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KNEE TREMBLER
By Steve Chell
Steve Chell with 13-15 of Knee Knocking barbel
Go to Next Article; Old Friend
by Jon Wolfe
After a slow month on the Dove with only two fish in
four weeks it was time for a change. Saturday morning, October 3rd saw
me up bright and early. The Friday had been a glorious autumn day with
clear blue skies and sunshine glinting through the golden trees; how it
made me wish I could have been outside but now was my chance. All the
gear had been prepared the previous evening, breakfast was enjoyed and
I was all set for a day walking the Peak District. Then I looked at the
forecast. The sunshine would cloud over by mid-morning with heavy rain
to follow after lunch. Damn. All of a sudden the prospect of tramping
the hills didn’t seem quite so appealing. Away went the rucksack
and out came the rod and the rest of my fishing gear and I was soon roaring
down the motorway: I mean parking on the M6, after which I was also allowed
to park on the M5 for as long as I wanted. I headed for the Warwickshire
Avon and a narrow stretch of the river I had only fished once before some
six years previously. After a leisurely midday pint of the local brew
in a nearby inn, I drove to the river and was soon making my first cast.
During the afternoon I steadily worked my way down a few swims, all with
minimal cover, picking off a few chub. Then I came to the swim. The river
was at its narrowest here and overhung by trees for about fifteen yards.
There were no signs of anglers having fished from the far bank and I found
that there was a good depth of about six feet with a reasonable flow.
The branches of the first tree were dipping into the water across two
thirds the width of the river. I cast in a lump of flavoured meat and
let the flow trundle the bait down towards them. I was forced to fish
from a considerable way above the tree due to excessive bankside brambles
and nettles but initially this did not seem like a problem as I settled
myself comfortably in the reeds at water level. I quickly felt the slightest
tap on my finger as I stopped the bait’s progress and my strike
was met with the solid resistance of a good barbel. The fish promptly
tried to go downstream beyond the branches and took line in short bursts
as I applied the pressure and tried to keep it under control from what
I soon realised was far too great a distance. She swirled twice, worryingly
directly beneath the branches, before the rod took its effect and forced
her to move grudgingly upstream. The rest of the fight was contained in
the deepish water under my rod top and fairly soon a lovely golden fish
of 9-07 was gracing my net. What a great reward. I could elicit no further
responses from the barbel thereabouts in the remainder of the afternoon
so on dusk I moved to a different stretch, which yielded a solitary six
pounder before I headed once more for the great car park.
I was so taken by this stretch, or more particularly the swim that after
work that Wednesday I returned after an amazingly straightforward journey
of an hour and a half. I didn’t rush to the swim but started further
up the stretch and soon landed two barbel of 12oz and 11oz – how
sinuous and strong these little beauties are as one tries to hold them
for unhooking – our lunkers of the future. Then it was into the
swim. I began by casting short of the branches and had a few chuby taps.
With no signs of barbel, I let the bait trundle into the danger area beneath
the trailing fronds and sure enough there came a steady pull and I was
in. The fish soon boiled on the surface under pressure but I again found
it difficult to get it under some sort of control at that range. It kited
into the near bank and promptly snagged itself. Thankfully after a few
minutes it swam out so I crammed the pressure on as it tried to go downstream.
It felt a really heavy fish but moments later I pulled out. Luckily as
I examined the hook I noticed two large belly scales on the barb so it
must have been foul hooked. A second visit a couple of hours later drew
a blank so after another quick pint of local nectar the motorway sucked
me home.
Friday night I blanked on the Dove and on Saturday in daylight I went
exploring and blanking on a new Midlands river for me, the Arrow. It was
toward teatime that I left there and moved onto the Avon , once more heading
straight for the swim. It was a lovely sunny evening but the temperature
was dropping rapidly as I made my initial cast. As on Wednesday there
were taps from the chub but no barbel. I twice moved the bait further
down the swim but with still no signs of action. I reeled in ready to
move. However, a quick glance at the paste bait showed that about half
of it had gone. Could it have been a fish? I recast with meat and let
it go further down and the rod bent steadily round. A confident take followed
from a fish that fought hard beneath the overhanging branches but didn’t
take line and lacked the power of a biggie. I brought her steadily up
to the net, a fish of about 7lbs that was already losing its golden bronze
of summer and turning silvery. During the next couple of hours I roved
around as much as is possible on a heavily overgrown bank ducking under
boughs and slogging my way through neck high nettles and at one point
measuring my length as I found a hidden branch amongst the brambles. All
I managed was a single chub. Time to move to another length but….
but…I chose to struggle back down through the undergrowth in the
dark to the swim for another try. On such a fine line of decision rests
the difference between success and failure – a red-letter day or
just another trip.
This time I manoeuvred myself a couple of yards closer to the trees and
sat on a mound of earth in amongst the nettles. I worked the bait into
position under the branches and waited but all was quiet. I let out a
couple of yards of line – still all quiet; so I gave a bit more
line and suddenly the rod went round but this time it was definitely no
seven-pounder! Click, click went a few inches of line as I tried to cram
on the pressure with the rod hooped round to the butt and held parallel
to the surface of the water to keep as much of the line out of the branches
as was possible. She bored again and again against the pressure and a
bit more line screeched off the reel. I struggled to stand up and nearly
slipped off my perch as I screwed the clutch tight. My heart was racing
and my knees had gone weak and the rod was cranked right round as she
thrashed on the surface well below the branches and made a desperate effort
to reach the roots of her lair. I pumped the rod against her thrashes
and gained a little line. I felt her roll against the line and realized
that something was about to give. As she produced one more supreme effort
the line twanged off a fin and I thought I’d lost her, my foot slipped
again and I wondered whether I was going in. Then, suddenly, she kited
to the right, the pressure turned her and I gained some line, she was
clear of the branches and I knew the prize would be mine. She still fought
hard beneath the rod but without the heart thumping power of earlier and
within a couple of minutes a large bronze flank glistened on the surface
in the moonlight and I gratefully slid her into the net so we could both
have a rest.
What an adrenalin rush. I was still all of a shake as I weighed her in
at 11-14. What a cracker!
A torrid photo session followed, it’s not very easy to hold a lively
fish and set off a bulb release with your knee when you can’t kneel
due to a damaged kneecap and the bulb keeps sinking into the boggy ground.
I doubted that the results would win any competitions which was just as
well as my haversack fell in the river a few weeks later and dunked the
camera and ruined the film anyway! I even phoned the wife as I tried to
calm my beating heart. What a few minutes – minutes and a fish that
christened a swim for me and gave a memory that will last forever.
If only I could eloquently put into words the feelings of those few moments
all non-anglers and all those who think me mad for venturing such distances
in all weathers would understand this wonderful addiction. Not only is
it to get such an adrenalin rush but one that comes from contact with
nature, with a wild creature in extremity, and from which she will hopefully
have no scars. And now for the wait. Enjoy every minute Steve. For surely,
out there somewhere, is the next knee trembler….
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