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CHICKEN SKIN LUNATIC
By Trevor King
Trevor King with a 13-6 from the Kennet on an
unusual bait
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Tactics on the Avon by Jon Wolfe
Friday afternoon. Not been a good day. Only nine days
of the season left. Bloody cold. No chance of it getting much warmer by
all accounts either. Cycling into town, over the Tesco’s roundabout,
doing about 25mph, some old buffer in a silver Citroen decided for me
that I was turning right instead of going straight on and pulled right
out in front of me. Just missed. A few choice words issued from the mouth
of A Very Angry Hippy. Old Buffer remained in stalled car, staring straight
ahead, lip quivering. A most wise decision.
Got into town in one piece, calmed down, had a coffee, paid in a cheque,
bought some bits, went back home. Being Friday, I was expecting a call
off Bob Turner to arrange our afternoon’s fishing but instead he
told me that he was passing me over in favour of a couple of floozies
by the names of Nick and Martin and they were all going down the Teme.
Well, there’s a thing. Not only that, but the evening before I’d
been fishing with an old pensioner buddy of mine, who was in the most
cantankerous, manic mood I’d ever seen him in and though he said
he’d call me to arrange to meet up wherever I was going, the telephone
stayed silent. As I had a lot of work to do, I decided to leave it like
that and later, at four o’clock, I headed off alone to the Kennet.
A funny old trip down. Couldn’t quite place what the exact problem
was, but people seemed to be driving straight at each other; speeding
up when they ought to be giving way, that sort of thing. Everyone really
manic, for some reason; walking too fast, talking too loudly; a kind of
tension in the air. Kids being hyperactive. Idiot teenagers with white
baseball caps and hoodie tops, all in groups doing that dumb, hunched-over
walk ‘lark dey’s livin da harrd larf’, instead of coming
from a commuter town in the South.
Finally got to the Kennet, away from people. Happier, now. Quickly assembled
the rod and opened bait box. Worms: not had a barbel on worms for a while,
now. Bob reckons they work best in low, clear conditions rather than floods
– just like today, then: the Kennet was see-through. Couple of casts
later, a bow-wave followed the bait in on the retrieve. Jack pike? Big
perch? Re-cast. A tap-tap-tap through the line. Nothing else. Reeled in.
Tiny perch, engorged on the size two. Hmm… change bait. Getting
colder, now.
Secret weapon in the bag - roast chicken skin. My old Dad and I used to
catch a lot of good fish on this, and on other things filched from Sunday
dinners – beef fat, pork rind, gammon, bacon, and (a real killer
this) lamb fat. Chicken skin as a bait came to prominence in the 1970s
when a few anglers publicised some catches on the stuff, and it became
a bit of an in-vogue thing to use. I publicised a 9.08 back in ’84
which I said I’d caught on ‘this unusual bait’, as Anglers’
Mail put it (even though it was really caught on beef fat – I thought
everybody used chicken-skin!), and when Tony Hart later wrote: “…one
of the local anglers even makes a practice of catching them on chicken
skin,” I naturally thought he was talking about me. Then again,
The Main Attraction, who lived a few houses up the bank from me at the
time, took it for granted that it was him; had to be – that’s
why he’s The Main Attraction; it’s always him. Everyone, it
seems, claims to have invented the use of chicken-skin. Imagine the disappointment
when Tony finally told me ‘one of the locals’ was an old boy
they used to call Stan the Chicken-Skin Man. That’d be Stan Wicks,
then? But he wasn’t as old as my old Granddad was, and he used to
use it.
Colder, now. Commotion downstream. The miserable old cob-swan was chasing
after a Canada goose, and though the latter have been on the Kennet for
some years, now, it was the first time I’d ever seen a swan take
any more than the most cursory notice of one. In fact, the goose soon
took off with a great squawking when the swan actually started to attack
it. Everything was angry today, it seemed.
God, it was cold. The water-temperature was about 7 degrees, but there
was a horrible chill about the air, despite the fact that there was no
wind. I hunkered deeper into my fleece and pulled my hat down over my
ears. ‘Not a good day to be a nudist,’ the voice of Willie
Rushton said, an echo from somewhere in the past. Massive lump of chicken-skin
on the hook, so had to step up the leger from an eighth to a quarter-ounce.
Didn’t actually have any ¼ oz leads, so moulded a lump of
plasticene round the smaller one. Cast out again, letting a good loop
of line come off the ‘pin. Not long to wait for a bite, and a flick
of the wrist sent a 1½-pound chub leaping into the air. It actually
fought quite hard; lovely little thing. Fed it a lump of meat for its
trouble and slipped it back. Cast out an even bigger bit of skin - like
using an old envelope as bait.
My God, it was cold. Just gone six o’clock, now, and I was beginning
to shiver slightly. Thankfully, the rod was my Daiwa quiver-tip, so no
absolute need to touch-leger. This was good, as my fingers were beginning
to hurt. I put the check on the reel, fastened up the zips on the bag,
and, letting out a bit more slack line, balanced the rod on top of the
side-pocket. Good way of minimising resistance to a taking fish, this
– the rod is so finely balanced that it can be pulled round by the
slightest increase in tension. Doesn’t work in the wind, mind, but
on a still evening, it’s just the job. It even works with a carp
rod.
My God, it was really cold! I’d even set off one of my hot-gel packs
and shoved it down my front, but my jaw was beginning to clamp up all
the time. I had my gloves on, my hands were in my pockets, I was wearing
four layers and my long-johns, but still it was bloody freezing. Everything
had gone quiet, the first stars were shining in the darkening sky and
I’d just about had enough.
It really was bloody cold! Six-fifteen. “That’s it - this
is stupid!” I said to myself, “If you’re not enjoying
it, Trev - go home.” Went to stand up, rod disappeared off sideways.
Grabbed it. Struck… and an absolute bloody leviathan swirled on
the surface then shot into midstream.
I’ve had some monsters before, but this was the first time I’d
ever known right from the outset that I was into a Very Big Barbel Indeed.
Very worrying – very nice new reel, a 4” Leeds ‘pin,
kindly given to me by its maker, Dave Lewthwaite, but only filled with
6lb Maxima. Wasn’t expecting anything big, see; not on a day like
this… Ripped off my gloves with my teeth, managed to get the reel
braked with my thumb, held on and hoped for the best. The barbel didn’t
seem to care, and just moved off downstream. Rod bent round to the butt,
fish slowed, then settled into what has often been described as an ‘immovable
sulk’. Really thought it’d managed to get into a snag, but
it could be felt, pulsing faintly for a while, then suddenly took off
on a couple more runs. Soon on the surface, though, and coming to the
net. Shaking, now, tried to get it in. Nearly managed it, but it felt
the rim, righted itself and shot off downstream again … leaving
the bloody leger-bead stuck in the mesh! Noooo!! Couldn’t free it!
Fish taking yards of line! Having visions now of going in, trying to free
the lead, stupid visions, line finally parting, a high keening wail on
the night air, nobody hearing, nobody caring, as world falls apart, angler
loses biggest ever fish…
Managed to calm just enough, pointed rod at net, and carefully, oh so
carefully, so… very… slowly, turned the reel. The fish showed
clearly at surface, looking more like a small crocodile than a bloody
barbel. If there was any convincing left to do, this did it – really
had to get this fish in. Care – so much care: turn at a time. Slowly:
“Please-o-God-please”. Fish responded to slight pressure,
came to Daddy like a bloody dog on a lead. Fish nearing net. Me shaking
like a leaf. Rod tip and fish now three feet away from each other, line
still caught on net… two feet… one foot… few inches,
rod tip nearly touching nose of fish, fish lying alongside net…
please… flip net round… can’t be, not after all that?
Is it safe?
“Bugger me I’ve netted it!” Tried to lift net. Awesome
weight. Dropped rod. Fumbled with hook. Dropped weigh-sling. Couldn’t
stop shaking. Had to be huge… very, very big. Net back in water.
Coffee – calm down. Finally plucked up courage to weigh it.
Thirteen-six.
“Not done, yet, Mate,” echoes a memory of a conversation with
Bob. “There’s a monster coming out of the Kennet, and it’ll
be on something really ridiculous, like chicken-skin.” Another memory:
Small Man, years ago, protesting: “I don’t know why –
it’s just a feeling, that’s all… you’re going
to get a thirteen-six…”
Tackle packed, fish safely in margins. Drag my wife Lin out later with
the camera. Shopping can wait. What a day! Nearly killed on the road.
Manic, angry people. Couldn’t settle down. World full of nutters.
Swans attacking everything. Monster fish. Walked away from Kennet. For
the first time since nightfall, saw the Eastern sky. Bloody great big,
round, smiling, shining white face
Full Moon.
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