No imagination

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

A blurry buzzard over the bend

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

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

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

Arty..

farty..

...contre jour.

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

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

Nothing arty farty tried here!

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

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

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

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Don't play misty for me

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

The season of mists and mellow mushroomness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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On the road again

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

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

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

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

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

The moon yesterday

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

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

I think the mist was affecting the camera's focusing

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

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Fame at last

Leafing through the Tackle and Guns trade magazine that arrived today I noticed Shimano must have taken me on as a consultant by telepathy!

I don't know where they get the idea these small Baitrunners are good for deadbaiting though.

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Change of plan...

For whatever reason I couldn't get motivated to risk a drive to the river today. Probably because I really want to fish somewhere else, for something other than barbel. Instead I've been packing rods ready to despatch tomorrow - after I've visited the garage...

My idle hours have been spent rereading my 1979 edition of Jack Hilton's Quest for Carp which, covering the years to 1970 and like Casting at the Sun, recounts earlier days of carp fishing when there were plenty of problems to solve - not least what tackle was best. Carp anglers, all big fish anglers in fact, have it easy these days.

A truly iconic cover photo of Bill Quinlan

Big fish angling was much more of an adventure back in the early days. Not only was it unknown what might lurk in lightly fished, secluded pools, but tackle had to be made to do the job. One can appreciate that catching a handful of what would be considered mediocre fish today was a real achievement, and that the process was as much a part of it as the catching. No twin skinned bivvies for Hilton and co. Just an umbrella, a groundsheet and some polythene sheeting. And can you imagine today's carp anglers suffering in a mail bag instead of a fleece lined duvet sleeping bag? They must have been exciting times. I wonder how many of today's carp anglers will have read Quest for Carp?

By the time I came to big fish angling it had almost all been sorted out. There were numerous glass fibre specialist blanks available and Send Marketing Brollycamps were to be aspired to as were Optonic bite alarms - and out of the price range of an impoverished student. Today tackle is almost ridiculously cheap, and rarely nasty.

The closest I've been to being involved in something like the pioneering days of the post-Walker era was the 'big lure revolution' of the 1990s. Only looking back do I see that now. I wonder if the likes of Hilton realised how much they were changing things at the time they were freelining potatoes?

Checking the webstats for this blog to see where you lot find it I saw that Ted Carter's have started a fishing blog. If you are local to the Preston area or interested in fishing tackle developments it might be worth keeping an eye on.

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The Law of Sod

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

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

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

Not even five pounds

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

Over seven

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

Nearly eleven and a half

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

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