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PUTTING IN THE EFFORT By Steve Chell
Go to Next Article; The Severn, Just a Little Stream by John Costello
There was no doubting that it was cold. The snow arrived on Saturday evening in deepest Wiltshire. The M4 was closed and lots of minor roads were impassable. For two days the temperature never rose above freezing. Then it lifted a couple of degrees and slowly the snow started to thaw. In the Peak District as the cold lifted, moist air arrived from the west and it was our turn to be blanketed in the white stuff. Driving to work on Tuesday morning was treacherous. It took a good 36 hours before most of the snow had melted. The Bristol Avon rose three to four feet on the Wednesday and topped at about 7pm. Later that night it started to rain and washing the last deep drifts into the infant river at Malmesbury. Rain and gales were forecast for the following evening, then more rain on Friday. Christmas Day, Saturday, would probably see the temperature high enough for the barbel to feed in earnest. Thursday December 12th. I was tired from a long, hard term, particularly the last three weeks, which had been crammed with parent’s evenings, meetings and training sessions (pre-OFSTEAD in January). Could I face the long drive, alone, in filthy conditions, just to fish a freezing cold river full of snow melt? Well if I couldn’t face it now, when my previous two-day trip 11 days before had yielded a fish of 12lbs exactly, when could I! At 9.30am and I hit the road. Traffic was fairly light on the motorway. The sky was blue and the sun beamed down. Was it my imagination or was it getting milder with every mile? The first shock was when I caught my first glimpse of the river, or rather the fields - they were awash! It looked as if the river had broken its banks in the night and was now just back inside them. So much for it being only 3-4 feet up. The burning question being was this extra water warmer rainwater or the last of the snow being washed in? At 12.30pm and I arrived at the car park. Fifteen minutes later I had squeezed into my favourite swim. I crept cautiously in behind a tree and perched myself on the couple of yards of available dry ground. It was just going to be fishable. An hour or so passed and nothing had happened so I extracted myself and went to fish further down the stretch behind some bushes. I spent the next two and a half hours dropping an almost freelined bait into the side to work its way under the trailing bramble and nettle stalks. In such cold water conditions, and believe me it was cold, so much so that I didn’t dare take the temperature for fear of it totally deflating my spirits, the barbel would be in the most placid areas of flow. They would not be wasting any of their precious energy fighting currents and with their metabolic rate on tick over they would not be interested in feeding. My only hope of catching was to drift a bait straight into a fish’s mouth. Alas I could get no response and as dusk fell I made my way back over the obstacle course to my starting swim. Second cast, just over the lip of where the normal riverbank is, and I struck. I thought I had felt something but what I couldn’t really say. All was solid. A fish or a snag? As I released the pressure slightly, I seemed to feel a tiny kick. A fish? As I waited I tried to analyse the bite but it had been so minute that I couldn’t picture what had happened it was just that I seemed to have felt something different. Nothing was happening though. I must be snagged on the edge of the bank. I piled on the pressure and then I felt it - it was alive - it was a fish! The adrenaline started racing and as I stood up the legs began to shake. Two more small kicks told me I was in contact but was I also snagged? I had no idea about the size of the fish but so often on here they start out feeling small and get bigger and bigger as you play them. The fish was some four yards downstream of me and I tried to lift it - nothing happened. I then eased off but not too much as I didn’t want my barbless Starpoint popping out. A few inches of line ticked off the reel then all went dead. I repeated putting the pressure on and slackening off but I wasn’t getting anywhere. I altered the angle of pull as much as I could without getting a Skeetex full of water but it was still stalemate. I was sure I the line should now be off the nettles and the like. It was then that it began to dawn on me that perhaps I was simply pulling against the dead weight of the fish over the edge of the bank. I tried to get into a straight line above the fish and went for broke and gradually she lifted. I gritted my teeth as she kicked gently and came over the lip. Keep her moving Steve! On she came, up to the surface and with a swirl into the net. I eased off, put the rod down and drew her into the side. She lay quite still and I unhooked her in the net. Her flanks felt really cold and she made no struggle to get free. I let her rest while I readied the scales and camera. She was an obvious double and a steady splashing from the net after a few minutes showed that she was fine. On the scales she went 12-04. Three quick photos, a check for any distinguishing marks and I slipped her back. I steadied her in the water but she was now really lively and all too soon had disappeared back into the murky depths. I sat back, smiled, and drank a mug of soup while I ran through the events of the past few minutes in my mind. I couldn’t help but feel how lucky I had been to get such a result, particularly as I now took the water temperature which showed just 3.9oC. I fished on for another couple of hours as the wind began to gust and the rain spattered down and then decided to move before the storm set in. On the way back up the motorway the rain lashed down and the signs flashed “Slow Down, High Winds”. I began then to think of the effort rather than the luck that had gone into the capture of that fish. Effort which on numerous occasions seems to be wasted as so often the conditions go against you with a hard frost the night before or a river in full spate or low and green and lifeless, while all you are waiting for is a chance. A chance, which can arrive when you least expect it. A chance, which will only occur if you are out there putting the effort in. I rolled down the drive just before midnight and
the mileometre stopped at 299.4. In twenty-four hours it would be Christmas
Day. I though, courtesy of a cold, flooded river 150 miles to the south,
had unwrapped my present a day early. WHEE HAH! WHEE - BLOODY - HAH!! Go to Top of Page
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