Last Knockings

It was a piercingly bright Winter's day, but out of the sun it was a good coat or two colder. The river was ice-clear, cooled by the slow, glacial trickle of snow melt up the dale. Today was the end of my season as family commitments meant that I wouldn't be able to fish the weekend. There had been a few other cars in the carpark, one of which had just been abandoned haphazardly - I passed its owner cooking his jacket over a stove and gave him a wide berth. If he was hungry enough to eat his coat he might take a fancy to me.

I walked to the top of the fishery with the intention of following my standard chub strategy of gradually following the trail of my mash downstream until I found the chub. In deference to the bright sunshine, a low, clear river and a water temperature of 4C, I decided to modify my usual tactics slightly and give each swim an hour and a half before moving downstream. The first three hours passed uneventfully, but on my next move I saw my hungry friend wandering along the bank just below where I intended to fish. I hurried on past, head down.

"Av y'ad owt?"

"No mate. You?"

"Me mates 'ad a couple of chub."

I didn't ask if they'd tasted nice.

There was another angler in the swim I'd intended to fish and I stopped for a quick chat. He was on a last desperate quest for a barbel, so I wished him some much needed luck and carried on downstream. Two moves later, still without a bite I saw him trudging homewards his weary way. Decision time.....

In these conditions my best chance would be at last knockings and I fancied the barbel angler's swim for a fish, but had he fed too much? I decided to give it a go, gathered my gear together and headed upstream. I crept over the flood bank and assessed my options. In Winter conditions I often indulge in a bit of chubelling: fishing a maggot feeder for chub at the head of the swim and putting a sneaky barbel bait in at the bottom of the swim. Today I was fishing bread for the chub so it was time for a bit of reverse chubelling: maggot feeder for barbel at the top of the swim and a lump of flake at the bottom of the swim for Mr Chub.



Last knockings. As the day faded into evening my quiver tip pulled gently round, then sprang back. I gave it a few minutes then retrieved and recast. Another gentle pull which I struck at and missed. I decided to scale down a bit and tied on a size 14 hook. Out went the bait again and I had an almost immediate twitch and struck into thin air. Bitten off. In the fading light I could only just see to tie on another hook - I was running out of time. The evening was cooling rapidly and frost began to form on my rods, numbing my fingers as they hovered over the butt of the chub rod. A longer wait this time, then a gentle twitch, then nothing. Time for one more cast. I'd just tightened up to the bomb when the tip of my barbel rod twitched. I was starting to go cross-eyed trying to watch two rod tips in the fading light when the tip of the barbel rod lunged round and the Speedia began to sing its song.

This was no dour Winter slog. The barbel fought as hard as any Summer fish , but the fifty year old cane rod softly cushioned the light hook length. During the fight I had a good take on the chub rod, but thankfully it didn't hook itself. It was almost full dark as I finally got the net under the fish. A quick weigh in the net (6lb 5oz),a few snaps and I watched my last fish of the season swim away. Eight hours without a bite and then a fish in the final seconds of my season.