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?

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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. Hardl;y 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 lonel, 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 hookpoint 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 buttiy 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.

---

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 darknessknowing 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.