Article - Coarse
First Time Whiskers
By John, added on 06/07/2008
One day last summer I found myself on an early morning train hurtling across southern England, watching the green and fertile pastures rolling by. From time to time running water came into view, and with it I momentarily came out of the dream-like, window-staring trance all train journeys inevitably invoke. It was a Saturday and, as the hour was not yet past 9am, the compartment was quiet, leaving plenty of room for my tackle bag, fishing rod and me.
After a cloudy start back at home, the sun was by now breaking through and a typical English summer’s day was looming. I was on the way to meet friend, and fellow PPer, Graeme for a day on the river - a desire for a barbel at the fore.
By the time I hopped off the train at the station, the morning sun was rising in the sky and with it came the heat. Crossing the old red brick bridge over the tracks, I found myself a spot to sit against the wall, enjoying the morning sun as I waited for Graeme to arrive.
Shortly after, but without being overly late as such, in swung the little Italian sports car with my companion behind the wheel. Out he coolly stepped wearing 50s inspired Italian sunglasses, real Lake Garda issues.
However it’s here we must leave artistic licence aside…
Slinging my gear into the back of the seemingly impossibly compact Fiat Siecento Sport* and exchanging pleasantries, off we went in search of rations for the day.
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It’s a pity that, before spending a potentially idyllic day beside a river, poor planning often means the necessity to stop somewhere such as a Tesco Express first. However, watching Graeme - not someone that gels well with modern society - get slightly irate in such establishments makes up for it.
And you can’t blame him really, not when the young workforce, often pretty gormless at the best of times, are still half comatose from Friday night’s excesses. I can get away with saying this as it was me once. So there we were, weaving our way around the aisles, trying to avoid spotty teenagers in striped uniforms and the rest of the Saturday morning shopping public. Draped in our dull fishing clothes of green and brown, we probably looked as odd as the rest of them.
Melton Mowbray pork pies and some sort of cake are usually on the menu when we get to fish together. Good food to look forward to as you take a break and catch up on proceedings at random points during the day. These items located, a few tins of luncheon meat and a crusty loaf - the chub (or human) appetiser - and we were soon on our way again. A minor guest ticket acquisition problem later and we finally arrived at our stretch of river and set about trying to remove ourselves from the tackle laden little Fiat.
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We were mainly after barbel, so tackle for the day was reasonably stout. Whilst Graeme tooled up with a unique MkIV (with local history) and a Mitchell, I set up the MKIV that Malcolm had recently built for me with a Youngs BJ centrepin holding 8lb Krystonite.
Whilst we were making up our rods, I took the chance to grill my guide about everything and anything that might prove of use on the stretch. Constant questioning in the manner of an inquisitive youngster i.e. “What bait you using mister?" winds grumpy Graeme up - so naturally it must be done at any opportunity.
Rods, bags and landing nets in hand, across the fields we set. I have to admit I was slightly disappointed to see my companion didn’t have his Kelly Kettle with him. Still, it’s probably a bit much to expect someone to lug all that tea making gear along whilst river fishing. I freely admit I’m rubbish when it comes to making my share of the tea - something my wife would probably say extends to the home.
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After a childhood of peering into them, I simply love rivers. The anticipation, the excitement of just walking to a stretch you’ve never seen or fished before, must be one of angling’s greatest attractions.
The stretch we were fishing on this day was not overly wide, of medium pace and with quite coloured water. It was a far cry from the only other barbel fishing I had done up to that point, on the roaring Royalty. However, with its more natural setting and simple beauty, it was just as interesting and I was keen to cast in.
Even on this fine summer Saturday we were almost the only ones there, with only a couple of other anglers seen all day. Coming from lengthy spells of carp fishing on a club water beforehand, to me, this was as refreshing as hanging your head out of the car window.
In this time of angling deforestation and crowds, please God (and relevant controlling parties!) let these beautiful, natural and unmolested stretches remain so.
One of the anglers we bumped into coming back upriver was Charlie the farmer, typically clad in shorts and wellies, and carrying the delightfully odd pairing of a Bruce Ashby fibreglass carp rod and a spilt cane B James MKIV combined with modern reels. You often see people using purely traditional, or purely modern tackle but it’s the mismatches that are most interesting I think. Split cane and Shimanos, carbon and old Allcocks - why not?
We stopped to talk for a while, mostly about carp fishing as I recall. Charlie’s somewhat prolific summer had continued that morning and he had caught yet another
barbel. My optimism level rose. Graeme’s, being characteristically non-existent, stayed where it was. Eventually, saying our goodbyes, we walked on and came to the first fishable areas.
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I freely admit that sometimes I’m guilty of what grumpy Graeme has since termed my ‘set piece angling’. I guess this is a combination of factors, but it boils down to wanting to catch a particular species, in a particular way, on particular tackle and often from a particular venue. I like the concept; besides enjoying the thinking and consideration beforehand, there’s often an extra virtue to a fish that is ‘caught with thought’.
Having spent more than enough hours sat behind two rods attached to leads and hair rigs whilst carping, I had a very different ‘set piece’ in mind of how I wanted to catch my first barbel. Silly I know but still, there you go.
Inspired by the likes of Yates and Walton (Ray not Izzak), that first barbel would hopefully come via the cane and pin combo, rolling a sodding great lump of 'lips and arseholes' squashed together on nothing more than a size 4 tied directly to my line, with some plasticene to sink it. So this is how I set up and began to fish.
By late morning the day had really turned very warm, and I was surprised (amused) to see Graeme was already bare chested save his old fishing vest and light straw Henley hat. I hadn’t realised so called ‘traditional’ anglers were allowed to fish bare-chested? Surely it’s against some rule or other? Or maybe he’s just picked it up from our more modern excursions down Yateley way? There should have definitely been some sort of warning either way.
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Leapfrogging each other down the river, from time to time a little more plasticene was added and the rolling bait gave way to static tip ledgering. Occasionally the rod tip would quiver, mostly likely as something in the current pinged against the line, but definite bites weren’t forthcoming.
Knowing how keen I was to catch one, my companion kindly pointed out the swims that had produced barbel in the past, allowing the newbie to cast into these first. By mid afternoon no barbel had shown, though we had both caught a few bootstrap eels. It was whilst frustratingly trying to sort out the chaos one had created in my net, that I looked up to find a highly amused Graeme and his camera looking down at me.
Eventually we stopped for an overdue lunch, discussing the day so far over pork pie and cake. Refreshed after this short interlude, picking up our rods from the long grass we started fishing again with renewed vigour, and in my case at least, confidence.
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The afternoon had taken on a hot and hazy air, the sort that makes you feel like laying your rod in a rest, pulling your hat down over your face and leaning against a nearby shady tree. Instead we both settled for dropping into cut-outs in the bank to get out of the sun - now high behind us.
Eventually we came to some of the more productive barbel swims, including the ‘Barbel
Bend’ itself.
Resisting the thought of an afternoon siesta, I kept myself busy trying to roll my bait into likely looking lies and under overhanging bushes on the opposite bank. Precision casting rather than distance was the order of the day. Fortunately, the beauty of fishing with a dirty great lump of luncheon meat masking your hook is nine times out of ten you’ll get away with just pinging your over exuberant cast back off the far bank.
Some time later I decided to pinch on a little more plasticene to hold bottom and put the rod in the rest for a while, being sure to set the check on the centrepin. Shortly after getting comfy, leaning back against the bank, the local lad shouted down that he had got one. How I didn’t hear the proceedings I don’t know, but reeling in my own rod, I popped along to see Graeme and his fish.
It was a magnificent fish, clean and in lovely condition, weighing about seven pounds. It turned out that he’d been rolling a cigarette at the time and had to quickly lunge forward to grab the butt of his rod as it shot off river bound. We took a couple of photos and then the fish was carefully returned, holding its head upstream until it had its breath back.
We then sat and had a quick coffee, courtesy of Graeme's flask - not really a fitting toast to such a lovely looking specimen, but still. Where’s that Kelly when you need her, huh?
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As the afternoon passed to evening, I moved down to a swim Graeme had mentioned was a good bet; in fact he’d also caught his first barbel from this river here. It was a nice looking section, with various 'pinch-points' creating variations of flow. It also had several nice bushes that overhung the water - hopefully hiding the lies of monster fish sitting in the current below. At the end of this run overhanging trees created a tunnelled, darker area in shade.
Taking off some of my weight and tearing off a new large piece of spam, I flicked the bait out a short way and let the current take it down past the overhanging areas. Feeling the line run out, I sensed the bait trundling away and down the stretch. When it reached the dark tunnel I wound back in and repeated the process again.
On this second run however - just as the bait got to a point below the biggest of the overhanging bushes - I felt a couple of firm and unmistakeable plucks to my meat. My strike was met with firm resistance for a split second - just as it would if you’d hooked a log or sunken branch. But then the fish began to move…fast.
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‘Scrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaccccccccccccccccchhhhhhhhhh’
Away went the centrepin and the rod took on a full curve, the rim of the whirling spool heating the palm of my hand. (I know, I know - how many times have we all read about ‘rods lovingly taking on their full test curves’ etc, but there you go, that’s what happens!).
Hooking such a strong fish from a small river is actually still surprising, even when in theory you know that such fish do reside. Several powerful runs were eventually checked with a combination of side strain and holding the rod out as far as I could, all the time stumbling about and trying not to take a tumble down the bank.
Thoughts that it could have been a chub quickly passed and I was certainly glad of the hidden power in Walker’s near sixty year old design. I remember thinking this fish, fighting away in the current, was the match for several 20lb carp.
By now Graeme had heard that sound of my reel and had come to lend his support…
‘Take it easy’
‘Keep its head up’
‘Let it run when it wants to’
Eventually things began to settle down and I relaxed a little, enjoying the action of this new rod as it soaked up the lunges. Soon after it was time for the net, my companion doing the honours….
‘Might even be a double’
‘Maybe anyway….’
On the scales it went 11lb 11oz, my first barbel - and a double to boot. More importantly it was a superb looking fish, golden scaled, long barbuled, showing all the slender yet powerful lines a barbel should.
I was simply overjoyed. The ‘set piece’ on this occasion had come off.
Anyway, we quickly took the usual ‘classic’ snaps and got the fish back into the water as quickly as we could. Holding the fish carefully in the current, after a minute or so it got its breath back and away it shot.
Taking a deep breath, I sat back amongst the long grass, with the evening sun and dirty great grin on my face. Graeme shook my hand and was as genuinely pleased as I was I think. When you help a friend to catch something special it’s as good as catching it yourself. Eventually the day had to end, but not before a quick celebratory pint for our day’s barbel.
Reaching the station and boarding the train home, I sat amidst the usual Saturday night revellers, river dust and sweat across my brow, standing out like sore thumb but caring not.
‘Nice wooden rod grandad’
Thanks for that day G.
* The little Italian has sadly since passed on to a new owner - shame, seeing that little car always made me smile…