With every cast to a new area, a subconscious picture is built of the river bed, through the masses of unappealing cabbages and floating streamer. Questioning whether it holds barbel and the period of time they pass through, during the hours of darkness. This will be only be revealed with time; hours of watching, feeling and listening, and not off the back of others success, which regretfully I see all too often these days. What pleasure can be gained I do not understand? Catch at all costs goes against my love of angling, as there's so much more fulfilment to be had, when all your own hard work pays off.
I'm not personally religious, but if ever there was a God watching over me, then August was the month. By all accounts that God, in what ever form it took, had aligned the Heavens and rewarded my grafting. Maybe it was divine intervention or purely good judgement? Whatever the reason it would be be my best ever period, on a river sadly in decline.
You might recall our summer ended once the month of August was upon us, with dropping temperatures, low pressure and consistent showers more typical to October. Having concentrated my efforts on the quiet middle reaches of this venue, with only three good sized barbel landed by the end of July. I made the decision to move downstream to a couple of areas I'd been watching. One of which had seen one or two anglers, due to it's appeal of overhanging willows and visible gravel beds. I chose the other area initially, which was more of a challenge due to it's canopy in the form of thick streamer weed and tall swaying bull rushes. I felt barbel would travel though, rather than be resident due to it's open feel, with rafts of fallen trees both to my right and left, but further enough away not to pose a risk should my bait be picked up.
As often happens after a few hours of inactivity, the doubts start creeping in as to whether the bait is caught up in weed, hung up in a tree or even bitten off by a chub. I fight with these demons regularly and on this occasion the feeling was no different, as I fought the urge not to disturb the swim by recasting.
A few minutes before packing up, my fears were diminished, as the bait was taken, developing fast into the all familiar arching of the rod tip until the bait-runner relieved the tension. The usual dogged tussle ensued, realising I was playing a nice double, but careful not to bully her due to the heavy weed. After a couple close calls she was safely landed.
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A couple of days passed before the river called again, and upon this occasion the draw of the other swim which I aptly named the 'slope' due to it's steep sloping bank, was too much to resist. The slope had seen my small bait offering over the course of the week and was waiting for me.
Two rod were quickly assembled in the gloom and cast on different lines. One two thirds across upstream into a gap where there was an opening in the cabbages. The second downstream tight to the nearside bank cover and protruding opposite bank willow, which looked the most likely out of the two of where I thought the bite would materialise.
A short while later but distracted, the zip of the bait-runner alerted me that something had picked up the bait on my upstream rod and was tearing off at a rate of knots. Quickly I made a grab for the handle and held on while the powerful fish dived for an upstream snag. Cupping the spool I slowed the run which has its risks, but upon this occasion proved decisive, as it turned. Knowing the hook hold was firm I became the bully and slipped a stunning barbel safely into the net, but not before a few further powerful drives to escape . I have to say this was the shortest, but fattest near fourteen pounder I've captured to date,and a show off for the camera.
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With my spirits high and the evening still in it's infancy, I resisted my instinct to move to the other swim. I even used the 'called a friend' trick, who with out hesitation told me straight like he always does. I quote "You know me mate, I'm a lazy angler". Of course I listen, as he is a more wiser angler than I, and preceded to convince myself that sometimes I just like to sit and watch, of which I do quite regularly. I'd fooled probably one of the largest barbel in the stretch and was content to flick my bait out again and play the waiting game.
No sooner had my rig and irresistible offering hit the same spot, the lead lifted which was evident by the sharp nod on the illuminated rod tip. Upon the second nod a second later I lifted into the bite, and started to apply pressure. The fish knew it was hooked at that point and predictably bolted for freedom pulling line from the tight clutch with ease. The swim was tight so bullying tactics were applied again for the benefit of both me and the barbel. Within no more than a minute, with properly balanced tackle, the tug of war turned in my favour and long lean twelve and half pound barbel was safely resting.
After that frantic but exciting hour I was more than content to just sip my coffee and sit for the rest of the evening; listening to the wildlife, replaying the captures in my mind, and thinking how lucky I was to be an angler.
Low pressure dominated our weather the following couple of weeks. I needed no invitation to seize the opportunity, and was duly rewarded with a further seven good barbel, including a recapture of the near fourteen.
August 2014 was an unusual month on the gentleman's river, but a happy one.
