When a river smiles

To rove or be static, move and shake as oppose to sit and wait, I considered my options, a change to single rod was made and I decided to head out for the evening and fish a handful of swims hoping to connect with the first barbus of the new season.


The river was alive, the underwater jungle looking fresh and full of life, cabbage patches dotted here and there, juvenile perch playing hide and seek between the dense green folds. I headed to a narrower section of the river, one I fancied but had not fished as much, with good marginal coverage for chub and barbel alike and some deeper gravel runs, perfect for the crayfish to pay my bait too much attention.


It was a glorious evening and I was entertained by deer on the opposite bank bouncing about with their youngsters and two Kingfishers which kept chasing each other up and down the river, one of which stopped in the third swim that I was in and gave me a resounding lesson in catching fish before calling out its success with a shrill chirp and darting back off downstream.

A crayfish with claws like a lobster was all I had to show thus far  but I was sated, at peace with my surroundings and natures theater had put on a splendid show, I could not have asked for more. I decided to mosey on to my final swim, a slower area of the river, a small bait dropper was filled with seed a couple of times and lowered unobtrusively into the margins, thirty minutes later and a whittled down boilie wrapped in paste was lowered into the same spot.

As an angler watches the isotope so his mind can wander a little, I played out various scenarios in my head, how I would play the fish, what snags it might try to make for and many other little things. It was a clear night and by the time the dew began to patter down at regular intervals I had started to wonder if the final roll of the dice may have been just that,it was at this point that he isotope nudged slightly, not a lot but it had moved, I glanced downstream although I am unsure what I expected to see, but in that moment the warmth of hope was kindled and along with it an anglers chance to perhaps dream.

Time passed by, a vixens shriek faded into the distance, the hairs on my neck standing on end as if to acknowledge and salute this lonesome female. The next sound was of the little rod doubling over and clutch trying to keep up, the bite if it could even be called that was savage as the fish steamed off downstream in search of cabbage patches, sure enough she found them and the safety they offered, a steady amount of pressure was applied and slowly but surely it was free again, this time in mid river and heading back upstream.

I knew from the tussle that I was connected to something a bit special and by now I was more or less done in and nervous exhaustion was rapidly taking charge, had this have been intercourse then I would have in all probability climaxed way too soon, leaving a rather frustrated female by my bedside.

Slowly and surely I gained control, finally a broad flank broke the surface and was guided into the waiting net, I peered inside and jabbered something that was barely recognizable as a language, by now I had been reduced to a state of devolution and neanderthal man was beckoning, I could have honestly just pointed into the net in the dark, started muttering and painting on the nearby trees to describe the fish, as try as I might words were not being formed.

I sat down and recovered somewhat before weighing this fighting fit barbus, the scales settled on 15lb a new personal best, the moment was a surreal one and watching her disappear back into the river is a sight I shall not forget.