“The Bitter, and The Oh So Sweet"

By Ian Law​

I’m sure somewhere the piscatorial god secretly keeps a private diary on all of us and when required addresses the balance of all those disappointments and blank days/nights spent on the bank and provides us, on occasion, with something really special. Sometimes we wonder why we have been graced with something so wonderful in our angling lives. Yes, agreed, our pastime is not just about catching fish, it’s a lot more than that, but these are the moments that bring a smile to our faces as they are recalled from the memory or as we peel the pages back on our photo albums.

It had been a reasonable start to the season within the ranks of the Windsor Barbel Catchers, (WBC), nothing spectacular, but a number of fish taken on the Thames from a number of areas of the lower river, a few off the Kennet and at last a couple of richly deserved big fish from the Wensum, for our associate Norfolk member of the WBC, Nick Tuckey. It was clear to anybody and everybody who was on the Thames that as the season wore on, towards the end of September, that the lack of rain was making things generally very hard, to the extent where even the bream had switched off. I had spent a week away in Ireland with father catching bass which, as is the norm, I thoroughly enjoyed! On my return it was clear that the Thames hadn’t been flushed with any fresh water due to the lack of rain and the fishing was the same as when I had left 9 days earlier, slow…Indeed things were so slow, Mark Berry had dusted his pike rods down extra early!

I decided to head out onto the Kennet, to a quieter stretch, that in the time I had fished it, received little attention in comparison with the more well known beats. Indeed it was a bit of water that I fished regularly about 5 years ago. It was a Sunday evening and I felt tired after a late night on Saturday. As usual, on arrival, it was clear no one else was about and I looked forward to the peace and quiet that the next 5hrs would provide. The walk across the field wasn’t too bad as I cut down on my gear, eg, no umbrella as there was yet again no rain forecast! The cattle in the field made their usual curious enquiry, (fortunately, not as curious as three years ago when they ran en masse directly towards me. It’s strange just how fast one can run laden with copious amounts of fishing gear when life and limb is threatened…), and continued on their perpetual munching of the cud. On arrival at the bank I went through the usual indecision of where to fish. The indecent amount of beer I had drunk the previous evening had put paid to any notion of a roving session. Fortunately, most areas of this beat had historically provided fish, I did however eventually plump for the first swim I ever fished on this stretch with my old fishing mate Johnny Phillips now exiled over in Hong Kong.

The light was fading but there was no rush to get rigs prepared as my rods were already made up in my quiver, (lesson number 1 for an un-named lazy member of our WBC clan, you know who you are!) but I was keen to drag a lead across both the far and inside areas to check that the previous winter hadn’t deposited any debris on the bottom that may present a problem should I get into something. All clear, good, now I could put some bait in. In recent years I have increased the amount of bait I put in, in the summer months, to compensate for the plague we have been blighted with on the Kennet, the signal crayfish. About a kilo of mixed pellets and crumbed boilie went in across the far side three feet out from the bush and the same down the inside track. I would then adopt my old match technique of little and often.

Four hours went by before any sign of activity. The rod across pinged twice and then lurched over. The fish took line steadily and plodded off upstream. It felt a good fish. 5mins later she on the top and I could see a very large bronzed flank. It looked an easy double as I reached for the net. As I drew her over disaster struck, the lead clip got snagged on the mesh on the cord. As much as I tried to pull the fish over the lip, the net pulled towards me in equal amounts. After a minute of this she had regained strength and flicked her tail for freedom. Her wish granted, the hook pulled and I stood in the darkness with my prize disappeared into the depths. I must have stood looking across into the meadow for a full five minutes in utter disbelief in the manner I lost that fish. Sure, it happens to us all at some time, but following a very lean spell this one was all the harder to bear. Unable to fish on, I packed up and trudged across the field, my bottom lip ever so slightly protruded.

I didn’t fish for the rest of that week, but the thought of losing that fish stayed with me. The monkey was definitely on my back, and as I was telling my fellow folk in the WBC, I had to go back and try to re-address the balance.

Friday night came around very quickly and I noticed a marked increase in air temperature, (ridiculous for early October, around 22C), when I stepped out into the garden to take the padlock off my fishing shed. I loaded the car and was soon weaving my way down the lottery that is the M4 on an early Friday evening. If only the other drivers knew I was going fishing, I’m sure they would make way to hasten my arrival on the bank. As I approached the grassy car park, there were no other cars in evidence, excellent I thought, once again the place to myself. (I’m sure in my progressing years I have become less tolerant of people around me when I’m fishing. Curious really, as when I was a kid, I religiously walked down the match length of the local canal every Saturday morning to immerse myself in fishy dialogue with those wishing to listen to my probing questions….)

The walk across the field was uneventful with my four legged sparring partners, although my large metal bank stick is always now at hand to assist in subtle persuasion for the spotted beasts in keeping their distance. Never again do I want to threaten Colin Jackson’s world hurdling record for clearing barbed wire fences, and subsequent safety from a stampede….

As is what you were expecting I chose the same swim, no need to lead it as I had done this already last Sunday. The umbrella went up to keep the light shower off me, and soon after, I baited up. As darkness fell it was warm, the drizzle continued and a slight breeze was doing it’s best to get underneath my umbrella. My cell phone buzzed with a text from a friend saying it was going to be a good night, (7.15 in the evening and I suspected Neil Harding-Deans was on the vino already…).

I adopted exactly the same tactics as the previous session, one bait down the inside track, the other a few feet short of the far bank bushes. I didn’t have to wait long as the inside rod pinged over and a fish was on. The smallest fish I had ever caught from the Kennet, a little over 2lbs, refreshing to see for a river where small fish, in my catches, are the exception rather than the rule. Lucky you I hear you saying, but if this is indicative of the general Kennet stock, we should all fear for the future…A pristine fish, unmarked, and when lifted from the mat admired all the more for raising it’s dorsal fin. A good start, I was contented, but I should have brought some nuts for that monkey that still hung heavy on my back from last Sunday. I knew, somewhere in the depths, she was there….

The next two hours passed by pretty uneventful and I was fortunate to leave the swim undisturbed from constant casting with fresh bait as those little critters, the Signal crayfish were absent tonight. It’s strange, and I’m sure others who fish the Kennet will have experienced the same, sometimes there is no getting away from them and at other times they are no where to be seen, weird.

I decided to put the kettle on, and as is consistent with any preparation of making or pouring of a hot drink, the rod across pinged once then lurched over. This fish felt better and soon after another barbel lay in the folds of the net in the water, a little over 7lbs. Back she went, and I duly informed those sitting in the comfort of their homes, glasses of wine in hand, with a text message, and back came the reply that they expected more from this night.

I was in no rush to pack up as I had no commitments the following Saturday morning. The fact that I was in the middle of house hunting and would be technically homeless unless I sorted something out in the next two weeks was beside the point. I was fishing, and as is the norm, there was no where else I would rather be, the pressures of the outside world can wait, well at least for 4 more hours anyway. I sat and drank my tea in the wet, gloomy, but muggy evening. I deposited some more bait in and rested the swim for 20mins. It must have been about 30mins when the far side rod moved about two inches, like a coiled spring I sat in my chair, then for the next minute nothing happened. Hmmm, a solitary crayfish I thought, out by itself all alone. Seconds later that theory was laid to rest as the rod, in one very swift movement, lurched over and a fish was charging off upstream. When I picked the rod up everything went solid, the fish just stayed deep and plodded around about 15yds above me. I knew straight away this was a much bigger fish and was very careful not to give it too much stick and take my time. Thoughts immediately went back to last Sunday night and the disappointment of losing that fish. No chance of lead clips snagging on nets this time, as I had tubing over the clip and lead swivel which the lazy bugger fishing in this very swim last week didn’t bother to do…..

She rolled on the surface in front of me and then through the darkness I could see a big bronze flank. Three times I tried to roll her over into the folds of the net and three times she lunged and took line against the tension of the clutch. On the forth attempt she was mine and as I rested her in the net I knew I had removed the nut nibbler from my back. The mat was ready behind me and as I lifted her from the water it confirmed my suspicions, she was a lump. After zeroing the scales the needle thumped down to 13.1. All the anxiety and frustration felt only 5 days previous just melted away into the warm night air. Not only was it the biggest fish from this stretch, it was a PB. I rested her for a couple of minutes, then weighed her once more, 13.1, mission accomplished.

As I walked across the field, my four legged foes sat unawares as I past by, although those closest got a reassuring pat on the head, such was the glee I felt on that warm night in October. Little did I know what was to follow over the coming sessions…..

The following Thursday I had booked a day off, initially the plan was to travel down to the south coast to go bass fishing, however, a call from Mike Wilson a few days previous suggested we were better off going out when the boat would be a bit quieter. I didn’t fancy cancelling my day off and going into work, so the day was mine to go out on the river. In all the time I have had a Reading ticket, only once had I been on the more popular beats where day time only fishing is allowed. As I drove down the M4 my decision was made to go onto one such beat. On arriving there were three cars in the parking area. As I arrived on the river I could only see one other angler way above me so I started to look at swims, one jumped out straight away, faster, deeper looking water under my feet as it came off the outside of the bend with a tasty looking bush some 20yds downstream, (bound to be something at home here I thought), a shallow gravel spit down the middle, with a defined deeper channel on the far bank, it was here I would put my other bait. After flicking a 1oz lead around on the bottom I baited up about 10yds short of the bush with pellets and broken boilies and more of the same on the far side.

The day was overcast and warm and as usual it felt great to be out. The guys from the EA were doing some work close by and as they passed by commented on how perfect conditions were. That’s bound to put the mockers on it I thought! After settling down and tucking into my lunch, (some of the lads I fish with say I all I do is eat when I fish, ridiculous….) I was part way through the first of my tasty offerings when the inside rod pinged around. The fish immediately came towards me then tore off upstream, taking line steadily. After a solid fight she was in the net, after a rest she went into the sling, 10.8, brilliant. I immediately texted those lucky enough to be stuck at work…. I will not repeat the responses here.

By this time it was around 2.30 and three more anglers had turned up, all deciding to go upstream. “Any luck?†“Just the one†I repeated.

Soon after the inside rod pinged again and another fish placed its bid for freedom as the clutch sang. Soon after a fat mint looking fish was in the sling, 10.13…….bloody hell I thought, better text those fine upstanding chaps at work again. It would only disappoint them if I didn’t…

I was surprised I caught another so soon from the same area, mind, I had kept it away from the bush downstream during the fight, if indeed my assumption was correct, and this is where they were. More bait went in, and I celebrated by putting the kettle on. (Within the ranks of the WBC, I have two important jobs, one is chief tea maker, the other a not so glamorous task, unhooking Thames bream……cheeky buggers.)

A smaller fish, but just as welcome, of 7.2 came to the net as the light started to go followed by a chub. The anglers left on the fishery were now starting to make their way back to the car park. One guy stopped for a chat and stood behind me for 10mins as we swapped the tales of our respective days. Just as I commented on how quiet the far bank rod had been, off it screamed. It must have been 2-3mins before I saw her as she rolled in the rapidly fading light…she looked another big fish. The chap with me netted and weighed her. 11.1, three doubles in one session, another first for me, bloody magic. Of course, true to form, I informed the poor souls on their trudge home from the daily grind.

Clearly, my day had been the more productive.

11.1​

The following night was a gathering of the fishy folk at a nearby inn. Time to reflect on the past few days and learn of others recent fortune. Dave Surb’s double double on the Thames and Guy Baxendale’s fine Thames fish of 13.8, a real cracker. Much to celebrate.

As Neil Harding-Deans sat muttering another irrelevance to me, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning around a rather attractive young blonde lady stood over me with a smile. Now then, a PB and a three doubles session in one week would have been sufficient, but everything comes in threes…

“Are you Ian Lawâ€, she said, “erm yes†I replied. (She remembers me from a squalid northern club somewhere in the dark distant past I thought…. you beauty).

She continued, “Did you catch three doubles from the Kennet this week?â€

Howls of laughter filled the four corners of the room from the assembled piscators, and the rather red faced beauty retired back to the bar. I’d been set up big time, and like the fool I am, I fell for it. (Well wouldn’t you if a stunningly attractive female suddenly took a keen interest in you…..?) Nice one Ed Burke.

I managed to sneak out of work early on the following Monday and decided to head back to the area where I got my PB from last week. It was a much warmer night as I crossed the field in a t-shirt. Of course, my long bank stick always within reaching distance, (to be drawn and held in the same fashion as my hero, Obe Wan Kenobi with his Jedi weapon), should those pesky beasts fancy a stand off.

I was expecting the Norfolk clan of Nick Tuckey and Ging, (Team Barbel man off Fishing Magic), to arrive later, so I was keen to get settled.

I went through the usual rituals of baiting then started to get my gear organised before it went dark. Soon after my baits were positioned in near enough the same places as last week.

I was midway through eating my pasta, (further evidence that I don’t always eat when I’m fishing), when the rod covering the far bank bush pinged once then hooped over. She stayed low for a good 3mins and tried to get underneath the far bank vegetation. I gave her the butt and soon she was mid stream, with the net ready to claim my prize. She was determined not to come over that net cord. No rush I thought, take your time. Eventually she was in and my head torch was focused on another cracking fish as I rested her for a couple of minutes. Might go 11lb I thought, as I was about to lift her out onto the unhooking matt. That was soon dashed as I felt her weight, fat as butter. I zeroed the scales against the sling, then in she went, 13.10. Unbelievable, just unbelievable, another PB. I kneeled on the damp grass just looking at this magnificent creature, again totally in awe, and bewildered at my good fortune. Soon after I was joined by the lads, photographs were taken before she was released safely back into the depths.

13.10​

I had four days off work, so the following morning I took our Norfolk guest Ging onto another beat. Being the thoroughly decent chap I am, I gave him the choice of swims.

Mine, again, had bushes to the far and near side. After a liberal amount of bait was put in, I sat back and enjoyed the un-seasonal weather we were having for the time of year. It didn’t take long for the rod targeting the far bank bush to ping around. After a short but spirited fight a plump fish, I guess around 4lbs lay in the net. Great start. Soon after Ging turned up, he fancied a change of swim.

As Ging was settling in downstream of me, again the far bank rod was receiving an enquiry. It didn’t long to develop as the rod near flew of the rest. As I told Ging, this was definitely a bigger fish as it plodded steadily upstream under the tension of the clutch. After 2-3 mins she was ready for the net. (Now when it comes to my fishing, I am never expectant of success, it always comes as a bonus to me. The mighty Thames has taught me this too many times as I have left scratching my head following another blank, but I do admit to saying to Ging on this occasion that I hoped it was a twelve! Yeah cocky I know…) She felt big as I lifted her out, the landing net handle displaying a healthy bend.

Ging zeroed the scales and was chief weighmaster….12.8, bloody hell, this really was the stuff of piscatorial dreams. More snaps taken and back she went.

12.8

​

The next few days of my time off was spent chasing the salmon and sea trout of the river Cokeit with Nick Tuckey, (or Colonel Ken as the Norfolk clan call him). On the long drive up north, (not far short of the Scottish border), I was reading stories out aloud from my fishing diary. Not something I usually share but as is the intended purpose, it contained some great memories from seasons gone by. I managed to bag my first ever salmon and Nick bagged another salmon plus a stunning sea trout.

It was great to get away and spend time in such a beautiful place.

The night we arrived back I was keen to get onto the Kennet once more. A strange thing to say I know, but it was as though I was going just to blank, to somehow start to apply the equilibrium with all the recent success. I felt a little cheeky going back so soon and asking for more of the rivers’ treasures.

The night was windy, in fact very windy. I needed to pin my umbrella down with all the available pegs I had. Same routine applied once more with bait, and I was ready to start fishing. First flick to the downstream far bush and I over shot it. Damn I thought, it’ll only be in very shallow water. No matter, I’ll leave it there for now. The other bait slightly upstream. Again I didn’t have to wait long for the downstream rod to arch over. The fish gave a really powerful initial run which I find the high end single figure fish always do, or so I thought….

After about a minute, problems, she had become snagged right on the inside, bugger. All went solid and I started to worry. None of us like leaving rigs in fish, fortunately I doubt it happens even once a season for me but all the same if it does happen once, that’s too often.

I walked above the snag and applied pressure. Out she came and as she came close I could feel the weight of her as she kited against the limited flow. Soon she was in the net and I knew it was yet another double. Unfolding the net she looked huge to me, a massive head and a mouth you could have lost a 40mm bait in. (I later told one of the lads she had a mouth like the winter cod I used to catch. In hindsight, a slight exaggeration I would suggest….)

I put her in the weigh sling and around the needle span. 11…12…13…14!! Awesome, just awesome. The wind was buffeting the weight sling so after resting the fish I weighed her once more in the shelter of the surrounding trees, 14.2 it was.

You should never say never, but I doubt I will ever better that run of fish in such a short time frame. I will never forget those couple of magical weeks in October 2005 when I was graced with such luck. It’s funny, but looking back, when I got the first one at 13.1, Jon Callan said to me that more doubles would follow, “that’s what happens†he said. I have to admit after putting the phone down from him I didn’t share his confidence. He wasn’t wrong.

Oh yes, one final thing, amongst all this important stuff written here, I did manage to sort out the trivial aspect of finding somewhere to live. These unwelcome distractions, I don’t know….

Ian Law 2005