Heavy clouds smothered the skies with a brooding darkness. A rumble of thunder boomed in the distance. The tap, tap, tap of rain drops on the windows indicated even more rain had arrived. They grew louder as they began to pound at the glass in a ferocious torrent, running down the window panes in ever growing streams. The angler sat back on his sofa and peered out of the window at the relentless rain. It had been several days now since the storms had begun and there hardly seemed to be any respite in the weather. He was relaxed, nevertheless. He sipped his mug of tea and blew out a slow breath. His mind wandered. He was at the river. It was swollen and angry, a maelstrom of foaming, spewing water. Branches and debris were swept along in the powerful embrace of the river. It was too soon. Another day or two and she would be ready.
He retired to bed to dream, sweet dreams. The following day he arose early. As he drew back the curtains, sunlight streamed in through the opening, lighting up the bedroom with a glorious exuberance of colour. At last the weather had broken. The storms had finally relented. He switched the kettle on and popped some bread into the toaster. As he sat at the breakfast table, looking out across the fields, he knew it was nearly ready. He would try tomorrow, if the weather held. A spotted woodpecker caught his eye and disturbed his reverie, as it hammered at the peanuts on the bird feeder. It was a good omen, he decided.
The river would be high and coloured and the banks thick with cloying mud. He would have to tread carefully. He opened a couple of tins of luncheon meat, braking off large irregular lumps. He took a plastic bag and blew some warm air into it. He put in several teaspoons of his secret spicy powder mix and then dropped in the chunks of meat. He rolled them around in the bag, to cover them with the magic ingredients. He opened the bag and took a deep nasal breath. The aroma set his olfactory senses ablaze with tantalising possibilities. This was the bait. It was perfect.
After a long day at work, he eventually retired for the evening. Excitement coursed through his veins. He could barely sleep. He knew something special was going to happen tomorrow. He just knew it. After a restless night he stretched and yawned the tiredness away. The kettle burst into life with a flick of the switch and the smell of toast filled his nostrils. The coffee hit the mark and he felt awake and vitalized. He was ready. He poured the hot water into his favourite flask and popped it in his bag with his lunch. Hopefully there wouldn’t be too much time to eat, he thought.
The car was packed and he was on his way. The river wasn’t far and yet his expectation was at such a heightened state of arousal, it seemed to take forever. Each bend seemed to lead to endless others as his journey progressed. He was desperately hoping there wouldn’t be any crowds at the river today. He had a few spots in mind and would be very disappointed to see them occupied by some usurper. The lay-by was empty. His luck was in. He hurriedly grabbed the tackle from the car and dumped it over the gate. He checked the car was locked, popped on his faithful hat and climbed over the stile.
There she was; the river. The water was still high and coloured as it lapped a foot from the top of the banks. Despite the level she had lost that angry, churning look of a rising river. The level was subsiding and the ferocity of the flow had abated. It was looking smoother and more inviting. The field was wet and slimy. The river must have broken its banks a few days ago and left its usual deposit of silt, thick and slippery under foot. There were a few dark clouds in the sky and a hint of rain hung in the air. The forecast was good. He took a deep breath. It smelt good, clean and fresh.
He headed to his first spot. He had decided not to put in any free offerings. He just wanted to offer a hook bait, on its own, in as many likely spots as he could muster. He knew the river well. She was a small, intimate upland river. Steep banks covered in thick foliage acted as the perfect concealment for the hunter. Himalayan balsam choked the native nettles and the occasional ‘pop’ could be heard as a seed exploded from the Balsam’s flower. He settled into a nice bend. The river flowed from right to left and the bank turned sharply to his left and offered an enticing crease and slack off of the main flow. The river was still pushing through quite hard here, where the river narrowed. There was still the odd branch being swept along, but otherwise the river was quieter, friendlier. He set up with a simple rig. He used a fairly light leger weight (as he intended fishing in very close and wanted the bait to naturally bounce under the banks) and fished straight through to a 2 hook. It looked big but that was essential. The pieces of luncheon meat were big and the hook had to match the bait.
He attached the meat with a baiting needle, sliding it onto the hook and then securing it in place with a piece of grass. He placed his bank stick at such an angle that it would allow him to point his rod towards the baited hook. He would touch leger when it suited but in some swims he decided a bankstick would be OK. He swung the bait out onto the edge of the current and let the line go. He paid some line out and placed the rod on the rest and waited. He was so confident of a bite that he was quite shocked when it didn’t arrive. Wasn’t that always the case, he chided himself. After an hour he decided to move.
Again, he tucked himself into a tight swim, this time on a small pool created by a little island in the middle of the river. There was a deep gully here and again a nice smooth flow. He dropped the bait in and let it swing round and under an alder tree. As he sat back to await events, he became quite captivated by a bustling flock of Long tailed Tits, chattering and darting through the trees about him. They seemed oblivious to his presence, as wildlife so often does. He fumbled about in his bag and managed to lay his hands on the flask. Unscrewing the cap he poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. He took a sip and sighed in relief. Since giving up smoking many years ago, this was his fix now and a much needed one at times.
Another hour drifted slowly by as the sun peeked out from the dark clouds. It was still quite warm, despite the weather. Steam began to rise from the field as the sun gently heated the wet mud. A car hurtled past the nearby lay-by at break neck speed. Why do they do it, down such narrow lanes, he thought? Ah well. It was time to move on. In fact he moved several times but all to no avail. Each new swim produced the same results; a motionless rod, well except for the occasional tug from passing debris.
Still he had left his top spot till last. He felt sure this would produce something special. The banks were slippery here. It was a steep sided swim that fell away into a big, deep pool created by a bend. The river narrowed at its entrance and passed a beautiful weeping willow and flowed hard into the far bank. The river then turned at 90 degrees and headed off downstream. The exit too was narrow and ran over clean gravel to a riffle.
The angler edged slowly down the bank. Slightly to the left of the apex of the bend, was a small overhanging bush. That was the spot. He baited up and lowered the bait down and right under the bush. The bait swung into and under the bank. He angled himself, pointing slightly towards the bait and closed the bail arm of the reel. He tightened the line ever so slightly and looped the line over his finger. It was time to wait, to be patient and to hope. Suddenly he felt the line tighten on his finger and the rod tip pulled slowly round an inch or two. It was a definite bite, it was too full of life to be anything else and he decided upon an aggressive and positive action in response.
He swept the rod across his left shoulder and he felt an uncompromising force of resistance on the other end. As he bent hard into this solid mass, his exhilaration started to abate. Nothing moved. It was solid, unforgiving. He realised he was hooked up on something. There must be a snag down there. It was definitely a bite, he was certain of that. He bent in even harder, hoping that something might come free. It was then that the ‘snag’ started to move. It headed upstream, slowly and purposefully. The immense power of this unknown creature was quite staggering.
The adrenalin coursed through his veins. He had to remain calm, stay in control. This was something special on the other end, he knew that. Then the fish stopped. He couldn’t move it. It had snagged him this time for sure. Again his hopes seemed dashed. He pulled into the fish once more, the rod aching as it approached it full test curve. Suddenly the fish moved again. This time it slowly but surely headed downstream a few yards and once again it stopped.
He had to bend hard into this monster from the deep to get it moving once more and yet again it swam upstream, glued to the bottom like some kind of Amazonian sucker fish. Maybe it wasn’t a barbel? Perhaps a carp or even a catfish? It couldn’t be a barbel, not this powerful. It wasn’t possible. Yet again the fish stopped and refused to move. The angler decided it was time for some decisive action. It was time to get brutal with this thing. He tightened up and put a good bend in the barbel rod. He then placed his other hand half way up the rod and heaved with all his might. The rod creaked and complained at this ordeal.
Just when he thought the rod or line might snap and he would never get to see his adversary, something suddenly gave. The fish was prised free of the bottom with immense force. Suddenly it burst onto the surface. Its golden flanks glistened in the sunlight. For a few seconds, at most, the fish just stayed there on the surface, its dorsal erect and proud. It was his. This magnificent, bronzed barbel had been beaten. Never before, or since, had he encountered a fish of such extraordinary power. She looked a good 15 or 16lbs, possibly more. This would make for a great story in the pub with a pint of local brew and the lads listening intently. He relaxed slightly, knowing it was almost over. Then, in the blink of an eye, it turned and dived with the most breathtaking power. Then she was gone. The hook had pulled.
He slumped down to the ground in disbelief. An emptiness crept over him and a feeling of despair gripped him. He stayed there for a long time, unable to move, unable to do anything. Eventually he picked himself up and packed up his gear and returned to the car. He couldn’t carry on, not after that. Today the fish had won and oh boy what a fish. She was exceptional and what an incredible memory. A memory that will stay with him, or possibly haunt him, forever.
The River Angler 
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