Barbel Bullion

Disorganised days drift into the chaos of traffic, and so follows the haphazard loading of tackle.
About an hours drive away lies the low flowing sinuous abode of gold. Through humid field and o'er five bar gate, I go to prospect.
 The chatter of the magpie, shrill call of the 'fisher welcome, as the mallards argue. The grass moist, seeps, as the evening sun begins to fade.
 The water runs low and fast at the top of the beat where small unknown birds dart for grubs and insects amongst the rampant reed growth. Thin, fast, shallow?...No, not here..onwards to the grasping, rasping snags and depth, today.
 The crunch of pulled balsam beneath my feet betrays my presence to wood pigeon and noisy pheasant and startles us all.
 Well away from the flow I tie the simplest of rigs, then stealthily edge riverside concealed behind reed mace as the nettles brush my forearm.
 Vehicle noise is now just as distant as my memory of the home time traffic, once more I enter the heady world of the evening barbel fisher..
 I prime three swims with just two pieces of bait each, which today is meat, and then a moment of contemplation, no rush now, everything has slowed, a time to savour before that first cast.
 With an underarm flick to the faster midstream flow, it sinks unseen, to where in my imagination the barbel are stacked like pure ingots..

He who dares?

On the opposite bank, murderous squealing, something was being killed by a predator..I was quietly glad it was still a bit light..spine chilling stuff,  I don't usually get spooked. However, the unseen does play tricks.
 Suddenly, the rod whacks over with such ferocity that I jump! The tip almost hitting the surface of the river as the Speedia check screams.
 The strike is immediately met with aggression from upstream, not down....Upstream being where the snag is and the fish has gone straight through it still taking line...I'm in trouble, eventually I gain a small element of control but the line is grating awfully.
 I come to a position where the fish is tight to other side of the snag..With no other option, I am set to go in.
 Hand-lining slowly I think that the fish though not in view, could indeed be nettable, alas the line goes limp and with a great boil whatever it was, is gone. It seems that he who dares doesn't always win.
 My first thought is carp, but I'll never know...It is time to move swim.

After the addition of a couple more free offerings a cast is chanced towards a recently fallen willow.

 There is streamer weed and depth here and I am able to see the baited hook fade in to the depths before sitting back in what can only be described as a bog.
I need the chair in this swim but  I still have that 'Titanic' feeling.
 The sun has peeped back round from behind the evening cloud prompting a festival of midges who seemed to want to party the evening away... in my eyeballs! It is whilst trying to extract one of these eyeball headliners that my rod pulls around again. My strike is late, but not too late, the fish hasn't yet reached the sanctuary of the fallen branches, though the intention is certainly there. I give no line, my thumb pressed firmly against the narrow drum and the trusty Chapman 500 holds firm. This rod has taken some punishment over the years, it is dog-legged with numerous 'sets' but I like it that way..It bares the scars of battle well and soon has a small, spirited barbel with a tail grown for fighting ready for the net..I have struck a little bit of gold.

No messing about with the roll mat here, there is no man made substitute for natures unhooking mat of moist, lush grass. Fish dealt with fast and efficient and back in the net to recover a while before release...and so, it is time for the next swim.

 A deepish bend with no real feature other than it's bendiness! I feel that with the sun beginning to fade it will give a better chance of playing and landing a hooked fish.

  First chuck produces a bite and results in another 'dart' of a barbel, released without photo.
 The light fades and I'm now fishing by touch as the tawny owls call to each other from distant trees . The mallards strolled off over the field and have now fallen silent.
 Heat has become cool and the whole scene has taken on an air of expectancy.
 I've cast into the slower water and can feel chub plucking the bait, so move back to the faster mid flow and add another few morsels of bait.
 The line is yanked from my hands and the drum whizzes as a fish takes the natural chicane and tries unsuccessfully to ram itself into the downstream reeds, the rod is perhaps at it's limit now but the fish is turned, yet not beaten. Using the flow to it's advantage it evades the net, perhaps four or five times before eventually succumbing.

These fish are lean, wiry beasts with big tails. They know their home well and are a great match to the tackle I use.
 It is time to leave this wonderful world, time to join the traffic once more...and dream of future gold.

A Pot Of Lobs

Working on a bank holiday Monday isn't much fun, but I was only in for four hours and for much of that time I had the long walk and the eddy swim in mind.
 Just for a change I thought I'd take just one pot of lobs for bait, nothing more nothing less.
 Come five 'o' clock I found myself once again at the boundary oak...

 I paused a while. This is where I'd seen a badger on my previous visit, this evening it was to be a fox. He'd heard me coming and watched me a while from the undergrowth before drifting quietly away.

 I viewed the walk ahead with trepidation, 300 yards of untrodden jungle to a swim I'd last seen in the winter.

Onwards then, with polaroids donned for protection. I'd received a puncture wound to my eyelid from a dog rose thorn last year which could just have easily have been my eye itself...once bitten..
 The vegetation was over head height and I ploughed onward with my spoon net before me as protection, fencing style. The teasel seemed to jump on my net and clothing as I pushed through, every step a chore, with something trying to trip and unbalance me.
 About halfway in I was beginning to wonder what the heck I was doing, too late now. Onward through nettle, stinging through my combats and stabbing at my forearms.....but eventually I reached the swim.

The best way I can describe it is that it's the kind of swim you're not going to get a back cast from or indeed a side cast. The kind of swim where you're not sure whether your next step will be into the river. The kind of swim that you wouldn't want to drop keys or phone in.

 I broke a couple of the lobs up and dropped them into the near margin before tackling up a loafer style float with three AAA's bulk shotted and a size 10 hook to nylon.

It seems that my hat makes a very good platform for my tackle box, perched atop the stalks. One day I might even organise my float rubbers in order of size in my little Allcocks Handy Outfit tin!

 It was around this time I baited the hook and realised that I had been a bit of an idiot. In my haste to get fishing I'd actually picked up barbless hooks, every time I put a lob on, he wiggled off. I was mortified and scrambled around in my bag for something that would suffice, eventually finding some size 6 Super Specialists. A bit (lot) bigger than I wanted but it was my only option.

 So with hook and bait reattached I was ready to fish, I didn't cast,  more just lowered the bait in front of me. 

There was movement on the float almost immediately and it jagged out of sight. I struck to nothing and repositioned the bait, another bite, strike and nothing. I cursed the big hook.
 Next time round I waited,"Give it enough rope" I thought and struck to resistance.
 After a spirited little scrap I was thankful at having the forethought to bring my 3 metre landing net handle. I still had to stretch precariously to net the fish...a rather fine perch.

Look at his humpy shoulders. One of my ambitions is to catch a 3 pounder from this little river, they're in there, and probably bigger. My reluctance to use live fish as bait is a definite handicap, but I will persist come Autumn.
 The swim went quiet after the perch capture, it happens in these intimate places, you often only get one chance,
 I sat back with a canopy of summer growth above me, took a drink and enjoyed the fact that I'd probably go unnoticed by any passer-by, not that there was going to be any.
 Sometime later I flicked out a few more pieces of worm and ventured another dabble.
 The float vanished instantly and once again I struck to nothing, these bites were different though and as I went through the same routine over and over my curiosity grew.
 I took off the whole worm and threaded a tail section up the shank of the large hook and dropped it back out. Under it went again and my strike connected, it was a dace, a beautiful, lively dace.

I'm holding him tighter than I normally would, I genuinely feared that had he flipped and fell I'd have never found him.

 I soon got to thinking about leaving, what with the bait having run out and the thought of doing the long walk in the dark sending shivers down my spine. Time to go back through the bush then.

 I think I timed it perfectly really. I arrived at the car as the sun was beginning to set and as I admired the view I reflected that I had only caught two fish, but also pondered that one can have a fine adventure with just a pot of lobs.

A Fine Enough Roach?

When I woke this morning I thought I might like to catch a fine roach, so by evening time I was back in the secret swim.
 The rod of choice today was a Chapman 500. Based on the MkIV Avon, it's more steelier than the Lucky Strike, six inches shorter and can handle anything that this stretch can throw at it.

First came a perch, not a bad one either but as I fished on I found myself pulling out of many more bites than with the Lucky Strike..Partially because I was distracted by the kingfishers that I now actually see every time I angle and I suppose, partly due to the rod. I did however, finally get amongst the dace again.

 The secret swim isn't really a secret, you know? Lots of people know, they just don't care to catch immaculate dace, perch, roach and chub.Small river fishing just isn't en vogue these days and they don't come here, I'm glad about that.

 After a while spent in a sparkle of dace, at last came that roach.....

Not the biggest roach I've ever caught but I might lay down in bed tonight and ask myself if I caught myself a fine roach..The answer will be "Fine enough Gurn, fine enough."

Trotting For Grayling - Lucky Ladies

The branches and twigs were cloaked in ermine and the mercury couldn't pull itself above the zero. Lakes were covered in glassy wafers, pathways encased the marks of foot and wheel as if sculpted. In my many dreams of grayling, this was the perfect day. I knew that at the end of the journey lay a gin clear stream, gliding, steaming,

 I didn't need to deliberate over the invite. I've had a longstanding desire to catch 'The lady of the stream' for many years. Today was to be my first ever attempt at meeting her acquaintance.

At first glance, this small stream seemed unassuming, reluctant to snitch on it's contents, rather like a chap that might say, "You aint seen me, right ?"..The veil was lifted and those contents were easily betrayed though by the addition of a handful of maggots. There, right in front of me, I saw my first grayling, then another ghosting in from the main flow to devour the scarlet grubs.

 The invite for this day had come from friend James, and as I watched those gorgeous fish effortlessly gliding over the pebbled river bed, it was he I turned to, "I am actually a little bit excited" I exclaimed, with not a little understatement."They're getting confident" he said,"Have a cast".

 Having assembled my now beloved, Lucky Strike and Speedia combination with a loafer style float, bulk shotted to size 18 hook, I gave an underarm flick. We both watched the little float with eager anticipation, alas no bite. The float was batted back home and after a few maggots, another trot.....and it was gone, strike, resistance. I was connected to my first ever grayling, a fish that didn't have any desire to be auspicious and promply shed the hook to groans of despondency.

 After a period of brief analysis, the float went out again. Almost immediately it jagged under and I struck into a small hard fighting fish that soon came to net.

 Now, I can describe this capture with an aire of nonchalance, but it would be disguising one of the most satifying moments of my angling life. These beautiful fish do not prevail near my home, the nearest being an hour and a halfs drive away in the Windrush, but even there they are not abundant. Every year I mean to try one of the better known rivers, every year something scuppers the plan. I had waited long for this, and I was elated. It would be fair to say that had I gone home that instance I would still have had a great day. The smile says it all....

My first ever grayling.



The rod once again living up to it's name, what joy it has brought to me since I fully restored it. My pb chub, my first redmire gudgeon and now my first grayling.

 We moved upstream, James and I continuing to catch fish, more grayling and the odd small brownie, such wonderful colours, along with the azure flash of the 'fisher contrasting against the frosty surround.

This pool looked interesting, with a fast bottleneck upstream, gliding even and smooth to shallows downstream.

James disclosed that he had caught well from this area on a previous visit, so with confidence I primed the glide with maggots and watched a shoal of shadows dart around competitively for them. One fish was bigger than the rest, and though my first trot produced a grayling, as did my second, then my third a trout, fourth another grayling...the bigger fish evaded me.

 I remembered the sweetcorn in my bag and having baited and hooked a grain, chanced another cast, right into the messy upstream area. The float disappeared iimmediately and I struck, swiftly setting the hook, the fish shot downstream with the flow. The old Lucky Strike performed superbly and the bigger fish was soon in the net.

I was so pleased to catch this beautiful creature, I had targetted it and made the change of bait that enticed it, it's nice when things come together in such a fantastic way. There was only one way to celebrate....Eccles cakes, they seemed to me to go quite divinely with a cracking grayling. Strangely, James didn't quite see it that way and politely declined, swiftly followed by a change of heart when he came to his senses.

IP rating *****

James suggested that we head further upstream, the air was still crystalline and the rings of the rod regularly became entombed in miniature ice cubes. Whenever this occurs I always think of a quote by, I think, John Bickerdyke..."If you have no grease with you, and your rings are full of ice, do not cut out the ice with a pen-knife, but get your man to put the rings one by one in his mouth, and so thaw the ice." Always makes me smile.

Taking time to watch the flow beneath us, we pondered the day so far. We'd caught many fish already, but James just thought he might know of a nice long trot a little further upstream.

He was right, it looked ideal for a very long trot.
Once again,  I baited with red maggot and dunked the float out in front of me. Far from trotting a long way, it went under almost immediately!
 I soon landed another small grayling. Having unkooked and released her, I proceeded to spend another five minutes or so (not for the first time today) trying to untangle my end tackle.
 At this point, James, who had steadily been catching fish all day, hooked into something a bit special and had a rather impressive curve in his carbon rod. However, the excitement turned to exasperation when the fish was lost at the net. I felt truly gutted for him.
 Having rested my swim a while, the next cast produced a right little scrapper, probably the best looking fish I caught all day.

The hours were marching on and it was that time to slowly make our way back downstream, catching a few as we went until we reached the very first swim.
 We had to have 'one last cast'......It was decided that we would stand upstream of the area I'd caught my first fish and trot down to it.
 On the upstream side was a mid-stream feature with a slack area beneath it. I thought there may be fish holding-up there so cast directly at it.
The float bobbed around, almost static, before trundling a short way and vanishing, I struck. The float shot out of the water and landed back upstream near the feature, whereupon the bait was taken by a larger fish, as yet unseen, tanking off into the main flow.
 Having gained some control we both yelled 'Trout'.. a beautiful coloured brownie which soon after shed the hook.
 James was convinced that a recast would re-snare it. Not for the first time today, he was right. It took the recast instantly and after a small tussle was netted to howls of delight.

Released to fight another day, it was a great end to a day that will live long in the memory. 

What a magical time. I didn't feel the cold at all.  I'm so indebted to James for generously sharing this day with me. He was so unselfish, putting me on the best spots first and sharing the joy of that special first fish...Cheers mate.

A Little Dabble



I had the chance to have a little dabble on my beloved Ouzel this week. It gave me the opportunity to test out my Allcocks Nimrod. At 8.5ft and originally produced as a salmon/pike spinning rod. It has the characteristics I require for a decent little chub rod. Those characteristics being :- Short enough to avoid overhanging branches, a nice short handle for those tight swims, a test curve strong enough to stop old Mr. Chevin getting in to that snag.....and relatively inexpensive.

 Upon arrival myself and mate Malc were greeted by a white egret. They're not too common in these parts so it was a nice start to the day.

 We walked the entire beat to find that we were the only anglers present. Conditions seemed favourable, confidence was high.

 Making our way downstream we noticed one swim contained a new raft of debris, we'd both previously caught there and new it would be a banker. There is however an unsaid etiquette amongst some anglers which found us both avoiding it, choosing instead to fish above an below it. Imagine our dismay then, when after a short while, another angler arrived, and with a mile of bank to choose from sat directly between us and proceeded to launch a bucketful of everything into the river.

 I upped sticks immediately and headed upstream. As I passed, the chapped bellowed, "There's some tackle in another swim up there, but fish where you like." I hotfooted away head down.

 I did find what I'd call a comfortable swim to set up in. I opted now for the 'bait and wait' method, not wanting to bump into Mr. Stealth again.

 Within five minutes Malc was in my swim with tales of the fellow following him around so he'd opted on the same plan as me.

 I baited a while, no cast, a few turmeric maggots (our original plan was to trot the Gt. Ouse for roach, but the Ouzel had greater appeal) and also some mashed bread.

I fished for a good few hours, baiting frequently in an attempt to lure a chub upstream from the snags below, I know they live there. Hookbaits of breadflake, maggots and even a cherry from today's Morrisons Genoa cake couldn't persuade one.

IP cake rating ****

Malc on the other hand had skipped about above and below my position and wangled a couple of chub, two and four pound respectively. He's a better river angler than I'll ever be, with experience I could only dream of, I'm sure he'll share a few secrets with me along the way.

 Time rolled on, I gazed down at my Grandfather's old silver pocket watch. I only ever use it when I'm fishing, strange really, I don't think he cast a bait in his life, bless him.

Darkness comes all too quickly now, so we called it a day.

 I was genuinely surprised to have drawn a blank. It wasn't until the day after that I found out there had been a match the day before and my 'comfortable' swim had been pegged. Never mind, I'll be back out soon trying to get a bend in the Nimrod. Maybe a Perch trip is on the cards.

Redmire Bites Back

It was now monday, the time was 11:31 a.m, it hadn't stopped raining entirely, but it had stopped raining torrentially for the first time since our arrival around 21 hours ago.
The Willow pitch, where I'd set up for the night in a deluge was now under 6" of water.

I'd had to abandon ship at 7am as the lake came up to join me.

I was so thankful of the refuge of the boathouse as the rain just hurled itself upon me. I estimate that the pool rose around a foot overnight. I'd have been no more wetter had I  jumped in. My only option was to drag all my sodden gear around the pool to the Evening Pitch in the pouring rain. This swim was higher, though not much drier.

Everything, and I mean everything , was drenched. Not the ideal first dawn of a Redmire session.
 I checked on Malc in The Stile, he had a small tributary of the Wye running through his bivvy, he looked at me asking,"What shall I do?"..."Move", I replied. He knew he had to, but was so reluctant to face the outside of his bivvy. Eventually he moved to Pitchfords.
 Remarkably, there had been two runs in the night. Malc had lost a good fish and Tony, in the relative comfort of Stumps had landed a fine common. He had remarked how wet he'd become whilst playing the fish, but was soon humbled by mine and Malc's plight.
 Eventually the rain subsided enough to take a few photos.

 Note the relative clarity of the water at this point, it was soon to change dramatically. It stayed dry for an hour and the place took on the look of a shanty town with clothing hanging from every available tree.
 As I took out my MkIV for the first time a shard of sunlight flashed through the trees.

Float fished lobworm at the dam wall produced nothing but a few tugs , perhaps by an over ambitious gudgeon, their time would come.
 I was joined by Malc with his new Avon, we sat and discussed the weather, all very british.
Back at the Evening Pitch it was time for Redmire Cake, made by the ever thoughtful Lady Sarah, it was a welcomed treat.

If I'm honest, I didn't want to be in the Evening Pitch. I love to indulge the fact that it has a history of being haunted, that fact doesn't bother me. I just don't think it is one of the better swims on the pool. Oh well, beggars can't be choosers.
 I cast the rods out as the wind blew, what would my first ever night in the Evening Pitch on my fourth visit to the pool bring.
 At around 2 a.m. I woke with a start. A ghost ?, A demon?, A fish?......No..Music! I could clearly hear a song. It was horrible outside, but there, through the wind and rain, was this tune. I didn't know what it was but picked up my journal and wrote down the words., "I don't want to set the world on fire".

This is tune I heard, I make no claim for it being supernatural, but I have no idea where it came from. All very odd.
No fish overnight, morning brought a trip to Ross for provisions and the chance to feel human again.
 On return, I decided to take the MkIV down to one of the platforms for a couple of hours.

Note the way the pool had now coloured up. The rain and wind continued but I was treated to a low fly past of a buzzard over the shallows as I took shelter beneath the trees.
 St.John phoned to say he would be down the next day, I told him of our plight and living local he was aware how bad the weather had been, he actually had genuine fears over the integrity of the old dam wall. Bless him, he tried so hard to be sympathetic but couldn't quite supress his laughter.
 Malc had seen a few carp from the dam wall but bites were not forthcoming, I headed back to the Evening Pitch.
 I was soon joined by the legend that is Bamford who had come down to see how we were and remove a few bricks from the overflow to take some of the strain off of the dam, we shared ...er...tea.

The rain soon returned with some venom and I hurriedly sorted the rods for the night.
 Organised soon became disorganised and at times chaotic, the rain and wind just came with a frenzy I'd never witnessed on the bank before.
 With the band 'Stomp' performing on the roof of my bivvy I prescribed myself a small amount of Napolean to aid sleep and calm real fears of a tree falling upon me.
 The rain continued into all of the fishless night. Spiders ran from all around the pool to seek sanctuary in my shelter, I half expected Noah to float by.
 Fortunately a dry dawn broke, kettle on, re-think. Then more rain...more tea.

With the removal of the bricks the pool level had started to recede. I had seen a fish top on the other side of the lake. As the rain persisted, I made the decision to move again , back across the dam to In-Willow.
Having finally rebuilt the camp I took out Lucy, the Lucky Strike with my mind firmly fixed on Gudgeon.
 I headed for the relative shelter of Cranstouns, armed with a pot of pinkies, my 'Redmire Pinkie-Pult and a size 22 hook.

Not long after the first cast, a bite, strike and I'm into one of the mire's finest. I was so excited, I couldn't have been happier had it been a carp.

I was soon having a ball, getting one of these cracking little fellows on every cast, catching around twenty in all.

I called Ash, Tony's son to tackle up a rod and join in the fun. Sitting in my swim, his face soon shone with the happiness only a gudgeon can bring. I moved aside to the right as the rain came again and was joined by Malc, who was allowed to use Lucy to catch his first fish from Redmire.

Later, at In-Willow, the weather had taken a turn for the better. I think it is my favourite swim on the pool. The view, when the sun shines, is just great.

St.John arrived and we met for the first time on the dam wall. It was a Livingstone-Stanley moment. "You must be Gurn" he said with outstretched hand.
 He'd made some ferrule stoppers for me, for the Lucky Strike. Excellently made, I recommend them to all cane users. He can be contacted via the Redmire or Traditional Fisherman forum or you can buy them here.
 He also brought the bottle of Glenmorangie I'd won at the TFF AGM raffle. This was soon followed by Sir Les Bamford who'd kindly supplied two thirds of a bottle of Coke and two mugs.
 It has to be said that the scotch didn't last very long, but what a laugh we had.
I'd taken the opportunity of tying some new rigs earlier whilst confined to the bivvy, these went out overnight on spots I'd trickled bait into over the course of the day. Alas, another fishless dawn broke.

Looking out from the bivvy I could see dappled reflection and the trails of jet planes. This could only mean one thing, the sun had finally appeared.
At around 10am I reeled in the overnight rods and took the MkIV up to Bramble Island with a view to try to persuade one 'off the top'.

The colouration of the pool made the task of fish spotting incredibly difficult. Every now and then I'd see a dark shadow through the polaroids. Of course, the colour also stopped the fish seeing the riser pellets and floaters I pulted in at regular intervals. The fact is, that after four hours of continuous baiting without a cast I didn't get a single rise, I tackled up a float for carp and strolled down to the dam.

The view from the dam, when the sun shines is one of the finest in fishing. One can sit, relax, reflect and be at peace.

The float shot out of sight and my heart thumped. For a short time I had illusions of it being a carp. It was not to be, however. A few sharp shudders on the end of the line signified an eel It was the biggest eel I'd ever caught. No photo though, I'm not fond of them and it was soon returned safely to it's home with not too much drama. I have now caught all species in the pool.

That evening, our last at the pool, we enjoyed the fabled 'Redmire Risotto'...Yes I know it looks hideous, but it tastes bloody marvellous, and though not exactly haute cuisine, it hits the spot. This year we have ...er..refined the recipe.
 You will need ......One Can of Chilli Con Carne
                            One Can of Minced beef and onions
                            One Can of Irish Stew
                            One can of Lentil soup
                             Drained boiled rice.
Basically throw the lot in a big pot and stir and heat. Only ever to be consumed on the banks of the pool. Don't knock it until you've tried it.

As the sun set on our final night I was still confident that we might get another carp. Unfortunately, it didn't happen, this was not to be a tale of triumph over adversity.
 With two runs on the first night, I'm sure that if the rain hadn't arrived and continued for so long we have continued to catch.
 The amount of cold water that went through the valley and the way the pool coloured had scuppered our plans. I have fished the pool four times now. Twice under coloured conditions I have failed to catch carp and twice under clear conditions I have caught carp.
 We still enjoyed it. I loved catching those gudgeon, they'll stay with me forever, and we'll be back next year.
As I looked out on the final morning I saw leaves falling from the trees and settling on the surface of the pool. a squirrel buried food, sensing the rapidly arriving colder months, and the rain started again.

Thanks to Les, Nick, Rob, St.John, The Richardson Family and my angling companions.

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