Midsummer has long since passed and the time for change is upon me. The evenings become welcomingly cooler now and as dusk falls earlier each week I look towards the river for solace. It is blackberry time.My woodland walk to the bankside is sporadically hampered by the stray tendrils of the bramble patches; day dens to the infant deer, night roosts for the small birds.
I pick my way carefully, trying not to trip or have my net snatched at and torn from under my arm. I note some fruits are still green, some red, others closest to the sun ripened to a deep purple, but on pausing to sample I find they are still bitter to the taste.
I deliberately travel as light as possible for these evening sorties – just a rod, bag, net, and some bait. Unless it has rained recently, I’ll opt for nature’s seat rather than overburden myself with a chair. I may only fish for two to three hours at this time of year and prefer to wait for the fish to find me if they are so inclined, usually starting to feed once the green has gone out of the grass. Sitting in one place also affords me the time to absorb my surroundings more.
I am extremely fortunate to regularly hear and see a pair of kingfishers working the stretch before me, often until late into the evening. Last year I saw each parent feeding a youngster – four kingfishers on a willow; it was something to savour and I consider it to be a lucky omen whenever I am fishing in their company.
This evening I am the only angler on the beat and choose my favourite pitch about halfway along the hazardous footpath nestled within a copse of oak, ash, and alder. The trees loom up high above me and reach across the river almost touching their kinfolk on the opposite side. There is a portal of skylight that they thoughtfully leave open and through it I see the earliest bats making their forays some thirty minutes or so after sunset. I have recorded four species here this year; both varieties of pipistrelle, Daubenton’s and serotine.
As the remaining light drains from the sky a deer barks somewhere opposite, a family of foxes cackle loudly while play-fighting and the squirrels overhead bustle home to their drays. The “CHK-CHK-CHK” of a blackbird scolds a potential threat and warns others around him, while a robin serenades in a mellifluous voice, always seemingly last to bed and first to rise in the morning.
I have a strange feeling of surety that this evening will produce my first barbel of the season after a couple of unsuccessful recent trips. Everything seems right. The bait is plopped a little way out from the near bank, about three rod lengths down-stream and the link-legered two swan-shot just holds bottom in the flow with the addition of the bait. This evening it will be something pungent but nutty. Meatier baits have attracted some sizeable eels, themselves a marvel of mother nature, but the appeal of dealing with one after dark lessens each time.
Now it is a waiting game…
The ten feet of cane, coupled with a centrepin sits at forty-five degrees to the river, the tip nods rhythmically in the flow and the streamer weed that the bait has rolled gently under. Occasionally it will give a ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ as small chub peck away at the bounty. The last of my hempseed is sprinkled sparingly into the spot where I hope my bait to be anchored and I squint at my watch to see that the witching hour is drawing nigh. The blood curdling scream of another fox somewhere out in the now pitch-black sharpens my senses.
While the centrepin is the most wonderful bite alarm in and of itself on a screaming run, bites do not always manifest themselves in that way here. I take the rod from the rest and lay it across my seated position. Now is the time to focus and I gently loop the line between the thumb and first two fingers of my left hand. The tension increases on the line by doing so, and I gently ‘tick’ off a little slack from the reel, trapping the line to the rod butt with my right index finger. Touch-ledgering puts me in direct contact with every rub, bump, and tremble of the line, magnified more so as I like to shut my eyes in the darkness, being totally and utterly in the moment and without distraction.It has been dark for about an hour now…
Time for a bait check and recast. At no point do I use a torch until any netting is needed, and instead I wind slowly up until I see the silhouette of my bait hook swinging in the weak moonlight. A small prayer is offered up to Izaak as four loops of the line are pulled from the reel followed by a gentle underarm swing in the same approximate direction as before, albeit a little further out. By holding the line in my fingers, I can feel the bait lift and bounce as it rolls from midstream back in towards the near side bank.
Twenty minutes might have passed; I have lost track of time…
A sensation on the line sends the faintest of messages back to my fingertips and brain. Weed or Fish?
I draw an inch or two of line back just to disturb the bait slightly and check if I am free of obstruction.
Another tensioning is felt – a draw back as if to claim parity in some miniature, slow game of tug o’ war. Then another increased tightening and the tip physically moves several degrees south before a deep, juddering bend sets in, triggering my strike. Now the reel screams its first run and the tell-tale,jarring ‘nod… nod’ of something in total control hugs the riverbed. The river here is not overly wide, perhaps thirty feet across and only three to four feet deep. The fish almost makes the far bank in one determined plodding run but is turned and as often seems the case, heads upstream not down.
Everything suddenly goes solid…
The fish has found refuge either in or around unseen weed. The rod is near vertical but has taken on an impressive curve. I am determined not to ease off the pressure given the barbless hook, so all is stalemate. The reel ticks, then ticks a second time, and the rod pulses in my hands as the fish breaks cover; advantage me. Back downstream the prize comes and then sulks on the bottom again, somewhere out in front of me. I can visualise it,clamped to the riverbed, sulking and trying to work out its next move. Another, shorter run, this time sending it downstream, then a lift from the bottom.
The net is to hand and then the head torch switched on with a faint red glow. A little more nervous winding and then I hear the wallow of my fish roll on the surface. The barbel eventually surrenders itself, its white belly illuminated by the artificial light; broad coral-coloured pectorals outstretched, the huge mouth opening and closing as it slides upside down towards the mesh. The pressure comes off the rod and it returns to its original state, laid carefully out of harm’s way.
There is no rush to remove her from her domain and I let her rest for a few moments. When I do lay her on the mat and part the net, the hook has fallen out cleanly. She is a fine first barbel for the season, long and lean. I run the torch down her bronze flanks but do not reduce her to an exact number – she is possibly six pounds, not much more. Once I see she is unharmed, I lower her back in the net and rest her once more, head upstream. She rights herself quickly but there is no sense in releasing her too soon. Her strength returns and she wavers slowly below me. I show her the way back home and she eases out of her confinement, flicking her strong tail away into the night. I decide to do the same…
A mist drifts in ghostly clouds over the river surface, a sure sign that the night air temperatures are cooler than the water. My breath forms similar clouds as I exhale in deep satisfaction.Somewhere off in the wood, a tawny owl “kerwicks”, hopeful of a reply from a future mate, as I quietly close the car boot.
Earthing the Current (October 2024)
You must be logged in to post a comment.