppered for now.

---

Boilies, bedchairs and.... barbel

Led Zeppelin got involved this week. There was a communication breakdown that has resulted in my blanks being scheduled for arrival on Wednesday now... There was me with my Tuesday planned to start work and therefore not waste a day waiting for my courier calling to take some finished rods away. If they'd arrive early enough I might just slip away to a river.

By three thirty I was on the road in time to beat the rush hour traffic. The lengthening days mean I could take my time getting set up. Late season madness is taking hold all right. There were plenty of anglers on the banks. Hardly surprising given the mild, dry conditions. Three vehicles in the car park - and the usual suspects on the stretch I had headed to. All were fishing the favourite pegs, and EH had already landed a small barbel. The river was low and clear, yet warm at 7.3c. I plonked my gear down in a swim between the 'crowds' and went back to get my 'new' bedchair. I wanted to try it out before the tenching starts and I also wanted to put my feet up and relax!

For some reason I can't explain I put some boilies in the bait bag. I don't think I've fished a boilie all season, so why I did that I have no idea. Seeing as I'd got them with me I put one on a hair and cast it upstream and across to the channel, a single 8mm crab Pellet-O going straight across to the channel on the downstream rod. Now to set up the bedchair and get comfy. Front legs extended to level the bedchair and I sit down to relax. One of the legs gives way... I mess around with the offending leg to no avail. Out with the mobile and phone my mate's tackle shop where I got the bedchair from and where I'd left my old one for him to sell. I'd stop the sale of the original and pick it up on Thursday. Ray answers and I ask if he's sold my bedchair yet. Thinking I was after the cash, in a cheery voice, he told me it had sold that very morning. Aaaaargh! More messing with the leg and I managed to get it to grip. I'm not convinced though. No wonder that bloomin carp angler wanted rid of it. You can't trust anyone from St. Helens.

EH landed a couple more small barbel, both brassy scaled and coral finned typical of clear water fish. The star attraction of the river arrived and settled peacefully in my swim. I threw it a handful of pellets. Unlike mute swans this lone, and lonely, trumpeter is well behaved. It doesn't beg or pester you, it doesn't flap about or swim into your lines. After dark it tucked its head under a wing and nodded off, drifting in the slack water near the bank. If only all swans were like that.

Not as evil as it looks!

Out of the blue about quarter past six the pellet rod woke up. A proper barbel bite. A small one was soon returned. Rebait, rebag, recast. I was sorting something out when a few minutes later the rod came alive again. Another reel spinner. This time it soon felt chubby. Sure enough that was what it was. Its white gob was rather large though. In the net it rolled on its side showing, unusually for me, a fat belly. Then it went berserk thrashing the water to a foam. When it calmed down I got the scales ready and lifted it ashore. No fives all season then two in a week. When I get a long chub, it's thin, when I get a fat one it's short. Where are the long fat chub?

Where have they been all season?

I've put a bit of time in on this length fishing with chub gear, in chub conditions, then I land one on barbel gear when the river's right for barbel over a pound heavier than the best I'd managed on maggots or flake. It makes no sense. But that's fishing. When you think you are doing it right, you're not!

Bait back out and time for a rest. One or two rattles and pulls to the boilie rod came to nought. It got rebaited and repositioned. After a while I noticed it pull down and spring back repeatedly I expected another chub, but this was pulling back. Not a massive barbel, but bigger than the first one by about four pounds. Three fish in three quarters of an hour. It might be a good session.

An hour or so later I decided to put my bite alarms on. The bedchair was rather comfy and I might nod off. Just as I was fiddling with my sounder box I heard two short bleeps from the pellet rod. I looked round to see the tip pulled purposefully over. I lifted into another barbel. One that tried plodding a bit and had me thinking it might have been a bit bigger than it's seven pounds. Well, it's a while since I hooked a decent barbel...

By now I had the river to myself - and the swan. Shortly after eight some fine mizzle arrived. Not enough to wet anything. It turned into drizzle. I put up the recently repaired (maybe) brolly and lay back. The air temperature had only dropped a couple of degrees from the 9c it had been when I arrived. I could easily have spent the night there. Just having my feet up makes watching motionless rods relaxing and enjoyable.

The chub rattles dried up. The precipitation moved off as the cloud cover broke up. I couldn't see much else happening. As I packed up the swan moved off too. Not a bad session for an opportunist one. If the weather stays favourable and I can get my work boxed off quickly I might succumb to the madness and fish my head off for the last week (or more) of the season.

---

Back to blank

There's a frenzy that develops in river anglers at this time of year. Time is running out, yet the weather's improving. Just three weeks left for the chance of a few more barbel. With work set to get in my way from Monday I thought I'd snatch one more session while I had the chance. Even though the barbel hadn't been playing all week the river was still going to be warm enough. They had to be feeding!

A warm, dry, Sunday afternoon this close to the end of the season and only one other angler on the bank. The rest of them were either filling their boots somewhere else or had had enough of blanking. The Lion's Den swims were empty, the opposite bank I was on was also devoid of anglers. I started off fishing a cage feeder with flake for bait below the Rat Hole in a swim which will now be known as the Skeleton Swim after the remains of what I took to be a moorhen that were hanging in low willow branch - at head height when I was sat on my low chair. I assume it was a moorhen from the few remaining feathers clinging to the white bones. The head and neck were missing. So were the chub. Not a sniff.

After an hour I deposited my gear in the Rat Hole. It was nice and sheltered here, the wind being quite strong and with a touch too much of the north in it for me. I'd left my amazing collapsing brolly at home as the forecast was for a dry afternoon and evening. Had I taken it I might have fished a streamy glide with a good depth close in that looked like it might offer some tempting cover to the fish in the clear water conditions. Shelter seemed a better choice. Unfortunately when I looked across the river there was a roving chub angler fishing almost opposite the Rat Hole. Not to worry, I liked the look of a narrow gap in the willows just upstream.

I fancied this spot for a chub with the cover of overhanging branches either side of the gap. I fancied it for a barbel too, but didn't fancy trying to extract a hard fighting fish from it's confines. After ten minutes on my knees I went back to get my chair! Sitting behind the cover of the hawthorns with the quiver tip poking out over the river I was well sheltered. The long tailed tits ignored me as they worked up and down the bushes. The way the move along in a flock, swinging from the branches as they search for insects, their tiny bodies and long tails put me in mind of a troupe of minuscule monkeys. A large flock of fieldfares flew up river, a few redwings mixed in with them. Something caught my eye, a small bird moving in the branches to my left obscured by the dead stems of some plant or other. I thought it was a wren at first, but when it revealed itself I saw the bright yellow cap of a goldcrest. A biteless hour was long enough, it was getting towards time to put the barbel rods out.

With the popular swims on both banks empty I had the freedom to set up where I liked. The tackle was moved in, rigs checked and a monster crab and mussel Tuff1 cast to mid river and a crab Pellet-O down the inside line. I was hoping the wind would drop after dark as this stretch was taking its full force. Popping behind the bankside bushes it was an overcoat warmer. The wind chill was considerable. The light went. The chub angler headed home. The wind did drop. I gave it an hour and a half then leapfrogged the rods down a few yards.

Given an open bank and snag free water I have that pike anglers urge to spread my rods out! The butts I managed to keep within reach, but the baits were spaced a good twenty yards apart. I can't see any point in fishing two baits in the same spot when you don't have to. Those who say that having two lines in the water might spook barbel can never have considered putting the lines well apart. It's rare that I fish two baits to the same line, only when fishing a channel or similar feature, and then they will be spread as far apart as I safely can. When fishing a swim like the one I was in where fish could be anywhere from the near bank to the other side the baits might as well cover as much water as possible.

My strategy came to nought. By nine thirty I was starting to nod a bit. I'd fished four days out of the last six. No barbel but the batteries had been recharged. If conditions stay steady until I have got work out of the way this week I have a plan of some high degree of cunning that might put a barbel on the bank for me.

---

Chub by accident

The fly that was on the horizon last week never landed in the ointment. It's due next Monday now. I had a chance to sneak away for a longer session on Thursday. It wouldn't matter what time I arrived at the river as I could stop late and fish again on Friday. The day was warm again, cloudy but bright. No surprise to see the car park full. It turned out that only two of the cars belonged to anglers so there was no fighting for swims, especially as the other two anglers turned out to be roving for chub. Lacking a plan I walked downstream, spotting a couple of nice looking spots I hadn't noticed before. Ideal places for a stealthily lowered barbel bait. Nonetheless I headed back up the 'alley' to while away the hours of daylight in a comfy swim before a move or two after dark. If anything the river was clearer than it had been on Tuesday, and a little lower. Despite the water temperature having risen to over 7c it would be darkness when the barbel would come out to play.

I sat listening to the test match unfold with one crab Pellet-O cast downstream towards an overhanging willow, and a couple of S-Pellets cast about a third of the way across, slightly upstream to a bit of a crease.

One of the chub anglers stopped for a chat. He'd had three but it had been hard work. It was his first session on the stretch so I told him of a couple of swims I'd taken chub from. On his return, chubless, from the swims we talked further about the size of the chub the river was producing and I bemoaned the fact that I'd not managed a five pounder this season. Usually a few chub of that size succumb to my barbel baits. Thinking about it further I haven't been using boilies as much as in previous years, concentrating on the Sonu pellets as barbel so seem to approve of them. Perhaps that's the reason why.

Darkness fell and I thought I'd leave it until the tea break in the test match before making a move. The church clock chimed five, six, seven, zzzzzzzzzzzz. The rod fishing to mid-river was away. I pulled into something. Then it was gone. At first I feared an inexplicable line failure or cut-off, but no. The rig was intact, the hook point sharp and unmasked. Just one of those things. Another hour in the swim was called for.

I started to tidy my gear for the move when it started spitting with rain. Out with the brolly. I could have sworn I'd replaced the collapsing brolly with a different one. But I hadn't. A battle ensued as I struggled to assemble the damned thing. The rain eased off almost as soon as I got the pole in the ground and myself under cover. On with the waterproofs. Half an hour later I had everything ready for the move bar the brolly and the rods. The rain came back. I sat on my rucksack under cover and let it pass.

In the new swim I rebaited and positioned my baits in the same way to the previous swim as the features were not dissimilar. While moving swims I missed two West Indian wickets. Two more and England would win. But time was running out. The sky cleared, the West Indians dug in, my eyelids drooped. I was disturbed from my reverie by a screaming baitrunner. The downstream rod was hooped right over. At last! Hang on. This ain't no barbel. Sure enough a long chubby-looking thing appeared in the Petzl beam. Once netted it went berserk. I left it there while I sorted the scales and sling. It proved to be a late entry on the five pounder list. It's just typical that when I target chub I catch middling sized one, when I don't they turn out bigger.

An anorexic chub

Perhaps that earlier missed take was another supercharged chub bite? It's an explanation I'm happy with. While all this was going on a wicket fell. Close of play, one way or another, wouldn't be far away. That would be my cue to wind the rods in and head for a secluded place by a river to spend the night. England's hopes faded with the light, so I was tucked up in bed by eleven.

The luxurious accommodation of Hotel Astra

The alarm was set for six thirty. I awoke early to hear a blackbird singing it's head off before there was much of a hint of daylight. Where to fish? Not too far from the car! It seemed like a good idea to put the rods out and have something to eat and set me up for the day. You can't beat a bacon butty and a mug of tea on the bank.

Food of the Gods

The swim looked good. Some slacker water with a bit of depth. A touch of colour and a decent temperature was encouraging. Nothing happened. The sun came out. Nothing happened. Back to the car, stick a rod out on an alarm on the off chance while filling the flask and drying off the brolly, which the forecast said wouldn't be required, so it could be left in the car. Three buzzards soared overhead. I could have been miles from anywhere.

I wasn't feeling brave enough to enter the Lion's Den. The rat Hole would do me - even though it has been far from kind to me. I inspected Son of Rat Hole, a swim that has been recently opened up below the Rat Hole. It lacked depth. Depth might mean a chance of a bite in daylight. Besides, the Rat Hole was sheltered from the wind and it's offspring wasn't...

An other angler arrived and revealed that he didn't think there'd been a barbel out all week. Maybe two on Monday but he wasn't sure. Yet conditions were good following the prolonged cold spell. I chose to fish one rod on the edge of a crease during daylight, then put a second rod out closer in after dark. Even out of the wind the day was cooler than Thursday. The river wasn't much different though. I wasn't dispirited.

A couple of fieldfares flew into the hawthorns as it got near to dusk. They made a noise, looked agitated and flew off. A small brown bird flitted from the bushes to the base of a willow. A flash of cream suggested to me it might be a treecreeper. When it came round to my side of the trunk it was, indeed, a treecreeper. A nice spot for the day. As the light level dropped further so birds became silhouettes a skinny looking moorhen alighted on a branch trailing in the water. An odd looking moorhen with an exceedingly long beak. It was a water rail. A secretive and nervous bird. I've seen them before elsewhere, but not for a long time. Another nice spot.

By the time it was dark enough for the isotopes to glow bright rain arrived. Great... Zip up the rucksack fold over the bait bag and don the waterproofs. Not cold rain and far from heavy. Not really heavy enough to wet me through. It still put a dampener on my spirits though. If I'm not enjoying being there, I go home. At eight that's just what I did.

---

Topsy turvy world

With a cold, and wet, front approaching I thought I'd have a try for a barbel or two before it arrived. The day had warmed up nicely by the time I finished my morning errands but even by the time I was turning the car to leave my street I wasn't sure where I was going! Reasoning that it might be warmer if I headed south that was the direction I headed. Sure enough the reading on the car's thermometer crept up slightly as I travelled down the motorway. It was around eight degrees which would make for a grand afternoon and evening.

However, once I crossed the 'border' the trend reversed. I was stunned to see it plummet a whole four degrees before bouncing back to 4.5. Getting out of the car a chilly easterly cooled me down as I put on my bunny suit and boots. After walking the banks of Dog Turd Alley, and taking the water temperature (5.7) I planned to walk upstream and fish three or four sheltered swims on the way back.

<rant> This stretch is popular with dog walkers, as you may have gathered. So I put the trenching tool I carry in the car into my bait bag so I could remove any offending (and offensive) canine leavings should there be some in a swim I wanted to fish.

The culture of dog walkers in urban areas has changed so that you regularly see them picking up their pooch's poop in a plastic bag, yet when they let their hounds run free in the countryside they also let them leave their shit anywhere they like. In an area that is frequented by anglers and birdwatchers, not to mention other dog walkers, this makes the muddy path an unpleasant obstacle course.

The first swim I dropped into was one I've caught from before, but not at this time of the season. As the level was a good eighteen inches up and the river nicely coloured it looked worth a try. I was still setting up my rods when a springer spaniel burst through the undergrowth and began barking at me, it's owner baying for it's return somewhere in the distance. I tried the friendly 'Hello, boy' approach, but when it wouldn't shut it's yap I loudly told it to 'go away' - or something like that... The first spaniel was soon joined by another which was of a more friendly disposition. After more baying from the unseen owner the two animals disappeared. A few minutes later an apologetic own appeared, dogs on leads. Much as I like dogs it's the owners that annoy me. </rant>

While the water was just about warm enough to give me hope I still opted for winter tactics and attached small bags of mixed pellets, with micro pellets included, to both hooks. I wasn't expecting to have to recast too often as I would be fishing slacker water close to the bank, so a minimal amount of feed would suffice for its attraction properties. The downstream rod was baited with a single 8mm crab Pellet-O, with the upstream rod having two S-Pellets to, so the thinking went, to leak off oils and add further to the attractive trail wafting down the flow. Probably rubbish, but it was a plan!

Winter bag and 11mm S-Pellets

I gave the swim an hour and an inactive half before packing the gear and moving sixty yards or so downstream. This is not so much a roving approach, where you travel very light and fish every likely looking swim for a few minutes. I think of it as being nomadic. I set up camp for a minimum of half an hour or as long as three hours, then pack it all away and move to another swim. Sometimes I'll bypass a few swims before reaching the next one I like the look of. Sometimes I'll move a few tens of yards sometimes a couple of hundred. Sometimes I'll go back to the car and drive somewhere else.

The second swim was one I hadn't fished before but it had a nice crease with a long tail. It looked the part and both baits were swung out a few feet from the bank. Again it was sheltered from the wind, this time by the remains of nettle and balsam rather than bushes. In the distance a small flock of fieldfares flew to the top of a bare ash tree. A reminder that the small signs of spring are still mere hints at what is to come.

Winter's still here

There was a muddy plateau at the water's edge so I set up camp on the grassy bank above it. After three quarters of an hour, as the light was fading, I stood up to stretch my legs. With my back turned to the river I heard something moving in the dried remains of the bankside undergrowth. I spun round and saw just one rod and the other bankstick doing a Tower of Pisa impression. I leapt towards the river and spotted the rod lying on the plateau. Luckily, whatever had caused this failed to hook itself, or I might have also heard a splash - just as I might had I set the rods up right on the river's edge!

After the disturbance of clambering up and down the bank I wasn't too hopeful of another bite from the margins, but I thought it was worth another forty five minutes. By now it was dark. Although the sky hadn't been clear there wasn't thick cloud obscuring the stars and thin sickle moon, but they all had fuzzy edges. There was a ground frost forming on my rucksack and quiver, and an encrustation of ice on my landing net pole. I wasn't cold though, which was odd.

Shortly before the time limit I had set myself expired the downstream, crab pellet, rod tip pulled slowly down a few inches and eased back equally slowly. The process was repeated. It pulled down a third time and I picked the rod up feeling the weight of a fish. I was expecting a chub in all honesty and the initial stages of the 'fight' convinced me. Then it woke up. It was obviously not a chub. Not the biggest barbel by any means, but a plump one and most welcome given the circumstances. Nice to catch from a 'new' swim too.

Second of the year - getting bigger

I'd obviously made some correct decisions, but should I have fished a different stretch with bigger fish? I might easily have blanked there and blamed the conditions when it would have been poor location. Still, I now know not to write this venue off when the water is cooler than 6 degrees. I gave the swim another three quarters of an hour before my final move.

The last swim of the night has produced fish for me in the past, but not this time. By eight thirty I was getting the urge to sit in a warm car for the drive home. The thermometer was now reading just 2 degrees and I'd had to scrape a thin layer of ice from the windscreen. Heading north again the thermometer reading began rising reaching a maximum of five. I thought birds flew south to reach warmer climes? It was all a bit back to front.

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Blue skies and birdsong

The first feint signs of spring are starting to tentatively appear. Last week there were mallards mating, collared doves chasing each other, and a magpie adding twigs to an old nest. This afternoon the sun shone with more warmth than it had since before the winter solstice and birds, mostly great tits, were making a happy racket when I got out of the car in the deserted car park.

I'd expected to see a few more anglers on the bank on a sunny Sunday afternoon with the season's end set to leap out and take us by surprise like it does each year. But no. The banks were deserted on my chosen stretch. The gear was dumped in a fancied swim, the thermometer chucked in the water. There'd been rain in the night and I had braced myself to find the river bank-high and cold. It was up a couple of feet all right, coloured slightly and flowing at a moderate pace. The thermometer said it was a cool 4.5c. I was glad I'd packed the chub gear.

For a change I cast a couple of lobworms out on the upstream rod, and fished closer in and straight across with the cage feeder and cheese paste. Although three ounces wouldn't hold out on a long chuck there was hardly any debris coming down to drag the rigs out of position. It looked hopeful. I got a bite early on to the paste, but failed to connect. Then it went quiet.

It was nice to be out in the fresh air again, soaking up the sun without having to be bundled up in warm clothes. A few bites would have improved things though. It wasn't until the sun had sunk below the tree line that the paste rod started to indicate some fishy interest. Nothing positive but my hopes rose. By now I had noticed that the water level was higher than when I set up. It hadn't risen much though. Last night's rain was slow coming into the system.

With it still fully light at five thirty I swapped the worm over to an 8mm crab Pellet-O with a golf ball sized mesh bag of mixed pellets on the hook. It hadn't been out half an hour when the tip got bouncy-bouncy and I hooked a fish. Not a big fish, probably a chub - possibly a small barbel, which fell off half way to the net. This prompted me to swap the paste rod for one fishing two S-Pellets.

It was six o'clock by the time the stars were fully bright. Another cheering sign that winter is on the wane. Looking at the water level it was clearly rising faster than it had been, and the rod tips were taking on a slightly greater curve against the increasing water pressure. On the plus side, the water temperature was creeping up. While I was rebaiting the upstream pellet rod the other rod tip jagged down in chubby fashion. Oh well. With the pellet recast I picked up the S-Pellet rod and found the daft chub had hooked itself!

Job done

As the main reason for turning out was to blow the cobwebs away and cure my cabin fever a fish meant it was mission accomplished.

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Third time unlucky

This morning saw me heading to Liverpool to visit the Harrison rod factory. I've got my timing to a fine art now and manage to arrive just as the kettle is boiling. The topics of conversation with the staff cover the usual angling stuff (like tarty carp reels for tarty carp anglers) - and guitars. Today Andy had his pride and joy with him...

Rockin' round the rod racks

By the time I returned home the rain had eased off and the day was warming. As I sat drinking a mug of tea after my lunch I got a text to say the barbel were on the chew. I hadn't planned to fish, but with the window of barbel opportunity still open a crack I hastily threw the gear in the car and set off. EH was sat where I'd caught last night's fish. Not sat in my swim, but actually where my bait had been. The river had dropped a good four feet, was still dropping and, while still coloured, was not flowing so strongly and the leaves and weed had abated to a manageable level.

I set up twenty yards or so upstream in a spot I have caught from before. The water temperature was down a touch at 5.6c, but EH was getting bites and landed a couple more barbel, biggest about seven pounds, a chub and a trout. All on pellets. I wasn't getting a touch. The rain came through in waves putting a damper on what would otherwise have been a pleasant afternoon to sit watching the rod tips.

Just after six my upstream rod tip started a slow bounce just like the bites EH had been getting. No line was being taken when I pulled into a fish. Definitely a barbel and bigger than my first one of the year. It rolled a couple of rod lengths out - turing on it's back showing its white belly and open mouth in the light of my Petzl as the hook pulled free. Hooks never pull free from barbel...

Oh well. Bait back out and another shower arrived. The closing theme tune of The Archers coincided with the rain stopping, so I packed up having not lost any leads for a change. I'd gladly have lost a dozen to land that one fish. I've two more free days before I have to start building rods. I haven't a clue what to do though. It's tempting to have another try for a barbel or two, but it's turning cooler again.

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Down, up. Up, down.

At long last the air temperature had reached double figures. So I was surprised to find the river deserted yesterday (Sunday) afternoon. The water temperature, however, had dropped a touch from Friday. The level, if anything was lower too. The river really was showing its bones. The rise in air temperature was due to a strong south westerly that was due to bring heavy rain down from Scotland later.

I set up in a sheltered swim to fish a slack, hoping for a chub or two. I didn't fancy trying to spot bites on a quiver tip bouncing around in the wind. The tip rod fished a cage feeder and flake on the crease, the maggot feeder rod was cast into the slack and fished using a bobbin for indication. It made a pleasant change not to be bundled up to keep warm.

It was almost half past two when I got set up. Around three I heard a bird, a wagtail as it turned out, making a commotion over on the far sand bank and looked over in time to see a sparrowhawk glide low over the river and up into a tree downstream on my bank. A while later it reappeared, this time it swooped low again right under my rods. It's amazing how close wildlife comes when you sit still. A cheeky little wren, and it did look small even for a wren, perched on my landing net, fidgeting for a few seconds before flitting away into the dead grass at the water's edge.

The chub weren't as active as the bird life. I thought I'd move downstream to brave a windier spot before it went dark. When I had both rods cast across the river, easily holding with 30g in the sluggish flow, both tips started pulling down as the wind blew on the lines with some considerable force. Spotting bites might be problematic.

As it turned out the one bite I did get was simple to spot. As on the previous session it was a massive slack-liner. The tip going straight and the line dropping in a bow. This was to a lump of flake that the chub had wolfed well back. When I felt a few light spots of rain I started to pack up. I didn't fancy getting caught in the forecast deluge!

The rain didn't arrive until well into the night, and can't have lasted long as it was fine when I woke this morning. I hadn't planned on fishing, but it was still warm but forecast to turn cold again from Wednesday. Today or Tuesday might be the best chance of a barbel. I got held up by a customer calling round so set off after two o'clock.

As soon as I saw the river it was obvious it was well up. Closer inspection suggested it was carrying at least five, possibly seven, feet but already falling. The thermometer read 6.1c - up almost three degrees on yesterday. Such is the pace of change on a spate river. While walking the bank looking for a fishable spot I spied a salmon doing its best to keep out of the flow in it's weakened post-spawn state.

A spawned out salmon

The spot I chose to fish was slower water on the inside of the bend. Given the strength of the flow, and the leaves and weed coming down, I only cast my baits about a rod length out. One rod fished a couple of S-Pellets in conjunction with the ubiquitous mesh bag of mixed pellets. For the upstream rod I opted for a change. Something I used to do quite often in winter a few years back was to hair rig a lump of paste around a paste coil. So the upstream rod fished that.

I'd put the banksticks right at the edge of the water so I could check on the speed the level was dropping. The photo below was taken after just three quarters of an hour. I'd guess the river was falling at least two inches per hour. From as low as it gets to six feet up and dropping back in less than twenty four hours!

On its way down

There wasn't much in the way of major debris coming down the river, but a loud splash on the far side was the result of a bankside collapse dumping a large lump of wood in the water. It's no wonder the topography changes year on year.

The sky was overcast, small but close together clouds scudding north eastwards, the light starting to fade when the downstream rod tip pulled over in a more assertive manner than the leaves had been causing. Then, to my amazement, the baitrunner quietly creaked into life. The heavy flow made the fish pull harder than its weight. A fish of about six pounds. Really solid and in lovely condition. The first barbel of the year, the first in almost two months, the seventy fifth of the season. A better result than this time last year when the barbel famine ran from October until the final day of the season!

First of the year

I gave it another hour before heading for home. The sky had cleared. The air temperature was on the way down and dew was forming on the rods. Tomorrow might be good. Pity I have places to go and things to do. Then again!

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Pick of the year

Well, that's another year's fishing over. For the first time in a long time ending in a big freeze. Although I had been hoping for some prolonged cold weather to target chub this winter I hadn't wanted it this cold for so long - and predicted to continue. I nipped out mid-morning today and it was -2c and foggy, by late afternoon it was still -2c and foggy!

At least the fishing this year didn't grind to such a complete standstill as last year did. I started barbel fishing later but caught more, larger and for longer. The year had started slowly, but I made more better decisions and was more flexible than I have been in the past, so carried on catching fish by shifting my targets. You never stop learning.

Spring and summer were difficult owing to the ever changing weather with hardly two consecutive days the same. Even so I managed to catch some nice fish. After a season of bad timing on one river in 2007 I managed to get it right more often than not this time round, as my barbel results show. But where have the chub gone? Usually a few have come along to the barbel rods. This season (so far) they have been a rarity.

I'm not making any firm plans for the coming year but I do have a couple of new venues in my sights. If I can up a few more PBs along the way I'll be happy. Then again, I'll be happy if I catch more often than I blank. Unfortunately for the blog the issue of publicity bans cropped up this year and will be a factor in the coming months too.

Gagged

That doesn't stop me looking back at some of my fishy highlights of 2008.

• Barbel - 14-03 [pb]
• Bream - 11-02
• Carp - dnw
  
• Chub - 5-09
• Dace - 0-07 [pb]
  
• Golden Orfe - 2-00 [pb]
• Grayling - dnw, but bigger than the one I caught last year! [pb]
• Perch - 3-05
• Pike - 16-02
• Roach/Bream Hybrid - 5-06 [pb]
• Roach/Rudd Hybrid - 3-04
• Roach - 1-10 [pb]
• Rudd - dnw
• Sea trout - dnw [out of season]
  
• Tench - 7-04 (m) [pb], 9-03 (f)

[pb]= personal best, dnw = did not weigh (i.e. small!),(m) = male, (f) = female

Quite a satisfying list by my standards.

All the best for 2009.

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Festive Fun

Some weeks back I got it into my head to go pike fishing on Christmas Day. If only for the morning. Waking early it still seemed like a good idea, so I got out of bed, snaffled a couple of slices of toast, grabbed some bait from the freezer and set off along the deserted roads. Deserted apart from dog walkers and nutters out jogging. Have these people nothing better to do on Christmas Morning? That's irony, folks!

Yes, it is a pike float!

Needless to say the lake was deserted when I arrived well before daybreak so I took my time and ambled along the high path with my head torch lighting the way. As I approached the swim I fancied, one I first fished almost twenty years ago (or is it longer?), I heard rustlings in the trees near the water's edge. Deer. I've often seen their point hoof prints near the shore and spotted an occasional one on the far bank during daylight. I turned my head to peer into the darkness and the light from my Petzl was reflected back in half a dozen pairs of glowing pinpricks. Although I knew full well they were deer eyes it was still quite unsettling - something deep in the primaeval part of my brain was saying, "Wolf!"

Nothing stays the same for ever. The last time I had fished this particular swim it had been subjected to some pruning by anglers who had 'discovered' it. Back in 2006 I'd had a few productive sessions there. It was a bit cramped and the overhanging branches made casting difficult, but not impossible. The bush to the right could be fished round by stepping to the left, the brambles on the edge of the water to the left provided some cover. Further to the left the water was inaccessible making a close-in cast in that direction worth a punt. I got three baits out in darkness knowing the swim had been opened up a bit more since my last visit. When it came light I saw the full state of the devastation.

The bush to the right was no longer. A pile of branches being its mortal remains. The overhanging branches were also long gone. To the left the brambles were a memory, and where you would previously have had to pull branches aside to go further along the bank was a cleared path to a new swim. What a mess that was. Bankside bushes stripped out, trees brutally pruned behind and the bank well trodden mud. There seems little point in creating the swim as it's so close to the original one it opens up no fresh water. I guess the fact that the bank was level was the reason as the original swim was less paddled to a mire. On further inspection I noticed the swim to the right looked like it also received more pressure, it too being a muddy mess. It all makes me wonder what feeling for the natural world these people have. The next thing we know there'll be fisheries with gravel paths to the flat concrete swims and mown grass all around...

I feel like proposing a ban on saws at the next AGM

Apart from the obvious fact that the area was getting a lot of pressure the insensitivity of the 'anglers' who had done the clearance was depressing me. One time back in 2006 I was set up in 'my' swim when an other angler arrived and cast across one of my lines. While this was annoying it shows how well concealed the swim was just a few short years ago as he said he hadn't seen me. The only tidying I ever did was to cut a few stems of grass to stop them interfering with my drop-offs. Now, with the bush gone and the gap wide enough to accommodate two anglers, I was in full view of anyone approaching the swim. I just can't see the sense of it. Leaving the swim cramped discouraged people from fishing it and kept it as a bit of a banker. Needless to say I was glad when I'd had enough of blanking today. Even my new bite alarms didn't bring me any luck.

A Billy's Special

While silently cursing the environmental vandalism I was also bemoaning the standard of piking in the North West. While the chances of a twenty pounder are better round here than they were a couple of decades ago, it's usually a case of fishing for one or two runs a day - half a dozen if you're really lucky. If you can face blanking time after time trying to catch a biggie then good luck to you. It's not what I call good fishing. Piking in other parts of the country I know that you can expect to get ten or more runs in a session, with a high percentage of the pike being doubles and a chance of a twenty among them. Not every time, of course, but often enough. Such a day round here would be the highlight of a couple of seasons. It's no wonder I'll be back on a river fishing for something else next time out.

That was what I was doing on Christmas Eve. It was mild again, but the river was cooler than it had been. As usual I'd missed the window of barbel opportunity, but the chub were active. I'd elected to take some bread and cheese paste along with the barbel baits. With the water temp 6.4 it was borderline barbel conditions. Fishing two rods the S-Pellet was getting a bit of attention - from chub, but the bread flake was getting more. As it started to go dark I switched to the paste and it was a bite a chuck. But I couldn't connect with any of them. The twin isotopes did make a big difference in spotting the slow pulls though.

Eventually a chub of between three and four pounds made a mistake on the pellet rod. I had saved a blank, which was nice after a run of poor efforts. The bites continued on the paste right up until I packed up at eight. The pellet rod had signalled a sharp chub rap then gone still. I suspected the rig was snagged but was concentrating on trying to hit bites on the quivertip so left it where it was. When I came to wind it in to go home the rig did feel snagged, but came free with a good steady pull. It felt like I'd picked the snag up and was dragging a branch or something across the river. Funny thing was the branch kited upstream at one point. Then it pretended to be a small barbel as it hit the shallows and made a surge for freedom. The beam of my headtorch lit up a pair of big white lips and a second chub, a few ounces heavier than the first, slid over the net.

Better than a blank

Although a couple of accidental chub is nothing to get excited about the enjoyment I got from the session was immeasurably greater than that of waiting for one of my drop off alarms to sound. The frustration of missing bites to the paste was a perverse kind of pleasure. I'm coming to understand the adage that says anglers start out fishing for the most, move on to fishing for the biggest, and end up fishing for the most challenging.

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A right carry on

Saturday came (wetly) and went. I pottered a bit. By lunch time on Sunday I was climbing the walls with frustration. I threw some gear together and headed for the river for a short session. As I got out of the car I received a text "The barbel are feeding". EH had just had one, and a couple of others had been out too. The river looked good. Up but dropping, coloured, and warming above seven degrees. I dropped in a peg that was being vacated and found the leaves weren't too much of a problem.

Although it was windy, very windy, it was warm. EH moved upstream of me after losing one too many rigs. Then it began to rain. Just spits and spots at first, but I thought I'd stick the brolly up anyway. Would the locking mechanism lock? Would it heck. After a minute or more of shoving I lost my rag and gave it one mighty push upwards - with which the pole came away in my hand. Bugger.On inspection the threaded brass insert was still attached to the pole. It's merely a push fit into the top part of the brolly pole - which is made of plastic! What a load of rubbish. It's never been up to much at the best of times and has a tendency to collapse in a strong wind.

Unable to get anything to grip the brass insert and unscrew it from the pole I was in a quandary. After thinking about it for a while I rammed the insert back in place as hard as I could and managed to loosen the main pole from it. I pulled the pole back out and unscrewed the insert. As the brolly has a rear position for the pole I decided to use that. This worked well until it came to putting the pole in the ground and pegging out the umbrella. Looking back I should have hammered the pole into the ground then slid the brolly onto it. But I didn't. Instead, with a little help from EH I managed to get the thing into some form of protection from the rain. Even if it was swinging around in the wind.

EH landed a nice barbel, and then a chub as he was packing up - a fish which I recognised as one I'd caught last month. It's one that looks a fair bit heavier than it is when you weigh it! My baits were untouched. having only planned a short session my rations consisted of one Nutrigrain bar. Despite moving up a peg for half an hour after the brolly did its collapso act, I had had enough by quarter past six when the rain came back. If I'd taken more nosh, and the brolly hadn't been in self destruct mode, I'd happily have sat it out considerably longer.

Having packed two parcels on Monday morning I set to mending the umbrella. This didn't take long. A few seconds with a hammer managed to persuade the recalcitrant bit of brass back into its plastic home. How long for I have no idea. The parcels were collected and on their merry way by two o'clock. I could have sneaked away to the river but chose not to as I would be free from Tuesday afternoon onwards and could get a less hastily arranged session in. Or so I thought...

Tuesday morning was taken up dropping off a rod repair then foraging in Asda. When I got home I found an e-mail telling me that one of the two parcels I had sent out on Monday had arrived at the wrong address. The courier's label didn't match the address I'd written on the tube so it wasn't my fault. Obviously the other customer would be in a similar situation. The afternoon that should have been spent fishing has been spent on the phone to couriers and customers trying to sort the mess out. As the couriers close for Christmas at lunchtime tomorrow this isn't likely to get resolved until next year. A happy bunny I am not.

Season's greetings to you all...

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Fish, chips and cheese paste

Losing a fish always spurs me on to try again as soon as possible. For once I managed to resist my natural urge to do this in the face of excellent conditions early in the week. There was work that needed completing, which took longer than anticipated. It was Thursday before I headed back to the river on a severely blustery day. It was quite warm for November - the car's thermometer reading an almost tropical 11C. Once outside the wind made it feel much cooler. This meant that I wrapped up warm to roam the banks for an hour or more, and worked up quite a sweat in the process.

The lion wasn't in his den, nor were any of his pride, so I decided to fish the same swim I had fished a week previously. There had been next to no rain since I was last there and the once muddy bank was firm and dry. The river was a little lower and maybe a bit clearer, but a couple of degrees warmer. Ideal. I put the brolly up to keep the wind off me and it was nice to relax as the day faded to night.

By eight o'clock my confidence was waning. The swim wasn't giving me good vibes. I packed up and drove to the spot where I had lost that fish on the Sunday. Things felt much better there. I was sheltered from the worst of the wind by the remains of the nettle beds, and the river looked right. Not boiling or swirly, but steady. With the baits out, I sat back and relaxed. It would only be a matter of time. It was not to be. Two or three savage drop backs to the upstream rod - chub in all likelihood - and that was it.

By eleven I was getting tired, but wishing I'd planned things better and packed my cooking gear and sleeping bag. The thought of driving back the following day in an increasingly strong wind held no appeal for me. With the weather set to turn cold the Friday would probably be my last good chance of a barbel. I'd have to pass.

Friday was spent pottering on some small jobs. It was indeed windy again and I was glad not to be fishing. Strong winds sap my enthusiasm when I'm fishing, even if they are warm. It's the relentless battering that wears me down. When today (Saturday) came around all that was forgotten.

During last week I bought myself a reel to use on my quiver tip rod. Not that there was anything wrong with the Epix Pro I'd had it teamed up with. It's just that I like to have reels dedicated to rods and that one belonged elsewhere. Besides, boys like shiny new toys! Playing with them at home isn't nearly as satisfying as playing with them on the bank. There was only one thing to do.

Off to the tackle shop for some maggots. The guy who served me thought I was mad going fishing. The temperature was down to about 6 and the wind hadn't abated. I was the fifth customer he'd had by ten o'clock. He was anticipating a slow day.

It was no surprise to see just one vehicle in the car park. Even less of a surprise that it belonged to the only other idiot who would be daft enough to be fishing on such a day! EH was in his usual swim, and catching fish as usual. I would have set up further away from him, but the wind was less strong in the lee of the bend. One good thing about these last few days of strong winds is that the trees are almost completely bare now. Leaves should be less of a problem in the river for the rest of the season.

Although my primary aim was to catch chub I still chucked a pellet out for the barbel. With my thermometer reading 6c in the river, which was warmer than the air temperature, there was a chance of one. The chub rod was rigged up with a maggot feeder and two reds on a 16. After an hour the tip hadn't moved and the maggots hadn't been sucked. I'd recast a fair few times but to no avail. EH had caught a couple of nice chub on bread flake. Taking up his offer of a few slices of Warburton's finest and some liquidised bread for the feeder after swapping the blockend to a cage feeder and the 16 to a 10 I eventually got a bite.

Around three o'clock a small herd of roe deer strolled through the wood on the far bank, their hooves rustling the dry leaves as they went. Similar noises can be heard in the woods during the summer, but the green leaves hides the animals causing the disturbance. I've seen deer by the river before and always wonder where they lie up during the day.

The bread flake wasn't working wonders so I put on a knob of cheese and garlic paste I had concocted the other week and stuck in the freezer. Some forward planning on Friday had seen this removed from it's icy resting place to thaw out in readiness. Week old Danish Blue, mixed into frozen pastry mix, with a sprinkling of garlic salt. Yummy!

First chuck with the paste and I get a bite. A typical short stab of the tip bringing back all those bad memories of my earlier attempts at chub fishing. I persevered and kept getting bites into darkness. The temperature was starting to fall but the wind showed no signs of joining it. I'd been draining my flask rapidly and as I had only intended fishing until six I had no food with me.

As six o'clock arrived the wind dropped. It was still chilly, but no longer unpleasantly so. Another half hour wouldn't hurt. A few more unhittable bites later I started to pack my gear shortly before half six. With just the rods and net to clear away I noticed the isotope on the quiver bouncing merrily. I picked the rod up and felt a fish thumping and heading downstream. I got the net ready in the water's edge and took my time with the fish. I was pretty sure it was a decent chub. Then the line went slack... As with the lost barbel almost a week ago it could have been knot failure, but this time I think it was a cut-off. Ho hum. Back in the car the thermometer read a positively Arctic 3c - which sank to 1.5c before I reached the chippy.

On the bright side I know my paste works, and the reel seems to be just what I was looking for. On the gloomy side I don't think I can get back to the river until Thursday at the earliest. I expect to be ratty and irritable until then.

Of course things might pan out differently.

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Extremes of sweet and sour

Come January 5th 2009 the Specialist Anglers' Alliance will be no more. It will have become part of the Angling Trust - the great hope for a unified voice for angling. I'm sure most anglers couldn't care less, but some do. It was the last ever SAA meeting today. I attended the meeting as I have been doing on a regular basis for nigh on nine years now, and as usually the PAC was well represented. Pike anglers have historically faced more threats to their sport than other specialist, which is probably why they are more politicised. There are two benefits I have gained from attending these meetings. One is the free lunch (which isn't free as I have to pay for my fuel to get to the meetings), but as they have been held the other side of Loughborough and finish around two o'clock I can manage to call in somwhere on my way home for a few hours fishing! That was my plan today.

Driving along side the Trent it looked good. About three feet up and well coloured. I headed for the spot I last fished in July. The floods that I had driven through back in September had made a few changes, and anglers had made a few more. There were now about four new pegs in the area I like to fish. One looked enticing, but more recent floods and rain had made it a bit slippy-slidey at the water's edge. I went back to the car to get my fishing gear on and discovered I had done it again. I'd forgotten to throw my blasted boots in the car...

Not fancying sliding around near deep water in my street boots I jumped back in the car and headed elsewhere. The lion's den would be equally muddy and probably packed out on a pleasant sunny Sunday afternoon. Sure enough the car park was brimful, the next access point would have let me fish from less trampled and grassy banks but there were two more cars there than I would have liked to see. The third spot was far less busy, but borderline muddy. There was one peg I could fish from in comfort, only I'd have to chance the mud near the water if I hooked a fish and especially if I had to return one. The grass was wet though and my street boots were already getting damp. Undeterred I got my tackle and set up in the swim. A swim that had a nice pace, a willow at the downstream end and a crease above.

A wintry sunset

With the baits out it was time to take preventative action to stop my feet getting too cold. I have taken to keeping a few cheap carrier bags in my rucksack. They come in handy for putting rubbish or damp slings and sacks in. Amongst other uses. This time they made boot liners! I won't pretend my feet were toasty warm, but at least they didn't feel cold and damp.

Who needs Thinsulate?

The air temperature soon started to drop when the daylight began to fade. The sky was clear. The weather men and women were forecasting a frost. The water, however, was much warmer than I expected at almost 9C. Despite the lack of heavy colour at this venue I wasn't despondent. I'd have been really confident if I'd had my fishing boots and more up for a move or two. I'd stick it in the one swim until eight or nine - or when my feet got cold.

After dark a fish crashed out on the far side of the river and downstream. This buoyed my hopes. What the fish was I haven't a clue, but it sounded to be a reasonable size. I'd been watching The Plough slowly falling behind an almost leafless alder since darkness fell when I noticed clouds extinguishing the stars. The air seemed a tad warmer too. The two baits had been in for almost two hours at this point when the upstream rod tip sprang straight, then slowly pulled down a touch. I picked the rod up and took up the slack to feel a fish charging downstream. When I got my act together and applied some pressure it thrashed on the surface in midstream and carried on down with the flow. I was gingerly making my way down the bank, keeping just enough pressure on the fish when I felt a discernible 'ping' as the weight went from the line and the bend from the rod.

The hooklink had parted, seemingly at the knot. I have no explanation for this. The rig was tied the same way as always. The braid has landed me two PB's this season. It must have been a poorly tied knot, unless it was a cut-off. Either way I reckoned that was it. I'd blown it.

An hour later the tip of the downstream rod pulled down a little, bounced, bounced again. At first I thought it was a small barbel. Then it gave up and I knew it was a chub. A long and lean specimen that I weighed out of curiosity. An ounce short of four pounds I'm sure it could have weighed nearer five had it been as chubby (pun intended) as some I have caught.

Consolation prize

When I pulled my forceps from the rubber band I secure them under on my net float to unhook the fish there was something wrong. I had one finger in a handle ring but the thumb was groping vainly about. When I looked it was because the damned thing had snapped! I had my 'lucky' forceps (which must be 30 years old and have been lost, and found, twice in their time) in a side pocket of my rucksack so I didn't struggle to unhook the fish. One more item for the shopping list, though.

Buy cheap, buy twice.

I'd forgotten my boots, lost a fish through tackle failure and my forceps had snapped. What more could go wrong? Only the batteries in my radio dying before I could listen to The Archers!

Inspired by the arrival of the chub I fished on until the church clock struck nine. Then I packed up and headed to the car where I removed my improvised boot liners and looked forward to the heater blasting my feet with warm air on the drive home - which it did while the thermometer reading fell from 6 to 3.

There's probably still going to be chance of barbel early in the week before the frosts arrive. Unfortunately for me I don't think I can get to a river before Wednesday. That smelly cheesepaste I concocted last week might be getting an outing.

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Into the lion's den

It's something I've been avoiding for over twelve months. Fishing a stretch of river that gets hammered but holds some very big barbel. I don't like having anglers on either side of me when fishing close in. I'm also not a fan of dog walkers with large, unrestrained hounds. A time or two I have set off intending to brave the stretch and bottled it. This session nearly went the same way.

Setting off after doing some work in the morning and eating a bag of chips for lunch I was in a relaxed mood as I arrived at the riverside car park. Having driven through showers, with more forecast, I thought I'd park up, check the river level then throw the thermometer in the water while I put my fishing togs on. As another shower had arrived the waterproofs were required.

The river wasn't quite as high as I'd anticipated, maybe a foot or more on. There was a touch of colour but clarity was good enough to see the leaves going downstream six to ten inches below the surface. With well over three hours before dark I had a wander along the river. I've not fished near the car park before and saw a few spots that looked like they'd be worth dropping a bait in. It was quite a temptation as little walking would be involved, but I'd set off to fish the other stretch. Back in the car and ten minutes later I was pulling up by a couple more cars. Expecting to see a few anglers in the hot swims I decided to go have a look and if they were occupied go elsewhere. To my amazement given the warm day and the state of the river, which was 7.4C by the way, the swims were empty - although well trampled, and muddied by the recent rain. I retraced my steps, grabbed my tackle and headed back to the river.

One valuable lesson that barbel fishing has taught me is to take my time picking a swim. A couple of them looked okay. One was a bit swirly for my liking, and the other had just a little too much pace. The problem of the leaves also had to be considered and after much deliberation I chose a swim that had a current deflection which I hoped would send the majority of the leaves out from the bank allowing my margin fished baits to remain in place for a decent length of time. I reckon if barbel are pressured that leaving your baits alone once cast out is a good idea.

I took my time tackling up and retied both rigs. One went a few yards upstream, the other about fifteen yards downstream. With the baits out I settled down to a brew and a bite to eat. A sparrowhawk swooped along the bank behind me, a dabchick scuttled across the river when it spotted me then worked its way slowly up the far margin, and a kingfisher zipped over the water in a streak of vivid turquoise.

By now the rain had eased off, but I left the brolly up to keep the breeze off me. Two dog walkers passed me by, their animals mercifully leaving me alone. Still no anglers arrived and it was getting dark. The baits stayed put.

After the light had gone the silhouette of a tackle laden angler headed downstream on the far bank. I was listening to the radio, taking in the world's affairs of the day and thinking to myself that fishing makes a lot more sense than worrying about collapsing economies when I heard the zuzzzz of a baitrunner. With both rods being fished horizontally on two rests, rather than beachcaster style on one, it took a second or two to realise which reel was spinning. The single 8mm pellet had been picked up after almost two hours. Whatever had picked it up felt heavy.

Some people claim that they enjoy catching five and six pound barbel more than bigger ones because they give you a better scrap. Well they do charge around the swim like fish possessed. Changing direction many times and with speed. But for me the heavy plod of a bigger fish is what gets my adrenaline flowing and induces a feeling of anxiety not knowing how big the fish might be, or if it will stay attached long enough to put it in the net. When a big barbel makes a run it does so with a steady certainty and power that a five pounder could only match if grabbed by a twenty pound pike!

This fish came grudgingly upstream, pulled a bit of line on a short run into the flow, then popped up and slid towards the net. Almost there it woke up, turning, diving and running back into the flow with a single splash of its tail. Back up on the surface, after a couple more short runs upstream, I had most of it in the net. Fishing with a bit of a drop to the water always makes netting fish tricky. I thought the fish was going to swim over the net frame, but it didn't. A lift and the whole of it's body was in the mesh. Phew!

Sticking a bankstick through the V of the spreader block the barbel could rest in the water without any chance of escape while I wetted the weighsling and readied unhooking mat and camera. The batteries in the camera were flat, so the spares were pressed into service. While I was sorting everything out I managed to step on the bulb release a couple of times and take pictures of nothing...

Take one

Eventually, after just five minutes or so, I lifted the net to the mat, popped the hook free and squeezed the fish into my sling. I managed to hold the scales steady enough without additional support from the landing net pole to read off a very satisfying figure. Another notch on the rod butt! I carried the fish in the weighsling to the next swim downstream where I could get to the water's edge to release it. As usual no nursing was required and she slid into the remains of the marginal reeds and out of sight. By now I was covered in slimy mud, sweating but satisfied.

Take two

Slowly, I sorted out the devastation in my swim, rebaited both rods and recast. It was a great night to be out. Warm, dry and quiet. Even the rats I'd expected to be disturbed by were keeping a low profile. I heard a noise behind me and turned to see an angler. He'd just turned up for an after-work session. After a chat he wandered off, came back and set up a couple of pegs upstream. A while later I saw a headtorch coming towards me from downstream. Odd, nobody else had walked past me that way. This bloke, it turned out, had used a downstream access point. He was blanking, trying to fish across the river and struggling to hold out because of the leaves. The silhouette walked back up the far bank, my flask began to grow cold. I packed up. The upstream angler hadn't had anything and we both agreed that the river was picking up a little pace.

To be honest I hadn't expected to catch on my first venture into the lion's den. While it hadn't been one of the 'lumps' that inhabit the stretch the fish has given me the confidence that my rigs will work on the stretch for the supposedly cagey barbel that live there. I'll be fishing there again, but whether I can face it when it's busy is another matter.

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You never can tell

The overnight rain had cleared and the day turned sunny but breezy. With havy rain and gales forecast I thought I'd get an afternoon/evening session in. The river looked bob on, up a little on Tuesday with a hint more colour, but much warmer at 8.5C.

I dropped in to the big slack and put a barbel bait in the deep channel and fished a maggot feeder downstream. A half-moon appeared long before dark, wagtails worked the far bank perching on stones and singing. The high bank kept the wind from chilling me. After three-quarters of an hour the bites started coming to the maggot rod. When I dropped the feeder slightly further down the swim they increased in frequency. Delicate bites that pulled the tip down slowly and were all missed when I struck, the maggots either sucked or missing.

Towards dusk fish started topping in the swim and around it. Dace sized fish. The bites grew more sporadic. I reckon it was dace giving me the bites and they had moved up in the water. When I looked at the swim and the flow rate I thought it would be a good place to run a float through. Pity I'd left the float rod at home.

By five thirty the sky had clouded over enough to obscure the moon. I moved to a banker barbel swim which was also well sheltered and put two barbel rods out. It was eight thirty when I packed up in the predicted rain, the wind rushing through the half-bare branches of the trees on the far bank. Some of the gusts were uprooting the brolly and I had had just a few tentative chub pulls. Shining the beam of my head torch into the margins it seemed like the river was colouring up.

I'd have put money on catching a fish or two under the conditions. It just goes to show, you never can tell. And Emmylou agrees.

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Chub by design - and by accident

Fired up by my new-found ability to catch chub I was back on the river on Monday fishing a new swim. I'd also packed my float rod as I fancied trotting a maggot with the water so clear. This proved to be a frustrating move. I'd loaded the old 501 with fresh line and couldn't make a decent cast with even a four BB Loafer. Like a fool I'd put the whole of a hundred yard spool on the reel. By the time I'd realised the solution the light was starting to go. I fancied a move. The gear was packed away and I headed to my usual spot to find the two favoured pegs occupied. The first two casts with the feeder rod saw crushed maggots from a spot mid way between the two 'hot' pegs.

Because the river had been warming on Sunday and was getting warmer still I had put two barbel rods in the quiver. I was falling between two stools really and not fishing either the tip or barbel rod well. On darkness the angler fishing upstream left for home so I dropped in his peg and concentrated on the tip rod. It took a while for bites to materialise, but they did eventually. The idea I had for improving my feeder rig worked to a degree, but needs modification. I caught three chub, two small ones and one about three pounds before I called it a night at half past eight. I had to be up early to go and steward a pike match - of all things.

I set the alarm on my phone for 6.00 and my bedside alarm clock for the same time. The phone went off first and after shutting it up I checked the clock which read five. I was confused. Then I realised I hadn't changed the time on the phone when the clocks altered! Back to sleep. I awoke again, before the alarm and looked at the time. Five past five. The blooming clock must have stopped or something. Digging my watch out it read five to seven. Damn. Then I put my glasses on and had another look. Five past five. I'd had the watch the wrong way round. When the alarm finally did go off it was at six o'clock...

The match was to be fished with deadbaits and lures only. I didn't expect much to be caught so my plan was to sit by my car sorting out my chub tackle; removing line from the 501, tying up PVA bags of pellets, making another adaptation to my feeder rig and so on. Within seconds of the 'all in' there was a shout for a pike to be weighed. Off I set with the scales and Steve, my co-steward, with the clipboard. Before we'd logged the first tiny pike another two shouts had gone up! This set the scene for the day. We hardly got any rest having to dash round the lake, about fifteen acres and a good fifteen minutes walk to do the full circuit, at all too frequent intervals.