Barbel by Moonlight?

With the weather so mind bogglingly mild and the river levels still very low I had no idea what to expect when I set out at dawn yesterday.

At this time of year I would, under normal circumstances, be concentrating on Barbel. But, although I have picked up one or two in the last month (a beauty of 9lb 5oz damn near pulled the rod out of my hand and couple of weeks ago after I had momentarily nodded off), the look of the river, when I got there, did not inspire me with confidence.

Furthermore, I have become increasingly convinced by various theories which suggest that the phases of the moon are a useful pointer when scheduling Barbelling trips. This may sound a bit New Age but bear with me - I have evidence...well, some cobbled together statistics anyway.

I keep records of what I call ‘notable’ fish. The adjective is applied loosely and can mean whatever I want, more or less. It always, however, applies to fish which count as ‘large’ by my standards (again, a loose description defined by me). In Barbel terms this means over 9lb as these fish are, for me, above average size ('average' fish run from 6-odd to 8-odd pounds). My records show that all my ‘large’ Barbel of the last three seasons (9 in all) were caught within a period 2 days either side of the full moon. The only exception – a fantastic fish of 9lb 15oz, which gave me my best scrap yet – was caught on the afternoon preceding the new moon (14-07-07). All fish came from the same river. I am notably less successful during the phases of the waxing and waning moon. Yesterday (27-10-09) was the day after the crescent of the waxing moon and so (statistically) one of the two worst times of the month to go Barbel fishing. I am convinced there is something to it despite the scepticism of certain pals (Barry R. Reef, I’m talking to you). My faith was further bolstered the discovery that long time hero Neil Young has used the phases of the moon to plot his itinerary for years…but I digress.

Deciding against battling against the odds for Barbel, I grabbed the emergency pint of bronze maggots I’d brought and sallied forth to try a bit of trotting. The rod I invariably use for this job is a Maver Reactorlite 15/18'. It is a very good, very modern, rod. At 15' it is remarkably light, balances perfectly with my Youngs B. J. Lightweight centrepin and is a delight to use. Yesterday I came upon a very long glide on a rather wide stretch with some tempting overhanging vegetation on the far bank. I decided this was the time to try the rod in its 18' guise (having owned it for over two years without having done so). As soon as I put it together it was clear that the familiar lightness and balance were severely compromised by using the longer of the two butt sections. The rod felt clunky and unwieldy. However, I decided to press on, as much out of curiosity as anything else.

I got bites immediately and, having landed about 10 Grayling all of the same half-poundish stripe, was about to move on when my last cast in the swim (was it the fourth or fifth 'last cast'?) produced a beautiful Brownie of just under a pound (see pic.). I have to say that, with the rod at 18' rather than 15', I was able to stay in meaningful control of the float for a much longer length of trot. I caught many fish right at the far end of the glide and was able to utilise the extra length of the rod to strike effectively at longer distances. There was a definite improvement in the effectiveness of the rod at 18” despite it being considerably less comfortable to use.

After a few hours of roving and trotting my arm was suffering a bit. I decided to try a bit of leisurely legering. I set up the Barbel rod secure in the knowledge that if the Barbel were unlikely to play during such an unfavourable phase there would be plenty of non-moonstruck Chub queuing up to take a proffered pellet. Having dipped into seven swims without so much as a line bite the eighth delivered the wonderful creature pictured above. It put up a considerably stink even on barbel tackle and weighed an infuriating 5lb 15.5oz.

Note. Apologies for the poor quality of the pictures. Having forgotten to take the camera I was forced to use the camera on my mobile phone (My God - that it should come to this…). Having said that, it did create the blurred effect on the picture of the river through the trees all on its own – or was that Chub slime…?

Lunar Calendar: Explore whether moonlighting can work for you...

Moonstrike: Scarily enthusiastic moon phase Barbelling guru.

Chub Worth Chasing Now That Autumn's Here

Chub on trotted bronze maggot

I love chubbing at this time of year. The languid and lazy fish of summer are transformed, in the blink of an equinox, into a quarry well worth stalking. Last week I took a rod, a reel and a box of bronze maggots and went trotting.

If, like me, you’re lucky enough to know of a stretch where chub average 3 – 5lbs this is a great way to fish. Obviously, if there are lots of smaller fish in the water, larger fish have to be singled out with larger, or more imaginative, baits. Bread, lobs, corn, meat, cheese, slugs etc. are examples typically recommended, but bronze maggot is tops when all the fish in the swim are a decent size.

Maggots are a great bait for many reasons. They resemble many naturals – nymphs, etc; they stay on the hook; they smell good – to fish anyway; they can be introduced as loose bait very easily and in consistent quantity; they give very good indication of having been nibbled, sucked, etc. and they are readily available.

I use 6lb mainline on a centrepin, a 15’ fast action rod and trot an avon down through any likely spot I come across. If Chub are there and ‘in the mood’ it won’t take them long to find the bait, assuming due consideration is paid to matters of stealth. I usually make up hooklengths from narrow diameter resin impregnated mono with a 3.75lb b.s. (Preston Reflo Powerline is good). Hooks, in appropriate sizes– usually 16 or 18 for maggot - are Drennan Specialist Barbless.

Autumn trotting for Chub with maggot is a very simple way to fish, but the rewards are great if you can find suitable water and approach your chosen swims with as much stealth as possible.

The Chub pictured weighed just under 4lb, took a single bronze maggot, and put up a tremendous scrap in a decent flow.

Cow Green Again

Top: Wind lanes blow food into the inlets and bays

Second from top: Typical Cow Green brownie - small but perfectly formed

Second from bottom: The peaty Tees - too high to cross without waders

Bottom: An abandoned truck next to an old spoil heap - evidence of Teesdale's lead mining past

We were numb as we drove northwards, the wife and I. Without permission, thoughts of the previous week flitted through our minds like ghosts through closed doors. The week had been one of rarefied highs and profound lows, encompassing the premature death of a beloved cat and the 100th birthday celebrations of a relative. Anyone who’s experienced these things knows how traumatic and energy-sapping they can be. Now, we were heading to Upper Teesdale, scene of many happy holidays past, in the hope of rest, recuperation and, in my case, a spot of fishing.

With one day only available to me for fishing during our stay, and with the Tees between Middleton and Cauldron Snout an angry series of peat infused torrents, maelstroms and rapids, I decided to revisit Cow Green.

As I’ve written elsewhere on this blog, experience tells me to fish around the mouths of the becks, after heavy rain. In the past, a fruitful spot for me has been where the Tees, only a beck itself here, enters the reservoir. With this in mind I set off up the lead miners’ path that runs above the north-eastern shore then down, through the springy heather and sodden sphagnum, across the shoulder of the moor to the head of the reservoir.

My normal tactic is to fish with the wind behind me and cast terrestrial imitations into the riffle where the wind hits the water. Today, however, the prevailing easterly has been usurped by a particularly feisty north-westerly. This means I’ll need to cross the Tees to get to the other bank. When I get there, though, my chances of fording it safely look slim, and although I walk nearly half a mile or so upstream to find a crossing place, without waders, I am unable to do so. When I’m in these bleak and lonely places the thought of yellow rescue helicopters, or worse, the image of my bleached skeleton lying undiscovered for years, often precludes actions I would otherwise undertake without a second thought; break your ankle out here (there’s no mobile signal) and you’re buggered.

Retracing my steps, I began to cast prospectively into the inlets and bays on the lee shore. Foam topped wind lanes indicated where the fish would probably be. I Stripped a Bibio (size 14) quickly through them and was rewarded with a steady stream of little Brownies and a much needed dose of peace of mind.

Note.

This piece was written at the end of August 2009.

If Not Duffers Won't Drown...

The River Swilgate Tewkesbury (© Barbara Fletcher 2005 – 2009)

I began fishing in earnest at the age of nine when my family moved to Gloucestershire in 1974. Back then children were allowed to do things on their own.

“BETTER DROWNED THAN DUFFERS IF NOT DUFFERS WON’T DROWN”

So wrote Arthur Ransome’s Commander Walker in Swallows and Amazons (Jonathan Cape, 1930). It is Walker's telegrammed response to his children’s request to camp on Wild Cat Island. Fortunately for me, his attitude, although seldom voiced so bluntly, still prevailed in the 70s. It’s debatable whether my parents would have allowed me to camp out on an island on Coniston for a week, but they had no problem letting me go fishing. I'm grateful to my parents for the freedom they gave me then; it allowed me to discover nature at my own pace, in my own way - uninhibited and unhindered by supervision. Equally, I regret that the same freedom is rarely enjoyed by today's youngsters.

We lived in the middle of the town, but there was a brook which ran along the backs of the houses. Henry VIII’s Royal Antiquary John Lelend (1506–1552) in his Itinerary of 1533 calls the brook the ‘Suliet’ (1) , the etymology of which is unclear. It’s present day name – Swilgate – gives, perhaps, more of a clue to the abuse it has borne in the intervening period.

Back in the 70s the brook at the bottom of my garden did not look much like an angling paradise. Shopping trolleys, old bicycles and other unsightly obstacles lay half submerged in the shallow water, lending an impression of stagnation and decay. However, had a passer-by cast their eye into the Swilgate and decided that nothing could survive - let alone thrive – there, they would have been mistaken. Water Voles were common and I have never fished a river which contained a greater biodiversity of fish species.

Gudgeon (more of which later) was the fish most commonly caught, but there were also Minnow, Chub, Dace, Roach, Bleak, Bream, Perch, Pike, Eel, Ruffe, Miller’s Thumb and Loach, plus the occasional Brown Trout and oddities, such as Brook Lamprey, Flounder, and Twaite Shad. These last two (plus the eels of course) had come all the way from the sea, up the Bristol Channel and tidal Severn, via its tributary the Avon and finally into the tiny Swilgate.

Tackle was rudimentary but serviceable. I, and the other boys who fished the brook, owned only one rod and one reel each. We had small, but cherished, collections of floats which were retrieved by wading when they became snagged or detached. Line was thick and hooks were a bit on the large side for the purpose, but we managed to catch nonetheless. Later, I was given a 9’ hollow glass rod for my birthday (alas, long since lost). It was infinitely more usable, both in length and sensitivity, to the 6’ solid glass cue that had hitherto hampered my attempts at deft float control. Matching it to my Intrepid Black Prince Regent reel made me feel I was ready for anything.

At normal levels the brook ran at one to three feet in depth. But when the floods came the Swilgate became a coffee coloured torrent, six or seven feet deep. By now fishing had become an obsession with me and, compelled by the irresistible urge familiar to all true anglers, I fished in all conditions, however unfavourable.

So it was, one late autumn day, lashed by near horizontal rain, that I cast into the raging cascade of the swollen brook. The bait was an enormous lobworm from the garden (maggots were considered a frivolous luxury and were seldom used) which I hoped to keep on the bottom with a bored bullet of perhaps an ounce. As it turned out, the worm must have dropped right on to the nose of a hungry Chub, which took it immediately. This Chub was the first non-tiddler I had hooked, and the first I had actually to play. I had 6lb line on, but quickly discovered that an irritated autumn Chub in a small, flooded stream can be quite a handful. My new rod bent beautifully as it made first for the undercuts of both banks, then into the main flow and downstream, taking line from the clutch (I’m not sure I knew what the clutch was for before then, and I was lucky that, by chance, it was set more or less correctly). It came, finally, to the bank and I grabbed it amidships - I did not possess a landing net - and laid it on the wet grass. My heart was beating so fiercely I thought it would burst through my soaked anorak. That Chub might have weighed 2.5lb but it looked like a monster to me.

My greatest feat (or stroke of luck) came towards the end of that season with the Swilgate back to its normal level. A few of us were gudgeon fishing using small wriggly brandlings, fresh from our compost heap, for bait. We trotted our floats down through the swim, picking up fish now and then. They were put into the large yellow bucket (formerly used to soak my little sister’s nappies) which served as a communal keep net in those thrifty days. There they could be observed and admired as they swam confusedly within.

Presently, I landed a Gudgeon which was very much larger than any other we had ever caught. I slipped this King of Gudgeon (or, more likely, Queen) into the bucket and we all marched up to my house to weigh the leviathan on my mum’s kitchen scales. It tipped the balance at just over 5oz. Later that evening, I consulted my Ladybird Coarse Fishing (1969, Wills & Hepworth Ltd), which listed the then current British record fish records on its endpapers. There it was: GUDGEON: 4oz 4drms. Place; River Soar, Leicestershire. Date; 1950. I had caught a Gudgeon bigger than the record. Strangely, I suppose, I had no regrets. I knew that, in those days, claiming a record usually meant killing the fish and submitting it for examination. My Gudgeon, however, went back into the Swilgate, and was hopefully doing its bit to proliferate more monsters (The current record, I believe, is still a paltry 5oz dead!).

Last month I had the pleasure of taking my two nephews, who live nearby, to fish on the Swilgate. The older one even caught something – a small perch; the classic small boy’s first fish (it was mine too). It was gratifying to be approached by some of the present generation of young kids who were fishing there. They asked what we'd caught, told us what they'd caught and discussed bait and methods. They bonded instantly, in the unassuming and unaffected way that children do, with my charges, united in their common goal.

References

1: Leland, John. Itinerary, 1533, quoted in “Transactions – Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society” 1902.

Picture Credit

I would like to thank the artist Barbara Fletcher for allowing me to use her painting River Swilgate Tewkesbury to illustrate this piece. This, and other paintings, may be viewed at Barbara’s website: www.onlinegallery.co.uk

At last, A Barbel

Top: The first Barbel for a long, long time.

Bottom: The hair-rigged halibut pellet has become almost a cliche - chub fall for it every time, but it still fools the occasional Barbel

After last week’s rant-inducing Barbel expedition to the Teme, Barry R. Reef (it’s an alias) and I returned yesterday hoping to find the place deserted. The wind, rain and early start (I picked him up at 4 a.m.) saw to it that it was, apart from a solitary angler in the first swim on the stretch. Leaving my colleague to try a spot along the way, I continued upstream to where a favourite swim was calling.

I haven’t caught a Barbel here for ages, but for some reason I felt sure I would catch. The conditions were perfect: slightly cooler than of late, overcast and unusually dark for the time of year, and the rain had lightened to a barely perceptible drizzle. Heavy rain in Wales the day before had seen to it that the river level was about six inches up on the previous week. Apart from the month being July, the hay bails awaiting collection in the fields, the head-high foliage lining the banks, the trees full of verdant foliage and the Sand Martens swooping up and down the water course – apart from all that - it felt like the river was flowing, perhaps via a time slip or some such, through a perfect autumnal barbelling day.

Determined not to compromise my chances in any way whatsoever, I tackled up in the middle of the field and approached my chosen spot with commando-like stealth. My over-caution backfired only slightly when, crawling on all fours down the steep bank, I was stung in the face by a bunch of springing stinging nettles – ouch.

Finally in position, I fed the intended line with hemp and some tiny halibut pellets. The hookbait was a 15mm halibut pellet – hair rigged. Although I say so myself my first cast was quite superb! It sailed on the intended trajectory through a narrow gap between the overhanging branches of a huge willow on the opposite bank and entered the water with the smallest splash it is possible for a 2oz lead to make. My bait was now barely a foot from the undercut beneath the willow, exactly where I wanted it.

Feeling a justifiable smugness about my cast I put the rod in the rest and wedged the butt under my arm while I furled a rollie and lit up. Smokers will be familiar with the phenomenon of ‘first fag of the day spinout’. It was as this destabilising effect took hold (and bear in mind that my senses were already numbed by the after-effects of popping out for ‘a pint’ the day before) that the rod was wrenched violently around and I became all too suddenly aware that I had become connected to an agitated Barbel.

I managed, while avoiding slipping down the mud chute that constituted the remaining bank between where I had concealed myself behind a large sprouting of foliage and the river, to scramble to my feet and bring the fish under control. I use the term loosely, as it was using every trick in the book to avoid coming to the net and was proving to be a bit of a handful. First, it careered off down stream before hunkering down on the bottom, midstream, in the fastest part of the flow. Next, having given that up as a bad job, it came back towards me and continued upstream, heading unerringly in the direction of a sunken fallen willow. I was able to apply enough side strain to stop it, however, and it came eventually to the net where, as so often happens with the Barbel I catch, I was staggered by the relatively small size of the fish considering the violence of the fight. I didn’t weigh it, but I reckon it was about six and a half.

Neither of us had any more Barbel during the day. I caught a Chub of four pounds a little later on before going off to have another crack at Grayling on the fly. I don’t know I managed it but I missed about 20 takes. I was happy, though, to have finally banked a Barbel after so many blanks.

Grayling on Dry Fly (oh, and a rant)

A Typical Teme Chub of 4lb

Retiarius Casts to Rising Grayling (pic copyright Barry R. Reef)

First Grayling on the Dry Fly

'Grey Duster' with Grizzle Hackle

'Grey Duster' with Bleached Grizzle Hackle

I haven’t been fly fishing for about a year. The reason is tennis elbow. I contracted it first in my right arm and then, after learning to cast left-handed, got it in the left arm too. The doctor (a fly fisherman himself, as it happens) recommended total abstinence from any activity involving prolonged repetitive movement of the wrist and/or elbow. He did so, furthermore, with an entirely straight face.

A year has passed since the doctor’s edict and last week my friend and I found ourselves driving north through the gentle grey fug of a promising dawn towards the Teme for a spot of Barbelling; I had also packed my fly gear. This was not, I hasten to add, because I intend to catch Barbel on the fly (although it must surely be a matter of time before someone designs a ‘fly’ dressed to look like half a tin of Spam – “…’course, I fly fish for Pike nowadays…”. No you don’t, you tie a replica fish with a hook through it, via a wire trace, on to a fly line. “…’course, I fly fish for Carp nowadays…”. No you don’t, you tie something that looks like a bit of bread on to a fly line, etc.). No, I took the fly gear because I thought I’d better ease back into it gently (preferably without anyone watching) and, although Trout and Grayling are present in this part of the river, I’ve often seen sizable Chub rising to flies here and fancied a pop at them, if the opportunity arose.

When we arrived at our chosen spot we were disappointed to find a couple of chaps already setting off over the fields towards the river. In the past, when fishing during the week here, one would in all likelihood have the place to oneself: not any more it seems. We walked to the top of the stretch, intending to have a dip in all the likely looking swims on the way back downstream. After an hour I’d caught three Chub from my first swim (one baby of 2lb pounds, a couple more over 4lb, see pic) and was about to move on when some pillock dressed from head to toe in realtree cammo (as I believe it’s known) hacked his way noisily down the bank side not fifteen yards downstream of me – to the exact spot where I had been casting, in fact – banged (I mean, actually banged) in a couple of rod rests and cast in two rods with feeders on the size of baked bean cans; unbelievable – and wholly irresponsible: two rods?

No matter, I thought, I was moving anyway. Unfortunately, however, since we’d arrived the entire stretch had become populated with other anglers. Furthermore, It was obvious from the mountains of equipment which surrounded most of them that they were there for the duration and unlikely to move for the rest of the day. This put the kybosh on our plan to rove up and down the stretch in search of the shifting shoals of Barbel.

Now, I know that Barbel are the new Carp and all that, but this particular group of anglers seemed to personify so much that annoys me about some anglers nowadays that, having reached curmudgeonhood prematurely, I’m going to rant – a bit.

When did fishermen start ignoring the basics? When, and, more importantly, why, did keeping the noise down become unimportant? When were the erstwhile prerequisites of staying off the skyline and keeping vibration to a minimum demoted to the status of irritants to be ignored if you can’t be arsed? And when did consideration for other anglers cease to be a, er…consideration?

When a couple of these twerps came up to converse (and don’t they always want to ensure that, when they’re not catching, neither are others?) they stomped down to where I was fishing without so much as a by-your-leave and ‘spoke’ to me in the manner of a Sgt. Major addressing a parade ground of Squaddies. They, naturally, came to bemoan the standard of fishing hereabouts. They blamed everything imaginable for their failure to catch Barbel but themselves - even, can you believe, that Otters had eaten all the barbel, for f**k’s sake (Otters, of course, being the new Cormorant, Eastern European Migrant Worker etc. - enter your scapegoat of choice).

The thing that really depresses me is that it’s obvious that these idiots really do think in this way. Not for one second does it occur to them that their lack of river craft, their noisiness, their shouting, their stamping, their visibility to the fish may be the reason they’re fishless – particularly when in pursuit of Barbel; the fish Walton ought to have been describing, let’s be honest, when coining the epiphet “the most fearfulest of fishes”.

OK, rant over. I thought it might make me feel better – it hasn’t. Move on.

After this depressing series of experiences I decided to get out the fly rod and tootle off downstream to where the river is much more shallow and, crucially, deserted. I tied a size 18 Grey Duster (well...sort of - mine sometimes have grizzle, rather than badger hackles, as here, and tails...sometimes) to my 5wt setup and cast across the flow to where I’d noticed a couple of fish rising to insects which I was unable to identify. All I could see was that they were greyish.

To my surprise a fish rose and took my fly on the fourth or fifth cast and I tightened into a small Grayling – which came off. My confidence was boosted by this and I tried again. Grayling were rising regularly under a bush on the opposite bank from the shingle beach where I stood (see pic) but now, I noticed, they were taking what looked like (but may not have been) little Yellow May Duns. The only yellowish fly in my box was a yellow-bodied F–fly and I tied this on without, for some reason, much expectation of success. It proved a prophetic hunch.

After a while I remembered I’d tied some Grey Dusters with bleached grizzled hackles– which were a bit yellowish - and which had tails, as did the duns being taken (see pic). I tied one on (size 18) and, after a lot of missed takes, hooked and landed a Grayling of, perhaps, a pound – my first on dry fly; on any fly in fact (see pic). For this reason that Grayling, which went back, gave me more satisfaction than a mere double figure Barbel would have done.

A bit later the largest Sea Lamprey I’ve ever seen, clearly close to death after spawning, came swimming weakly downstream past us. It was at least two feet long and may have weighed 3 – 4lb – amazing how the Otters hadn’t got it really.

Crucian Fills the Void

Looking back over the last few posts before my hiatus, what strikes me are my frequent and unabashed admissions of failure. By failure I mean, of course, my inability to put the targeted species on the bank. I was unable to poach Pike on the lure, unable to bank Barbel at Cotheridge - even under the most promising of conditions - and took an age to garner Grayling. Well, here’s another one.

It has been a stated goal of mine for some time now to catch one of the Carp which reside in a favourite pair of adjacent pools, close to the banks of Big River. I’ve been fishing the place since I was a boy and I’ve yet to do it. In fact, I’ve yet to see anyone do it. I’ve had a couple on – for a brief few seconds, but on both occasions I had been fishing for tench with relatively light gear and was broken almost immediately, trying to stop them from reaching the sanctuary of sunken trees. When I try for them with a beefier set up I get nothing; not a sniff. Night fishing is the next tactic.

They seem to me to be like the carp of old, almost uncatchable, as described in that seminal tome Confessions of a Carp Fisher by ‘BB’ (who never managed a twenty in his life, despite years spent in obsessively researched questing - not that he seemed to mind one jot, which shows how far expectations have shifted). How very different they are from the pellet-raised versions which abound in the numerous commercial fisheries hereabouts. These unfortunate creatures appear to have become so conditioned to repeated capture that they have come to regard it as an occupational hazard. In return for a steady diet of lager’n’curry flavoured boilies (or whatever) they accept the occasional indignity of capture as quid pro quo. They’re not a match in the fight either. I managed to land a near 15 pounder on a 2lb cast a couple of years ago, while fishing for Crucians. It just swam around in circles for a while in the snag-free depths before coming easily to the net, which was barely big enough to hold it.

I don’t mind blank days too much though, as long as the surroundings are as tranquil, relaxing and beautiful as they are there. A panoply of flora and fauna abounds. Kingfishers fish, Woodpeckers and Cuckoos flit from tree to tree, and Grass snakes wind their way lissomly across the surface of the water. There is plenty to distract one from the dearth of caught Carp, including an albino Mallard duckling (see photo).

Taking of Crucians, a friend and I caught a couple of nice ones from our local park lake the other day, which was a surprise, to me at least. I was persuaded to try the place, against my better judgement it has to be said, by my friend who has recently re-caught the angling bug after a few years off. The lake is large, old and rather lovely, and, because my new found freedom from work allows it, we were able to go during the week and were almost the only anglers there. We had a nice day’s fishing, catching some lovely roach and the aforementioned Crucians, one apiece. I might even go back.