The Glorious Sixteenth?

Through the gate and my first welcome of the year from our bovine friends, their gormeless gazes and skittishness all part of the river scene. Down the farm track to the little car park, a few in, well it is the first day of the season. Strolling through the fields I'm taken back to the halcyon Great Ouse Barbel days and the fine sessions and catches this little stretch gave up to me, I was blessed then but I realised those days were behind me, and the river. I was just truly happy to be back on my old stomping ground.

In the first field I gave wide birth to the present anglers, then onwards beyond the second failing miserably to avoid them rather large presents left by the cows.

The beat was basking in first-day sun and as I walked in my (long !!) shorts I was pleased that I'd given myself a dowsing of organic bug repellent.

I strolled on far from the madding crowd past beckoning swims to the very end of the beat, it was here that I wished to engage with Mother Ouse for this season.

I set down at the swim I last fished some five years ago.

Above the water, not much had changed, I sat amongst the nettles and thistles, not particularly comfortable, but happy and at peace with this homecoming.

I set up the rods but didn't cast out, I must've sat their for an hour watching the Terns, Moorehens and Swallows at play and the bugs doing their utmost to avoid me.

Flicking the odd bait in from time to time, their was no hurry, I intended to "do the night".

I've said that this year I will use my centrepins much more and my old twin Speedias looked special in the evening sun.

The baits went out, special baits, special rigs, you know, I'd given it a lot of thought..it was "Barbel or bust" for me.

Darkness drew in and it became quieter and surprisingly cold. I was prepared and on went the layers.

With isotopes becoming brighter and the mist falling, I knew that at midnight I was alone and at one with nature. It's not the fish, is it? It's this feeling we all really strive for.

Small fish rippled in the crescent moon light and the Cows paid a curious visit.

The silence and peace, however, was broken by a sound that was in the next 3 hours was to drive me round the bend. A sound so diverse and manic one would hardly believe that it eminated from our smallest of UK birds, the Wren. On my many night missions I have encountered this most nocturnally mouthy of birds on a few occasions and every time, it beats me, it gets into my head, so relentless was its lunatic chirping that after 3 continuous hours and becoming ever colder, at 3am I went home....fishless.

No-one said that my Gt. Ouse Barbel quest was easy. It will be the first of many blanks, those I can handle, but that little mouthy bird? Much as I love them, I do wish they'd keep their verbal diarrhoea to the daylight hours.