In all conditions.

I knew the conditions were going to end up a little peaky this past weekend and in all honesty I was actually kind of up for a little challenge. You see I've been pondering the subject of fishing conditions, even more specifically I've been considering canal conditions.

For those normal and non Gongoozlers amongst us the common British canal has one condition, that being the colour of tea with not too much milk added. For those of us who spend more than what is considered a sensible amount of time looking at canal water we know that there is in fact a myriad of different colours and tones. On most weekends a new hue is revealed and I've discovered so many myself that they now just don't seem shocking any more, I just get on with fishing.

In the past and in most facets of fishing I have taken part in, I have always looked for optimum conditions in which to fish, so as I might increase my chance of capturing my target. For example, I would look towards the river to catch a barbel if it was falling and clearing after being in summer flood. But something I've been thinking of late is that to be truly good at one particular area of fishing you have to be able to make it work in the worst conditions. Using the barbel as an example again, I know an angler who shall remain nameless who has the skills to catch barbel in most conditions and this skill is what makes him arguably one of the most accomplished barbel anglers in the country. 

Now if I lay it on the table and say that I would like to become an accomplished lure angler, it would then be obvious for me to say to become an accomplished lure angler I would have to try and evolve my lure fishing to the point where I can catch in all conditions, no matter how bad they are. So after a little round about explanation I am back to where this all began and found myself actually wanting to go out lure fishing, knowing full and well that the water would be in a bad way and I would be freezing.

Saturday was my first foray and as predicted it was a bit changeable. The canal was carrying some heavy colour and the sky was made up of a bright azure background punctuated by various black clouds which quickly passed over occasionally depositing their contents. I even made the effort to dip my hand in the water and try to detect any difference in temperature. Simply put, it felt cold but it did feel of a similar temp to the air, which at around three to four degrees sounded about right and made me realize it was going to be a big ask to try and interest fish to attack lures.

In my first spot I went all in and began by chucking a three and a half inch wave Tiki grub into a known zander holding area. I'd only made a few casts before it began to rain which quickly turned to hail. Somewhere in the first twenty casts I was sure I felt something grab the lure, but continued casts brought nothing. I then changed to my finesse outfit and dropped down to a tiny one inch oil coloured kyopto. This bought no interest either so I began working along the canal margins where I eventually received a right old thump as a nice perch of a pound or more engulfed my lure. Stupidly thinking this was just the start and I was about to get into them I never bothered getting a picture.

True to form I never got another hit from a single perch. I did however find a school of tiny zander held up against the hull of a barge which I plundered four striplings from. The quickly setting sun urged me to go and check out a second zander holding spot further down the canal as the dusk came in. This time I ran the day out bouncing a fox spiky shad through the trench where I was sure they were holding. Reluctant to move on I kept covering the water and not long before my time ran out a got a hit right at the end of the retrieve. Unluckily the hook didn't quite hold and after a few head shakes, what I suspect was an alright zander got free.

That was it for that session, but considering the terrible water conditions and the dreadful weather above the surface I actually think that four zander, one OK perch and few other bits of various action was a general result when everything was against me.

If I thought that bit of canal was in a state the bit I dropped onto the following morning was horrendous. Barely a couple of inches visibility, full of twigs were the BW had trimmed a load of cover back and largely frozen. If I wanted a test, this was it! Where I would fish was largely dictated by where didn't have ice and luckily there was a few bits where it hadn't encroached.

Not long in on the first spot bouncing a little grub around I picked up a small yet rather angry perch and by repeating the cast god knows how many times, I got hit twice more, neither of which stayed on for long. After thrashing the water to foam in the first ice free spot I moved onto the next. I’ve never really fancied this area but today it was forced on me a by the lack of other water to fish, and I am kind of glad it was. After working it over for half an hour I moved into a savage snag filled area. Only a few casts in I was feeling my lure down to the bottom with a tight line when I felt a definite tug and a quick strike drove the hook home on a particularly pissed off zander.

Then in the last section of ice free canal I again struck into another zander as it nipped a hold of my tiny grub. I say nipped because I get the impression that zander seem to follow the lure and then just nip onto its tail. Whether I hook them seems purely down to how much of the lure is in their mouth. Weirdly after zig-zagging about a bit I am sure the fish just let go of the lure as there was no head shaking that proceeded the lure coming flying out of the water.

Only one area remained to try and that was one I knew would be ice free. The only problem was it was on the end of a bend where all the sticks had collected so the area was in fact reduced by two thirds. I did get on hit right in the margin, but a hit was all it was and no fish was forthcoming

Now, I am going to mark these sessions as a resounding success because of the considerable amount of interest I managed to generate on the light lures when the canals were basically a load of rubbish. Saying that I must say that I find it a little concerning how many fish hit/grabbed/nipped my lure and got off compared to how many I actually hooked and landed. I know I could attribute it to fussy feeding, but I do suspect it could be something else that I will have to watch out for over the coming sessions.

Omne trium perfectum

'Everything that comes in threes is perfect'

With the pure gung-ho attitude that only a man can possess, Andy took his second run at the small ramp that led to the top of the flood defence barrier. Maybe two feet farther up than his previous attempt the wheels began spinning again. So he did as all men would do and floored it spraying mud in all directions. As for myself I was perched half way up a different plane of the mound, out the way of the flying earth, with a mixture of Herefordshire mud and cow shit slowly seeping through my crocs as I watched on. It was not long after this that I heard a local voice call to me from over the field. "Can I ask what you chaps are up to?"  I think it is only natural to feel a little guilty when a figure of authority questions your intent and I could have defensively or sarcastically replied that we were down for a days fishing on this here salmon beat and before we began, fancied ploughing up this here field a bit. But sense prevailed and I meekly replied that we were here to fish and had foolishly thought we could get up on the hill, but had now realised the error of our way and were in retreat. "No one drives up there at this time of year, all the locals know that." I knew exactly what he meant; simply put 'we were not local!'

Our only choice was for Mr Lewis to perform a very impressive rally reverse back down the lane to the civilised parking at the very top of the beat. Once parked where the car was at no risk of reaching its axles in mud, we now had to walk back the distance we had driven twice to reach even half way where we wanted to go. Even with highly reduced kit this was going to be a sweaty walk in the cattle-created Somme-like conditions.

After a little Wye wander we did eventually find ourselves at the point we agreed we would work our way back from through the day. You see this whole venture was conceived as a piking trip and they would be our main quarry, but as the weather has been so mild, we thought the barbel might well be on for a bit of an re-Xmas knock up. So we split our gear down the middle and had brought along a barbel rod each and a pike rod each. So we had headed to the massive sweeping bend that has in the past it has always proved more than reliable were as Bertie was concerned.

I went for the middle of the bend whilst my companion targeted the crease where the flow deflects off across the river. Today though the Wye was as low as I had ever fished it and my first few casts seemed to be hitting the deck far too quickly. In the time it took Andy to land three brownies from the crease swim, I had done little more than fine tune my rig to stop my feeder from rolling around the swim and ruining my hook links. Even with very little water on it, the flow of the Wye still shocks me and me only option to hold bottom soon became the clumsy cow lead.

Honestly, the sound of my feeder hitting the water not only grated on me but I was sure would see off any fish present as it made such an awful thump hitting the water. But I was proved rather wrong when after mere moments on the rest the rod tip tapped once before jerking violently over. All barbel fight hard but these lean wiry Wye fish run like savages in the early moments of the fight. Combine over two ounces of feeder and the fear of hidden trees littering the river and it makes for an interesting battle.

After the first one slipped up, that was it, I thought the flood gates had opened. As soon as the rig made bottom again I got a hard tug which resulted in nothing. The again next cast barley had enough time for a leaf to hang up on my line before another one was on. I had brought along my JW Young barbel rod which I have been using on the Avon for barbel this year. It could be said by many that at 2.5lb it's a bit on the heavy side, but for this river its tough back bone was more than enough to handle the big rigs I was discharging into the river, whilst still being forgiving enough cushion some very intense first runs.

Two more similar sized fish came in very quick succession after the first, but it would seem that the feeding spell was to be very short lived. Either that or my theory that the Tonka truck of a feeder hitting water did spook them out of the area. On the journey down it had been agreed that would would keep moving and not sit around waiting for bites, so after a quiet forty minutes we made tracks back up the beat.

The pike were always going to be a different matter to the barbel. We have fished this stretch of the Wye twice before and truthfully although we had seen one pike lingering in a slack we had no idea of where to begin fishing for them. On the way down we had taken some time to clock out possible areas of attack but nothing really screamed pike as most of the beat is shallow fast riffles. There was a couple of 50/50 spots that we could have tried, but nothing definite. On the way back up from under hoods we discussed where to fish. The rain by now was really coming down and wanting to lighten our loads we agreed to stop at the car and leave most of kit there, and armed with only a rod each and one net we would head to a area that even now thinking of it makes my blood run cold... Dead man's bend.

The very first time we visited this stretch we were chatting to a local dog walker/angler and it was him who pointed out this ninety degree turn in the river. As the water quite literally changes direction instantly as it collides with the bank it creates one of the scariest undercuts I have ever seen. From a distance it looks quite innocuous but when you stand directly above it looking at the massive straight that leads into it you realise the very bank you stand on feels the full force of one of the most powerful rivers in the country. But that's nothing compared to when you look down at the water and see the random boils emanating from twenty feet down under the bank. It quite literally looks like there is a shoal of whales gallivanting under the water. Apparently according to the man who pointed it out this one bend has done more than enough to earn its name over the years.

As dangerous as it looks from above we had spotted that a large still eddy had formed with the lack of water and that luckily it looked like we could easily get down the bank behind between two trees. We were right and soon enough pitched up in a cap between two barren bushes. The bank itself was nothing more than a skid of bare mud exposed by the low water and should the river be any more than a foot up it would disappeared under the Wye. Flanked on both side by trees which hung down into the water it was going to be tight but also looked the perfect pike swim.

You know you're fishing deep water when your float stop is half-way through the rod rings and the bait is in your hand. With depths between ten and fifteen feet this wasn't going to be easy but did look spot on for pike. We had to wait a while for some action and what occurred next was destined to be one of those moments that hurts for a long while. My float had sat motionless for a good three quarters of an hour just off the trees. Then, out of nowhere, ripples emanated from the dumpy float. I remember saying "hey up here we go" before I took the rod in hand. A few more bobs came before the float toddled off classically away from the trees. I watched carefully as I paid out line, then after the float traveled about three feet, it sank under slowly and I tightened up and prepared to drive my hooks home. Not so much a minuscule of resistance was felt and my float, with rig in tow, launched straight out of the water and into the bushes behind me. Only a moment of silence followed as it took me that long to inhale enough air for the protracted and explicate tirade that followed. It wasn't that I had just missed a fish, more what that fish could have been judging by what happened later.

I calmed down from my tantrum by the time Andy's float seemed to get caught by the flow. Then after I convinced him I suspected it was a fish all hell broke loose when he struck and with no choice he had to really force the fish through the swim avoid an obstacle coarse of snags. Luckily the fish cooperated and went pretty much straight into the net. It looked massive lying on its side in the net and I think both of us were equally excited to get it on the scales.

Out of the net it looked just as big, but three sets of scales proved that even though we have both seen our fair share of pike we were well out on our estimates. For my part I had seventeen pounds in my head but could barley believe it weighed just under fourteen pounds hence the three sets of scales.

But that wasn't it! Next cast the bait had barely hit bottom before the float sank away attached to another good fish. This one we saw deep down in the water and it looked very long and thin. Not long after we saw it, a shake of the head set it free before came near the bank. I could barley believe it when a third and forth fish snaffled Andy's baits from the same small area. These two were totally mental beasts that smashed us both around, getting us in a right mess, hence no pictures for either. Both were smaller and so badly behaved that we were glad to see them back in the water where they were unable to twist, snap or trash around.

Three different sets of three different species that all came in threes seems an odd coincidence to me on what I can only say one one of the dampest days I have ever spent by the river. We walked sopping away from the water not long after the last fish as the river was rising fast and I think truthfully we were quite satisfied by the days catches considering the time of the year.

My only regret of the day was that missed run. Considering all the pike Andy caught were low to mid doubles I can only surmise that at the minimum, my fish was at least a double, and considering it was the only bite that came away from the hot spot I can't help suspecting it might have been a loner that the other fish avoided. Adding insult to injury is the reported size of the stretch monster, which I feel most comfortable referring to simply as big! And we all know the Wye can breed them proper BIG...

Thank god that weeks over.

I think I have lost my mojo of late. It was inevitable that it was going to happen as after a high always comes a low. Three times I have fished in the past week and each time something has not been quite right in all honesty.

Chasing bubbles

We have all done at one time another and undeniably sometimes it pays off. But chasing bubbles if you think about it is quite possibly a futile pastime. I mean yes, there are times when those attractive bubbles that you see dimpling the surface of the smooth surface can mean nothing but a fish is causing them. Like when tench are hard on the feed and vast clouds of tiny bubbles break the surface all at once making an audible fizz, or when you can actually see a carp rooting round on the bottom sending large blooping bubbles up to the top. But these few examples of fish-related bubbles although specific are probably quite rare. Consider how many bubbles rise on even a tiny pond through the course of a day, never mind through a prolonged period of warmer weather and soon you realise that of what we see hit the surface, probably less than twenty percent is fish related.
The possible origination of any one bubble that defies gravity in itself is massive. Ignoring the overly romantic idea that most of us anglers have that bubbles are fish falling for our infallible rouses, the fact is that any one of hundreds of possibilities are the cause of a bubble. Most can probably be attributed to the decay of previously living matter, whether its the relatively quick breakdown of last years leaves or the long term breakdown of silt, it is more than likely this that is responsible for the majority of what we see.

It was this temptation which I fell foul of when I last visited the lake. Arriving early evening I found which I assumed to be fish feeding all over one area of the Coombe and yes, in a what I can hardly describe as a  minor moment of misjudgement, I foolishly spent an entire evening casting to what I was convinced were feeding fish. It wasn't until the sun dipped behind the wood on the far side of the lake and the shadows grew long that the bubbling petered away that it clicked; the dropping water temperatures reduced whatever was causing the gases to rise from the silt leaving the water like a mirror and me feeling kind of foolish.

Trash fish harassment

I have heard the reference 'trash fish' used colloquially by some American anglers more and more since the Internet has broadened our angling horizons, and from what I can tell the reference refers to fish that are considered to be second class or a nuisance. Although I would never agree that any fish is better than another, I could not possibly deny with any clear conscience that ocassionally I find some fish a nuisance when fishing for another. So it is through clenched teeth that I use it.

Sunday after some well needed rain I, like many others, skipped happily towards the river thinking high temperatures combined with a higher water level and coloured water would mean the Avon's Barbel population would feed with the gay abandon of a kids in a sweet shop. Frankly they probably did somewhere in the river, just not where I was fishing. But I must say at this point that even if they were there and did feed, chances were that they never got near my baits as the local bream population had become rather stimulated by my bait and antics. It hard to be ungrateful with a bend in your rod but on this occasion I did a pretty good job of it! As time and time again those snotty brown buggers hung themselves up on my rig, and even with a respectable daytime match weight to my name, I could not help but think of this a failure of a session, hence no pictures.

Not one thing right! 

We all have bad sessions when you can't do a dammed thing right, I know. But knowing that does in no way stop us from beating ourselves up when it happens. Hence on a slightly detoured trip I found myself a guest on a stretch of the Avon which has a good reputation for barbel fishing, that was in prime condition and even worse was producing multiple catches of barbel on that very night...

You all know the sort of session I had. It was one of those ones where you just can't settle. Where the next peg along looks better than yours and when you do move you find yourself thinking, was I better off back there? My tactics didn't fit and nether did my attitude considering the time constraints. 

I must have fished five swims between seven and ten and not one did I feel I fished well. Worst of all I got the distinct feeling that in at least two of the afore mentioned swims there was certainly fish. In those cases I reckon my atom bomb antics may of alerted any fish present to my presence. Every cast I made seemed to end up in the wrong spot or go in hard and my teeth were left cold time and time again from my incessant inhaling of air.

In the end and on the verge of just leaving I opted to just go up to a swim near the exit of the fishery and camp out in the simplest of swims and wait. Considering how badly I had done and how loudly I had gone about it I saw no harm in switching from lead to a feeder. Frankly it made no more noise than any of my other rigs had entering the water and after waiting half an hour until my white rod dip began to merge into the dark my tip bent round. It was no barbel that took pity on me but instead a chub of less than two pounds. That was it for me; I was very, very done.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking back now I could happily remove 26th of July - 3rd of August from my fishing life. But then again maybe I shouldn't! Its true that when we have these runs of bad form it makes you feel pretty crappy but conversely when it comes good after a bad spell it always feels that much better when it ends. After all, if its all good you stop appreciating what you've got when you have it all the time. So a little perspective can only be a good thing. That's the way I am looking at it anyway and roll on next week.

Old rivers.

Rivers by nature are reborn all the time. Courses change over time, the winter floods wipe them clean and change their features year on year. Though most places will look similar there are undoubtedly changes that can be seen if a lifetime is spent walking their banks. On the other hand there are places on most rivers that through time, stand still and hardly change at all. These spots that never seem to change have a strange feeling of age about them, and the stretch I had chosen for my very first trip to the river of the new season feels old, very old indeed!

Ask anyone who fishes Saxon mill and they will tell you that once you cross that bridge and step onto the ancient cobblestone path you undoubtedly feel as if you are stepping into history. The graffiti alone reveals just how long the weir has been channelling that water into the weir pool and just sitting next to it, the notion of how many other anglers for hundreds of years sat in exactly the same spot before me, doing just the same.

I don't know exactly what it is that causes that distinctive smell that weirs produce, but I do know that smell is food for the soul of the early morning angler. Later in the day it dies away as your senses become accustomed to it, but by then usually the mystery of the turbid waters takes hold and you become immersed in your surroundings as you try to fathom where, in such a complicated environment, might be best to drop your bait. 

I think it is mystery that draws us to weir pools. Its obvious what sort of fish we seek in what areas of them, but you can never rely on what you know with a weir pool. You might cast into a slack hoping for a carp and catch a tench, or run a float down slow water looking for a roach and catch trout. Either or any way you never quite know what will come next and this is the mystery that draws us to them.

It was that mystery that turned my head the other morning. I should have walked straight on by after looking from the bridge on my way to my intended spot, but I just could not do it as the lure of the weir was just to much. I just  had to have a go. Ask yourself, could you walk by when it looked this good...

'Just a quick cast then on I go' I told myself.  'You probably wont get a bite' I said in hushed tones trying to reassure myself I would move on as intended. Then moments after the lead found hard bottom; tap tap bang! A small chub engulfed my meat. That sealed the deal, I was staying a bit longer than one cast. The next one again found a lovely clear spot towards the tail end of the run. With tension on the line and the random patterns of flow tugging gently at my rod tip, I sat back to wait. 

It didn't take long for a single knock to indicate a little interest and sit me upright in my seat. Even knowing a fish was around, it still came as a shock as the rod buckled over and the spool began to spin. My strike met solid resistance and hooped violently over. I cannot and will not deny verbalising my thoughts out loud to myself that I had hooked a barbel. However the initial violence subsided and when no savage runs were forthcoming my hopes of a barbel, or a carp for that matter, faded.

Whatever it was, it was giving me some serious stick in the powerful water and I had no idea of its identity until it seemed to pull backwards. Cursing myself for forgetting, I remembered this had happened to me before many years ago on the first peg downstream of here; the same situation only on the first day of the season, and that day it turned out to be exactly what I now suspected this was. A big river eel.

Two casts into the Avon and I was going to get royally slimmed up. If it wasn't that I actually quite like catching eels I would of been livid. With my expectations adjusted I was very happy to see a thick green body spinning in the current attached to my line and this one, like the other, was no boot lace ether.

Self takes are not easy at the best of times and self takse holding small eels are impossible. Trust me I know from experience. But once they get above a certain size eels seem to behave not too badly on the bank, and this 2.7lb one was almost cordial as it lay in the folds of my net in the long grass. The hook was right in the centre of its bottom lip and once that was out it kept quite still as I gently lifted it up for a quick picture.

I don't know why I cast again. I know that normally where there is one there are others, hence my next cast ended much the same way only with a smaller eel on the hook and that one ruined my hook link irreparably. That did move me on.

My next intended port of call was the very first peg of the downstream section and the very place that I had been duped before. Even though I knew there was a chance the same might happen again I still ventured forth as other more special fish have grace my net in that spot. I had not though taken into consideration how much time might have changed this swim and after forcing my way through the head high nettles and cow slip, I was confronted with a much altered swim that seemed not to be a good option, with a large log only a few feet out and dead centre of the swim.

With little choice I carried on downstream using my seat like a shield to defend myself from nettles,  trying to limit my already growing collection of stings. The only real option for a cast was right at the bottom of the run where the river breaks hard left at forty five degrees, in a swim known as tramps corner. Its a bit of bleak place as its name implies. Most of the chancers and poachers that sneak a cheeky day here spend their day drinking Special brew or Tyskie under these trees. Apart from that its not a half bad swim; carp and tench often can be seen in the shallow slack on the opposite side of the river where lily pads grow out of the flow.

My first job was to scatter a liberal amount of pellets into that slack to hopefully get any passing fish to stop and have a feed. Whilst that brewed away I amused myself by fishing worms for perch just off the flow. In the past I have had some decent perch from this swim but I don't think I, or anyone else, has ever seen the true potential this swim has to offer.

A few casts in and the perch dutifully turned up, possibly attracted by the maggots I was distributing upstream or maybe by the flashing of silver fish intercepting them as they fell. After an hour I was building the swim up nicely and the fish did seem to be getting bigger, up to a pound and a half. Then out of nowhere there was an awful commotion and the swim erupted with dace flying in all directions. At first I suspected a pike had arrived which is not unusual here, but the the worst culprit possible popped out up right over the spot I was saving for later. A huge cormorant with a white throat bobbed up with a still wriggling dace in its beak. It pancaked, flapping desperately to get airborne just as I was scrabbling for a projectile to throw at it.

That was it for tramps corner. Every fish had scattered in a panic to get away and my once highly active swim swim seemed dead as a dodo. Going downstream where it had emerged from seemed a senseless move and with the two upstream pegs not much of a better option, the weir or higher seemed the only prospect. Just as I packed up Baz let me know he had turned up to trot on the mill race so my only option was the still free weir pool.

Luckily no one turned up as I raced through the undergrowth, though once ensconced again Baz did come down for a chat as the white throated bugger had circled the field, landed above his swim  and pulled the same swim ruining ruse to him. As for the weir, its time had passed and not much action was forthcoming at all on my meat line. The last hour saw me contact a slew of beautiful perch fishing a light rig out in the slack area but as for the chance of anything big, I did not hold out much hope.

A few months away from the Avon and I had forgotten how fickle it can be. If you're in the the right swim and the fish are on the feed you can bag up, but it does seem like when its low and clear as it is right now, there is only a small window to catch. Add a few predators into the mix and and the fishing can be over and done with in the blink of an eye.

The same but a different Wye.

The river Wye is still new to me. I have only ever fished it on three occasions and this was the third, hence I am still getting to know it. I suppose with the changeable nature of running water it could take someone a life time to get even the smallest understanding of a river, and that knowledge could be washed away with one single flood; so me and the Wye still have a long way to go till I have even a modicum of understanding.

Before we even left the shire, the Wye on paper looked not that different from how it had been less than a month ago. This in turn created a hint of confidence that we may, in some way, have a repeat performance of our previous visit to this little-fished stretch.

At four in the morning the sky was about as clear as it could be, and even the glow of the city did not seem to diminish the view of the stars. But this clear night was to herald a clear day, and that we did not want one bit for our trip to this river. The problem with pre-arranging such jaunts is that should the conditions be adverse, you can't exactly just change tack having ultimately drawn your cards weeks prior; should it be a bad hand then it is simply a case of making the most of a bad lot. 

Our day was planned, and even though the pair of us knew the bright sun might well be against us, the cogs were already moving, and come what may we would soon be slipping through the night to try and beat the rising sun to the Wye, to best our chances of casting into the half light.

Winter views of rising and setting suns are, I have to say, some of the best, but when you want to be on the bank before light up, that pale blue semicircle that appears on the horizon as you speed through the night, is like an alarm bell ringing in your mind. The journey into Herefordshire therefore was not savoured one bit and was instead reduced to a countdown of miles on the the satnav. 

It was just getting light as I tip toed around ice clad muddy puddles to open the gate into the white frosted landscape of the Wye valley, and for the first time this journey, I felt relaxed. We were here, it looked great and the spot where we headed held fish for sure. Though how long those fish may be inclined to feed was anyone's guess.

Not long after this, Andy inched the car along the top of the flood defences as we neared the chosen spot. Being only a single car width, any vehicles travelling along this track must either travel the entire length or turn around on the single area wide enough and flat enough to do so, before powering back up onto the track. 

It was decided that given we were the only people going to be on the stretch it was a good idea to turn the car around before we started fishing and leave it on the track ready to go later.  Going down into the turning area was easy enough, but when Andy came to power back up, the car slid to an inglorious stop with the wheels spinning in the soft ground covered in frost. A few attempts all ended the same way. This was not a good way to start a session. We agreed that the frost may be hampering his efforts and decided to leave the car where it was and try again once the sun had melted the white grass green again. Though it was also agreed to try again around midday, so as to leave us enough time to go and try and find a kind farmer to drag us out should we be unable to get out any other way.

I know Andy had the worry of being stuck niggling in the back of his mind, and frankly I did too, but unable to do anything about it we went about trying to catch some fish, as prime time was ticking away with the quickly rising sun.

As I set up I watched the river flowing past, and as all the available information had confirmed it was no higher or lower than when we were last here. Even the colour of the water could of been a exact match to last time. But something about it was different. My rigs were identical in all ways but one: not wanting any disasters I had obtained some highly durable yet reasonably lower diameter mono line which I had previously used and was very confident in.

I even cast back into the same area where on my last trip I had done so well. Three quick casts and the feeling that the river was different grew.  If my rig landed only a few feet further out, the flow seemed ten times as powerful. Sticking with just inside the flow, taps started to appear on the rod and soon enough those taps grew more violent. All the taps stopped suddenly before I got a proper rattle, and instinctively struck just as the tip bent over.

Although secretly hoping the barbel would show up again, I had wondered if the major drop in temperature overnight may have put them off feeding, but here I was playing a barbel after my first real bite of the day and it was really hammering me. The freezing temperature had certainly not made this fish lethargic at all. Time and time again it powered in and out of the current, until I finally coaxed it into the slack water towards my waiting net.

Not a massive barbel, but on a freezing cold morning it was more than I expected quite honestly. A few repeat casts later it's smaller brother or sister did a very convincing impression of giant roach. The tip kept rattling  as is my baits were pecked at by a 10lb roach. This fish was half the size of the first and all the way in I suspected a the big white lips of a chub would appear from the fight, but then it suddenly turned into a small barbel.

Not long after the second fish, the bites dried up totally. Strangely, Andy, who was fishing a crease up stream, seemed to be getting regular bites. Thus I suspected the fish may of moved a bit further out. In order to try and squeeze out more interest  I increased my feeders weight and pushed more into the flow. Just casting that few feet more it seemed like the entire pressure of the Wye was on my rig, and time and time again no matter how much more weight I added, the rig was unceremoniously ejected back into the slack after tumbling across the rocky bottom. Even going onto my second rod, with its Avon tip and a huge cow lead piggy backed onto the feeder, only served to bend my rod right through the top section.

Feeling like I was not fishing effectively, I decided a new spot was in order, and dropped down to fish the crease where the flow came back off the bend, only to find this was a hundred times worse. This time  sunken maple leaves skipping the bottom immediately hooked up on my weighty rig and dislodged it in the edge.
It was whilst trying to fish this area that I realised that although the river was seemingly of exactly the same level as on our last visit, the flow had a lot more pace and power. It was almost malevolent as it pushed by, and was only content for me to cast beside it. Should I cast anything into its path, it was just shoved out of the way. Thinking about it, the only reason I can rationally think could explain this is that the water was encountering less resistance as it moved down stream. Whether it was reduced weed levels upstream or the wind coming from a different direction and not holding it up, or just pushing it on. The fact was that it was much more powerful  than before, and this was confining us to areas where the fish did not seem comfortable feeding.

As agreed, around midday after fighting it out for very little, we opted to make a move. The last time here we held it out in one area under the belief that the fish would again feed as dusk fell, only to find they had no intention of getting back on a bait. This time we wanted to explore a few other spots lower down stream, and as Andy had managed to get the car out of the mire it seemed a good time to move.

First we checked out an area we hoped might hold a large upstream slack, where rumours of big pike abound, but it turned out the increased pace of the water had pushed the main flow of the river directly onto the bank where we stood, which had in turn transformed what I suspect was a normally sedate spot into a maelstrom of mixed currents which neither of us fancied trifling with.

Next we headed to the very bottom of the stretch, entering via a second gate at the bottom of a very muddy lane. This part of the river looked every part a salmon and trout beat; long riffles interspersed with slightly deeper pools had spey casting written all over it, but as for coarse fishing it was not looking good at all. Worst of all the early winter sunset was not so long off that we could justify going back to our original spot. So begrudgingly we picked the likeliest looking area, which turned out to be a grassy plateau level with the river, and tried to make the most of things.

Upstream from Andy, I could not hold bottom again, and soon enough resorted to trotting the biggest chubber float I had along a run mid river to try and steal a bite here or there. The float moved so fast that a fifty yard trot lasted mere moments, but after persevering for a good hour or more the float buried out of sight at the end of the run and I contacted a reasonable chub. Vilified, my only problem now was how do you tow in a 2-3lb chub against the full force of the Wye using only a 3lb hook link.  It took a while and some gentle pumping, but a big white pair of lips appeared not far from my net just before one last turn against the flow pinged my size sixteen hook back in my face.

The move did turn out to be a bit of a bad one as the lower part of the stretch just did not seem the right sort of place to be fishing right now. Sure, in the summer standing knee deep in the river rolling a chunk of meat down the far bank under the trees may have been very productive, but at the time of year when that tactic would work, this place is the private premise of the salmon angler.

We had such high hopes for this session back on the Wye as it was going to be our last trip down this year, but the conditions had made the fishing difficult. However this river has me hooked, and I can't wait to return and discover a bit more about it, provided I can persuade its owner to let me come back again next year early after the salmon season is done.

Monkey murder

Please do not take my title literally, for this is not about me going out to massacre Macaques or crucify some Capuchins. It is instead my intent to blow away or strangle the metaphorical monkey which represents a barbel, which and currently resides upon my back.

I may of been griping a little to an acquaintance on the subject, when out of the blue he offered me the opportunity to go and fish his private bit of the river Wye. One rule I have lived by and will live by until my dying day, is never turn down the opportunity to fish a water that is referred to as private. Undoubtedly these types of private waters are always going to be jewels hidden away, protected from the masses where fish do not grow wary from the constant pressure of entire seasons of anglers wearing the ground to bare mud.

When asked, I don't think Andy even let me finish asking him if he fancied it, before saying, just organise it. So what seems like weeks ago I scanned the calender for a suitable date convenient for all three parties. As per normal river levels were watched all week and with every down pour the Wye rose and fell. If flood conditions were to occur the agreement had been made to call off this adventure and wait for another more favourable window. But two days before the weather fell calm and the river abated to the point were it's owner predicted perfect conditions.

I would love to say something along the lines of the Wye valley looked resplendent on our arrival but as with the rest of the Midlands it was shrouded in a thick layer of fog, and on our first view of the river the opposite bank was only just visible. Though for what we could see the river although clear and falling, still made our native Avon look very tame.

Even after falling on a prime looking spot when we first arrived, we headed down stream to investigate as much of the stretch before deciding where to fish and lucky we did, as a mile or so down we came across a beautiful sweeping bend where the flow pushed off to the far bank. This spot gave us four different speeds of water to fish; from a flick into slack water, a lob into slow water, a cast into pacey water then last of all a chuck into the torrent. The genius of this area was that being newbies to the Wye it would enable us to fish hassle free with our lines under minimum pressure from the powerful flow.

Unsure of what fish swam in front of us I went for a two rod set up. One barbel rod baited with a generous cube of spicy garlic luncheon meat intended to entice a hungry beard. The second rod I wanted to use to feel out what was around. So set up a light outfit with a maggot feeder set up to try and induce some smaller fish and get a feel for the populations. 

Both rods out, I sat back peering into the fog and waited. As I expected small taps on the maggot line came first and a couple of quick casts into the same pacey area was producing regular rattles. Then I got one big tap before my rod was practically pulled off the rests. Although trying to catch smaller fish first I had luckily been realistic and fished a 5lb line straight through because unbelievably I was attached to a barbel after only being fishing for ten minutes. 

The rod and a light set clutch were doing their parts in helping me coerce a small but energetic fish towards the bank. Then on the third of three savages lunges away from the bank my line parted leaving me very disappointed  That light outfit was put away instantly and a second barbel rod came off the bench.

Flapping a bit I scrounged some new high hook link material from Andy as I felt that all my tackle box had to offer was either too light or too heavy  Calmed and cast out again I looked up the tips and noticed the tip ring of my rod seemed a little askew. Not wanting to disturb the swim again so soon, I dropped the rod tip a little to inspect the problem. I knew the tip rig would sooner or later need replacing but looking closely at it I found it was hanging on by a thread, and was snapped clean off when another barbel hit me as I held the rod in my arms. That newfangled high tech hook link snapped like baby hair as I disengaged the free spool on the reel.

Now I was in a total state. Two lost fish, two snapped hook links and a busted rod tip all in the first half an hour. Luckily I had brought a spare heavier tip and after setting up again with an identical rig plus a braided hook link. I took a moment to calm down.

Confident in my gear I again recast onto the same spot and sat back. Sure enough wham, another bite smashed my rod over and this one was not getting away under any circumstances. When a dark lean fish of around six pounds hit the net my demons were exercised and probably one of the best barbel sessions of my life began.

I had a shoal in front of me and it was time to make some serious hay. Every cast of the maggot feeder produced some sort of reaction. If it wasn't a twang of the rod tip it was a liner or just the bait runner going into overdrive. Though they were averaging between 4-6lb every fish was lean mean and fighting fit which used the powerful current beyond my catch zone to their full advantage.

I think there is a good chance some of these fish that were battering us had quite possibly never seen a hook in their lives, as every one had  perfect barbels and huge perfect rubber lips.

As the frantic feeding went on the fish seemed to increase in size. Whether it was a case of the regular casts  depositing  more and more feed thus building the confidence of the more wary older fish, or simply the shoal was thinning out leaving the bigger fish I will never know . But the biggest fish of the day landed came towards the end of this frantic feeding spell and weighed a little over seven pounds.

The next fish I hooked into was certainly a much bigger fish which knew exactly what to do. Two small twangs of the rod tip indicated an imminent bite, and my hand hovered over the rod for a moment before in the blink of an eye the carbon bent double and the reel sang loudly. This one ploughed off into the current at an unbelievably rate before I could get a handle on it. It took line and I gained line before it went on a second mental run diagonally down stream into the flow. Straight away I could feel the line grating up through the rod. What it had dived under god only knows but it was big and solid. Several different angles couldn't get this fish back under the snag and before long it went totally solid. After slackening off and setting the rod down I again tensioned up to the solid weight and reluctantly pulled for the break. I did free the hook hold to find a straightened hook and every bit of the last twenty feet of my line shredded by the hidden snag.

The action after this abated and this was seemed to coincide with the lifting fog. It was about this time when my feet began to itch and I took a wander to peruse possible other swims. That water I found though held little appeal. Shallow turbulent and powerful seemed the theme for a good mile down stream. On a hot day with a pair of waders I would of been half way out rolling meat along the deep run the opposite side. But this was late October and the chances of that were zero.

It was now early afternoon and after a chat with Andy we made the decision the hold fast, knowing there was certainly fish in front of us, and chill out for a few hours until the sun sank below the woods lining the other bank.

The sun grew warm and I for one grew lethargic warming myself after half a day spent in the damp dank valley air. The sun got so bright in fact that everything stopped feeding altogether. Even super light rigs failed to rise even a moment of entertainment from a minnow.

As beautiful as it was watching the wildlife enjoying the warm October sun I for one could not help but think of how much of a contrast there was between am and pm. We waited and waited for the fish to switch on again as night crept in. We even stuck it out into dark! But our chance was gone. The fish had melted away never to be seen again and even the witching hour failed to produce anything.

In retrospect we should of upped sticks and moved to another area upstream where the fish would of been unwise to our rouses. Looking back now I honestly think we may have put too much pressure on the ones in our swim. But hey what can you do, there was always a chance that those fish may of moved back in over the baited area at dusk and probably did during the night to mop up long after we left. As for the Wye, this was a magnificent first proper session on this amazing river and one I won't forget in a hurry. I for one can't wait to come back in the future.

Southern shennanigans

I rarely begin writing about an adventure before I actually embark upon it, but this time I think it may be necessary   You see, after returning from any of my previous trips that have involved the lower Itchen fishery, I have found myself almost speechless. The reason I often find myself lacking words is simply due to a fishing daze. Just half a day early in the coarse season and you ultimately feel like you have been blasted with angling shot gun.

I told Andy, who is on his first visit with us this time, that the only way to describe how good the area we were going to fish is,  think of the best river fishing he has ever had, take away all fear from the fish, and times it by three. 
The reason, I think, for this above exceptional sport is quite simply a lack of pressure. This highly prized and protected stretch is, for most of the year, the premise of the Salmon and trout angler. So for the entire summer the numerous residents that are not targeted by the fluff chuckers do not supplemented in any way. Come the end of the game season and copious amounts of maggots suddenly sink slowly through the water; the fish gorging themselves on the bounty. 
Obviously given time, the fish acclimatise and realise that the bounty comes at a price, thus becoming wary. But for the first two weeks of the season it really is pure heaven and could well be a reflection of how fishing all over the UK was once. Luckily for us we happened to be going in the honeymoon period when coarse fishing is allowed.

But before we got to the main course we had arranged an appetiser session on the Dorset Stour, where we hoped we stood a chance of connecting with big chub or roach on a stretch that Keith and Jeff had fished earlier in the year.

Men our age shouldn't get as excited as we had, and upon rendezvousing at Andy's early Saturday morning, we were all noticeably twitchy. Though excited as we were, there was a cut of  reality about the mood. We had all heard the previous two days weather report for the south. Combine this with the spiking river level on the Stour and we where unsure of what we would find upon arriving.

Journeys in good company rarely drag by, and the constant conversation lubricated the passing of time till we finally crossed the old bridge spanning the Stour. The sight we caught fleetingly in the half light was not good. Unlike our sluggish local rivers I believe the Stour has a respectable flow even without 24hrs of rain filtering into it. On this occasion I think the best description of the flow would be raging, rising and possibly rapidly.

A quick walk of the stretch and it was agreed that we were here now and we would fish, then see how we got on by lunch time when the decision would be made to abandon session or stick it out.
To me the main channel of the river looked horrendous, but several slacks on our bank seemed the best option to maybe tempt something seeking sanctuary out of the main flow. So I set up next to nice looking spot where the bending river caused the flow to shoot out diagonally from my left leaving a nice crease and subsequent slack for me to fish.

Maggot, we had been informed, were the bait for this bit of water, but whacking shed loads of maggots into it didn't feel right on the day. Luckily for me in the bottom of my bag was a bait tub full of lobworms which I had chucked in as a back up bait. The idea that the rising water would wash any unsuspecting worms into the river was enough for me to stick with them all morning.

A split lob cast into the crease weighted by little lead swung into the slack and bites came quickly. Six small perch succumbed in quick succession before a felt a solid fish on. Although I felt it and was sure it was a fish it doubt it felt the searing bite of my hook at all.

After this the worm line petered away and the river rose. I had already moved back a foot or so but the river constantly crept towards me lapping at my feet and after four moves I found myself six feet further from the river than when I started.

I was just considering a fifth move up the bank when my two companions arrived  to discuss what to do. With the river rising fast, the fishing was getting harder and we were all suffering. The decision was made to head over the the Itchen to give the free stretches a go and see how the water levels had been affected, in anticipation for the main event.

When we arrived the river looked to be higher than normal, with that constant bank to bank flow associated with chalk streams, but held a very muddy colour, which I for one had never seen on this river. Honestly it didn't look too bad to me. The locals on the other hand seemed a little worried about it. Comments such as "oh it ain't been this high for ages" spilled constantly from their mouths as they seemed genuinely concerned that an impending flood approached. For those of us that live near to river such as the Avon, Trent and Severn are used to the water being over its banks, and a bad flood is when caravans come flying down the river smashing into bridges; not when the there is some danger the water may reach the top of the bank.

We did however fish and of all the things that made the fishing hard, I think be far the biggest factor was the lack of clarity in the water. Although I must say that in my experience the free stretches of any river get hammered senseless. Hence the fish ain't stupid!

Lined along the banks with the locals we gave it our best shot and for my part an hour in I hooked a good fish which I suspect was a trout, but whose teeth severed my light line moments after I hooked it. I stuck with my line running along the opposite bank and fed constantly with maggots, and as I nattered to Jeff who had just arrived, I hooked a good chub which held on the opposite bank and thumped away until the hook pulled. That second loss really hurt, especially as I knew those bites were at a premium right now.

I plugged away all afternoon until my arm ached from repeating the same cast time and time again. Andy and Baz ambled along the bank as I approached the last few pouches of maggots. The time for the off neared and tired from my constant casting, I offered my rod to either of them whilst I had a smoke before packing away. Andy took the rod and began casting whilst I fired out the remaining baits. Would you believe only moments after I fired the very last few of grubs into the water and stated that was the last of the bait, Andy called out 'fish on'. After a decent fight in the powerful flow and instructions being called from many sources the net was slipped under a nice looking chub of  2lb!

Day one had been a real test for us, fishing two out of sorts venues. But things were looking up. Adjacent to my swim was a level board and as I fished away I noticed that not only had the water level fallen by several inches, but I could also see the numbers below the water as the river cleared.

A little dejected we headed back to the digs to freshen up for a nice meal and a few civilised tipples before getting to bed early in order to get a good nights sleep ready for day two.... After waiting an age for our meal we did finally enjoy some hot food, and then when all the others arrived at the pub the couple of beverages turned turned into a serious session, with the drinks were going down like lizard eggs, leaving every member of the rowdy group drunk senseless. One at a time we fell away. Keith had unusually fallen silent in a stupor in the corner. Jeff especially was a sight to behold at two in the morning with one eye open and the other shut, gargling away in some seeming strange tongue that sounded a little infant like. After making generous contributions to the Irish economy Baz disappeared after the single word statement of 'bed'. And as for Andy, the best we could figure was that he was locked up in a dungeon under the main house wearing a gimp mask by now.

Less than fours hours later alarms sounded and some very peaky looking chaps fumbled around attempting to get sorted as they muttered away to themselves. A cooked breakfast plus aspirin later we found ourselves standing at the bottom of the lower Itchen fishery, still looking a little worse for wear.
The main concern for all though was the state of the river. It had dropped by close to a foot overnight and seemed to be clearing, but all of us still had apprehensions after hearing Sash's tales of woe from his session here the night before.

After we all went our separate ways I strolled upstream towards a ugly swim which has on every previous visit produced the goods for me. This time I fished it from the opposite side of the river to avoid the full force of the river smashing into my lines. A couple of exploratory casts with an empty feeder confirmed the rig would hold on the edge of the main flow. The next cast went out with a baited hook and feeder full of red maggots. Instantly the tip rattled with the attentions of hungry minnows then fell still before smashing round violently.
The fish held deep before beginning what has to be one of the most insane and heart pounding fights I have ever had. It shot upstream zig zagging, before turning round and ploughing down the current in a run than hammered the clutch on the reel into an inaudible sound, before exiting the water shaking its head side to side. After several smaller runs across the river I was treated to the fish tail walking against the flow. The whole time this was going on I held on for dear life attempting to keep it away from every patch of streamer weed and all other weed beds it ventured near. After two failed attempts I finally slipped her into the net, gathered my breathe for a moment and let her rest before I pulled out the net to feast my eyes on my fish of the trip and a new PB.

The fish it would seem were feeding and straight away my worries that the trip could be a total wash out were quashed. A steady stream of small grayling and gudgeon followed before another big fish thumped my rod tip. This had to be a good chub and it did what chub do best and bored its way straight into the closest weed bed. Even with a huge open bank to walk in and attempt to change the angle, I could not shift it from the dense weed and inevitably the culprit escaped as I tried to free the rig.

A couple of more aggressive bites ended in my hook being severed from my line and I knew it would only be time before a trout came my way. And they did in the form of three small 1-2lb brownies who had fallen under my maggoty spell.

It may sound odd as I was catching, but I forced myself to leave the first swim. Quite honestly I could have sat there all day but more swims beckoned, and the next intended swim I had heard on my last visit was reputed to hold some very big roach. After tossing a few handfuls of bread mash well upstream I squeezed in and flicked in a small pinch of bread. Twanging bites came instantly and after one false strike I hooked a small roach not more than 6oz.

Two more followed but after that the bites evaporated; on this fishery its just a case of moving onto the next swim to plunder different fish instead of waiting for bites to come again.

I headed up to the mid reaches in order to met up with the others for lunch. Arriving an hour early I settled in a fast run close to the hut. Every cast of the feeder I reeled in a small grayling. I must of landed twenty plus fish but not one was more than a pound in weight.

When the others arrived it was evident that the previous nights debacle had taken its toll and everyone in our little group looked knackered  A brief and quiet lunch consumed we again went our separate ways. Myself and Jeff strolled back down the river where we both fancied the weir pool.
I stuck it out all afternoon on the maggot feeder hoping a constant stream of grubs may entice first the smaller residents, and maybe signal any barbel to the presence of food. The small chub, gudgeon and grayling did arrive but the nothing bigger showed at all and by mid afternoon I was running on empty as was everyone else.The day drifted away as did the fishing and in hindsight stopping in the middle reaches would probably been a better afternoon choice but I made my choices with a very tired brain.

It was well before dusk when the idea of leaving early was thrown into conversation and we all agreed sticking it out till the bitter end seemed fruitless considering how the fishing had declined through the the day.

Truthfully the weekend did turn out to be a slight anticlimax for a lot of us. Though I must say that in my opinion we all may have got more from the second day if we hadn't gone so mad the night before, ending up fishing with half our brains turned off.

For me though the trip had been more than worthwhile with me knocking chub off  left right and centre and even with hard conditions to contend with, still catching loads of grayling and small trout. Oh and of course that PB.

After so many run ins and losses with this species on this venue, I finally at long last, with the help of my John Wilson Avon quiver rod, a bit of luck and after a very memorable fight, landed my first proper size Atlantic salmon of a little over 9lb, using a method which would have most tweed clad salmon anglers sneering from behind their handlebar moustaches. But I don't care because it was an amazing and truly beautiful fish that I felt privileged to hold in my hands

The Lake #7 I need a break

I have become so involved and single minded about the lake, that from my perspective I cannot see what I have become. So when on the weekend just passed, Keith popped over for a social visit at my home from home beside the lake, I got an outsiders perspective on the situation.

As he ambled towards my camp through the woods with a smile on his face proclaiming his admiration for my chosen spot he looked relaxed. When he caught sight of the arsenal of rods protruding through tiny gap in the reeds he lifted his shades from his eyes and his jaw fell slack. After giving him a detailed explanation of the different dynamics of every rod and my thinking behind each one he fully understood. And after all Keith too knows how fickle the lake is and why I should want to maximise my chances of catching. This was the point were he stated that he thought the lake was getting under my skin. And as he said it to me at no point did I actually think he was wrong. If one of the most fanatical anglers I know thought my outlook was say a little shocking and thought it was perfectly normal. Maybe I was getting a little over involved.

After a catching up for a few hours Keith headed off into the night leaving me to try and grab a few hours kip ready for the middle of the night onslaught. Lying on my back in the dark with mosquitoes strafing me  I pondered whether I may becoming obsessed with the lake. It was winter when I conceived this idea and since it's conception I had slowly and pragmatically readied myself. Barring only one exploratory trip to check out a new river ticket I acquired this year, any and all allotted fishing time has been syphoned into the lake, and all my off the bank pondering has been about the lake too. I noticed the other day that in most pictures of me holding a dripping fish that I seem to have developed a distant stare. Though as yet I have not started rocking back and forth or chatting quietly within my bivvy.

Sleep and crept over me somewhere mid mull, but an alarm soon woke me. Looking out the door towards the lake a blue light was on. I told myself it must have been a liner but as my eye lids slowly closed again it went again. The bream were in the swim and the one bothering this bait seemed to be struggling to choke down the epic bait not intended for it. But eventually by seeming force alone the culprit forced its self around the bait which in turn rang the bell on my end. And all too soon I was again covered in slime and photoing myself with another seven something two toner.

Hmmm, slightly distant stare...

God knows how many times I had got up in the now chilly night to deal with another small bream which had hung it's self up on a bait intended to be to big for them. They were getting smaller as the night wore on and I was for one was beginning to think this is just to bloody much. As an angler it sounds awful to say this, but I was glad when the shoal passed out the swim just so I could get some sleep.

My mobile phone alarm woke me to recast just after sun up and half lucid peeping from my sleeping bag with my nose swelling from a nagger bite I actually said out load to myself  "I need a break!" Even with the epiphany that had just slipped out I did get up and recast. On the last of the four rods I decided to make a slight change as the sun was down sparkling through the clear water. The bottom bait was removed and replaced with a two grains of popped up sweet corn to sit up off the method ball like a flag. It hadn't been out ten minutes before ripping off. This was no bream for sure and it was too small for a carp. At last I had hooked one of the illusive tench that turn up rarely from the lake and that I so desperately wanted. Sadly it didn't last to long before I got that slack sensation running back to the rod. I didn't bother recasting and instead began that most arduous of tasks packing up after a night on the bream.

The next day with a few decent meals inside and a proper nights sleep under my belt the idea of a trip to one of my favourite little stretches of river seemed the perfect salve. Days before I had taken Jacky to Stratford for the day and as we sat in the busy park the Avon looked just right for a spot of barbel chasing and that heavy colour should have be fining down just nice by now.

Compared to dragging all the gear I have had to miles round the lake. Carrying a small bag, two rods and a seat was bliss. Even in the dark I could tell the river still had some power and colour. I first dropped my gear at a swim at the top of the river before depositing a little bait to stew just off a nice crease on the inside bank. I then headed down stream to bait up a few other swims for later. I crept back into my first swim and lowered my rig into place silently. After an hour I had established that yes, there was plenty of small pecking fish in the swim but seemingly nothing big that wanted to play ball.

Though the morning I dropped down to swim after swim giving each one equal attention but by mid morning all I had hooked was a few overzealous roach. By now the sun was up and rather warm. Even with the river heavily coloured I got the feeling that the better the cover the better my chances of connecting a barbel. So headed back to a swim I had fished earlier which had the most cover on the whole stretch.

The morning was drifting away and all that had come my way was an odd pair of swans and their strange offspring.

Weirdly I actually saw the swans treating the goose almost like they would a cygnet and it followed them everywhere they went. The swans even got a bit defensive towards me when they ventured onto my bank. I wonder if some sneaky goose may have pulled a cuckoo on them and plopped an egg in their nest whilst they weren't looking.

My attention was beginning to wain and I was just about to have a flick through Facebook on my phone when rod tip went from straight to bent in the blink of an eye. Even having not fished this way for a good long while the ground in instinct to apply max pressure and keep the rod tip low as possible came back instantly.

Those moments of stalemate when you utter to yourself "come on, get out" seemed to go on for ages and to my elation I soon got it into open water.

It kept deep, repaetedly diving back towards cover in surging runs and I knew it was a big barbel. It couldn't be anything else in this bit of river. Time and time again I had to steer it away from the far banks reeds but still it kept deep. Then in a huge boil I caught a quick glimpse of a massive coral tail. Now my heart was thumping. I knew a very big fish was landed a few weeks ago from this stretch and I was sure I was now connected to it.

Gradually it seemd to tire and it seemd to begin to come up in the water. The next sight of it got me going even more, as it seemed very thick indeed. Then the next time I saw I thought thats a very dark barbel.

Then I saw the head of the fish as it rolled on the surface and my heart sank. It was an impostor who was doing probably the best impression of a barbel ever.

A further five minutes of determined fight later I coaxed it into my net. After one of the hardest fights I have ever had in fast shallow steamy water I had my prize... A  fighting fit twelve pound twelve ounce river carp.  

Even though it wasn't a barbel I could not be dissapointed with such a perfect example of a free as you like, wild born river carp. It was rock hard nose to tail and the orange tail was close to as big as both my hands put together. And it wasn't finished yet! After resting it in the edge whilst I set up the camera for a quick snap I laid it down on the soft grass unfolded the net where it went mental. I should have set the camera on to video because I feel sure I would of had £250 quid in my pocket from You've Been Framed after this performance. As much as I wanted the trophy shot, it didn't! It battered me senseless. I got a tail slapped in my face. It did that menical vibrating thing repeatedly in my arms. In the end after three failed attempts I gave in and opted for the on the ground shot before slipping it back to pull one over on the next unsuspecting barbel angler.