June 29/30th
The plan was to go to a stretch of the River Trent, where I spent many pleasant evenings last year, but where the ownership of the fishing rights is a bit of a grey area. If I found myself confronted with No Fishing signs, I could always go back to the old stand-by at Collingham.
As luck would have it, there were no signs, although the gate was still padlocked, making it necessary to leave the car outside the new houses, and drag my excessive amount of baggage along the riverbank. On checking the likely places, I was saddened to see that the moron element had been there before me, and two different swims had both been used as toilets, leaving paper strewn around to draw attention to it. Luckily it wasn’t too close to where I intended to set up, but it still left me with the highly unpleasant task of digging a hole and burying it.
Although this is a lovely stretch of river, the banks are overgrown and uneven. I had reasonable access to the water’s edge, although the small steps cut into the steep bank were a little perilous, and even more so in the dark. The gap in the reeds was sufficient for two rods, although there was little room to manoeuvre the landing net, as I later found out to my cost.
It was a pleasant enough evening, with oystercatchers and kingfishers showing themselves, but there were few signs of fish activity. There was a heart stopping moment when a cormorant burst to the surface in front of me, then as soon as it saw me, it flapped off noisily in a blind panic. Anyone who has watched these creatures will know that official estimates of their daily fish consumption are laughable. I have watched one swallow in a few minutes what is supposed to be their daily ration, not to mention all the fish they bring up to the surface and find too large to swallow, leaving them floundering with horrific wounds.
I baited with a bucketful of hemp laced Vitalin, and followed this with several good handfuls of ewe nuts, all thrown out a short distance underarm. At about 8.30pm, the upstream rod tip bucked, and the first fish of the season was on its way in. It was slightly above the average size and very lively, so I decided to use the net to make sure. This was where I hit the first problem, as after slipping the net under the rods, I found that with a chub inside, it was very difficult to get back up the bank holding a rod in one hand, and the long-handled net in the other. The next fish, a decent sized bream, could have proved equally difficult, but perhaps luckily, it slipped the hook right at the water’s edge.
At about 10pm I was convinced that I was about to achieve my goal, as the alarm screamed, and the line was pulled from the reel in a typical carp run. It felt very powerful, and made several strong runs before I got it to the net. The only problem was that it turned out to be a barbel, and not a huge one either. I performed the comedy routine of getting it up the bank and onto the padded unhooking mat, where a very approximate weighing while still in the landing net, showed it to be about five and a half pounds. Barbel should always be returned with great care, and I spent several minutes holding it upright in the edge, before it had clearly recovered sufficiently to swim off confidently back into the depths.
The fish kept feeding for most of the night, but many of these were chub, attacking the bait just enough to set the alarm off, whenever I was in any danger of drifting off to sleep. There were signs of light at 3am, and the bream returned to roll under my rod tips. It was clear that the weather was beginning to turn, and I was grateful to have the wind behind me, and the protection of the overhanging trees. I was continually being startled by the flapping and scurrying going on just behind my head, until I realised that the sparrows were chasing the spiders and earwigs as they crawled over the top of my shelter.
By 6am, the final tally was one barbel, one bream and six chub. There was rain in the air and I was beginning to feel tired, so I by 7am I was on my way home. I hadn’t caught anything worth photographing, but at least I had broken my duck.