Mission Impossible – The Curse of the Barbel!

Two breakfasts with tablets

This morning there is a little man with a pneumatic drill in my head. I hope, in vain, that a shower will remedy the situation. Micky appears to be alright. We make our way downstairs for breakfast; we’re not sure where it is being served. At the back of what was the bar last night there are a few tables, some with empty plates and fried bread and so on. The atmosphere hangs heavy with stale beer and the carpet is sticky. We ask a young woman who is cleaning the tables and the floor (with the same bucket of water!) where are we supposed to sit. She must be a foreigner as she shrugs a bit and turns away. Louisa appears and beckons us to sit at a table. Without asking she pours two goblets of orange juice from a Tesco super-saver carton, and places them in front of us.

“Two full breakfasts, love?” she enquires. I’m a bit torn whether to ask for something a bit lighter when Micky pipes up.

“Why not?”

“Be right with you.”

I decide that I have to swallow my pride and admit to Micky that I have a bit of a headache and that my paracetomol are in my fishing gear.

“I’ve got something in my car; I’ll go get ’em if you want?”

This seems very kind and Micky is back in a tick with some new fangled Liquid Nurofen – instantly absorbable it says on the box. I hope so! They are in the form of large, red, clear capsules.

I have an extreme problem with taking pills. Although I’ve just grown out of having to have them buried in a spoonful of jam, or stuck in a chocolate, I’m still anxious about large pills, and these seem enormous! About the size of a golf ball! However, the little man in my head is back from his tea-break and hammering away, there’s nothing for it, I’ll have to swallow them. There is just enough cold coffee left to help me force them down to the back of my throat which is where they appear to lodge until Louisa appears with two large plates of egg, sausage, bacon, mushrooms and baked beans. For all her feminine charms, Louisa could improve her serving skills; she plonks the plates in front of us and disappears as if she’s left a small chip pan on fire in the kitchen.

I notice, out of the corner of my eye, Micky has a couple of instantly absorbable capsules as well.

Neither of us manages to eat all the breakfast but soon we are packing up in the room and get downstairs to pay. The bill comes to £ 55, which is a bit of a result, considering the room, breakfast, free evening meal and a pint from the landlord all for £ 27.50 each!

Jim is back in residence at Fish’N’Things. He shows incredulity at us choosing to go to Myton yesterday and is not surprised when we report that we didn’t do very well.

“Try Fawdington today lads,” he suggests, “It’s fishing really well.”

He draws the swims we should try on the back of a photocopied map and wishes us good luck.

Fawdington

We survey the river at Fawdington; there is a nice looking swim just down from where the car is parked, and I quickly fetch my basket to secure the rights to fish it. There are several other anglers arriving and precious few swims to go around. Micky chooses a spot upstream from me that appears to me to be too fast for the present condition of the river.

I’m supremely confident, the water is calm and eddying in front of me around a large raft of weed, every fish in the river ought to be here. I should have listened more closely to what the river was saying to me!

Three hours later – nothing, not even a gudgeon! I’ve even tried halibut pellet. Mickey has moved a bit nearer me but neither of us fancies it any longer. The river is still rising, another three or four inches since we’ve been here, and the fish have gone off the feed. Apparently, up in the hills, there was heavy rain all day on Saturday which would account for the river being in good condition on Monday but deteriorating since then.

The carp puddle at Brafferton

A meeting is convened at about twelve o’clock and the taboo subject of a visit to the carp puddle at Brafferton is broached. It’s a tough one; after all we are the hardened type of grim specimen anglers who brave all for their sport. Two minutes later we are packing up for the pond!

We stop in Helperby for some extra sweetcorn. There is a delay in the shop as the little old lady who has been left in charge comes to the counter. After we have paid for the two tins the wizened shopkeeper leans slightly forward and fixes us with a look.

“I know what this is for.” She says knowingly. Fishing the pond.” she adds with a twinkle in her eye, and somehow I feel guilty. Guilty that I have failed miserably in my pitiful attempts to catch barbel; guilty that I’ve only stuck it out half a morning at the river and guilty that, in some weird intuitive way, she senses we are two sad losers.

Twenty minutes later we are parked by the carp puddle assessing the prospects. There are several fellow anglers, all on comfy chairs, with their many rods in electronic bite alarms, waiting for a run. We elect to fish the far bank and Micky sets up his rod to fish a ‘method’ feeder, whilst I persevere with more traditional float tactics.

The bet is sorted out and we are now fishing for the continuing species wager and the best overall weight for today.

In a pitiful attempt to repeat his match-winning display of last year Micky is casting over towards the island, trying to drop his bait in a tiny bay about two feet wide surrounded by heavy vegetation. The hazards of this are all too obvious; any slight deviation from the desired line will result in his baited hook disappearing in the dense foliage.

After fifteen minutes Micky’s high risk strategy pays off with a good bite resulting in a fish. As he lands it he laughs.

Not a real barbel

“It’s a barbel!” he announces “About half a pound.”

I’m crestfallen. The elusive barbel has turned up in a bloody carp puddle, falling to method mix and hair rigged halibut pellet – my worst nightmare!

We both know that it’s not a real barbel. One that has lived its days gloriously in a river, swimming the stream, in and out of the gravel glides. It has been introduced into this commercial pond for the instant gratification of ever-more demanding anglers.

Micky generously admits that it’s not going to count as a barbel for him, which is quite gracious coming from the man who claims two (unverified) minnows in one cast to take the lead in the species bet. However, he’s got a big lead and I can’t even get a bite at the moment.

Eventually I start to get bites on caster and a few roach start to build up into a competitive weight. Unfortunately Micky is catching regularly, only small carp and a few smaller barbel. He is nosing ahead in the match; he has a lead of at least a couple of pounds. I decide to have a break and reel in to the edge, put a large lump of luncheon meat on the hook and go sit with Micky for a sandwich. I can see my float about seven metres away, I don’t expect anything will happen. I’m halfway through my sarnie when I notice my float has gone and the rod is waving about alarmingly.

“B****ks!!”

I charge off to my swim and strike. The fish is on but my delay has caused the line to get wrapped around the reel and I can’t play the fish until it’s sorted out. It feels like a decent carp. By the time I sort the line out the fish has found a snag and has managed to shed the hook on to it. I curse quietly under my breath.

There is about an hour left, I have only one chance of winning and that’s to target the carp in the near margin like the one I have just lost. This is a tall order, as I’ve just spooked the whole swim!

Micky must sense that there is a risk that I might pick up a decent carp and the pressure results in his casting becoming less accurate. He has diced with the bushes once too often and has lost his tackle. Normally this would not be a problem but, as we are travelling light and don’t expect to be carp puddling, neither of us have brought method feeders. I kindly lend him an ordinary swimfeeder that I find at the bottom of my box, which will substitute at a pinch. This is extremely big-hearted of me! It allows Micky to continue fishing in his most successful style.

There is about half an hour to go and I’ve had some interest in my luncheon meat bait with the float bobbing a couple of times, and moving sideways about six inches but nothing more than that. I’m beginning to lose hope when the float disappears and the line strips out. I strike and the fish is on, it runs deeply into the middle of the pond and I’m having difficulty controlling it. Partly from the power of the fish but mainly from my nervous feeling that I mustn’t lose it. This will win the day for sure so I don’t take any chances, allowing it to run a few times to tire it out. Eventually, it’s in the net, and Micky comes over to help me weigh it, a common carp of four pounds and eleven ounces, it’s enough.

Back at Micky’s swim he has just lost the swimfeeder I have loaned him, his casting is becoming more erratic. He tackles up with an Arlesey bomb and casts again, this time over a small branch. As he tries to retrieve it a fish takes the bait and we are witness to a bizarre spectacle of the fish appearing in and out of the water vertically like a jack-in-a-box every time Micky pulls on the line. Now here’s the interesting thing – this is not the first time this has happened to Micky. I clearly remember him telling me of an identical situation whilst he was fishing on the Wensum for chub last year, which begs the question – why? Is he trying to develop a new branch of the sport (no pun intended), like extreme angling? Is this the excitement of fishing on the edge? Or is it merely an occupational hazard of casting into tiny bays? Who knows?

Heading south

We pack up at about half past five and by six we are on the A1 heading south. The journey is swift once again. We are now word perfect on Pinball Wizard but Radar Love could do with some polishing. There remains but one task yet to fulfil, calling at the Burger King near Swineshead on the A17 for a final tribute to Glen, a couple of Chicken Royale Meals with extra mayonnaise on the chips.

It’s not been the same without Glen.

Coming soon: ‘Barbel Wars – Episode III, The Barbel Strikes Back’