The crash of thunder made me cower involuntarily, as if a hand from the skies had pushed me downwards. Knee length boots jagged hard against the sun-baked track heading toward the river.

Seemingly minutes before, at home and resting, feet up watching the football, I had felt the air thicken.

It had been the hottest summer for many a year. Week upon week of endless sunshine. The last rain had fallen over a month previously and fields were dry and lifeless and the rivers were low and clear.

It started as a slight headache, explained by the darkening, the way the bright light coming through the window started to fade until the glance skywards showed the almost mauve horizon out to the West.

A storm was coming. Soon rain would cascade from the skies refreshing the land and awakening the rivers. The darkening, bringing with it the restless urge to return to the river, and if the Gods were smiling, to re-unite with that most enigmatic of fish, the barbel.

The first drops of rain hit my face, that turned upward, open mouthed to taste the refreshing crystals after the months of drought. I continued, the rain now lashing down and soon my boots squelched purposely through the newly created mud, towards the river.

Electric flashes arched across the sky, followed by the crackle and boom of thunder. Midday turned to darkness as the light disappeared; only reappearing when the lightning illuminated the path to take. Singing, to myself, to allay that prehistoric fear that is in us all, I made my way across the fields.

At last the river appeared, gunshot rain peppering the surface, a sudden urgency in it’s journey to the Thames and thence the sea. Strange thoughts. To strip naked and dance alongside the bank singing thanks to the rainmaker in the skies, or maybe a Boris dance? The idea cast aside as the crash of a fish alongside the far bank echoed against the heaviness of the skies.

Down the back, first a trickle then a stream as the rain found a way past my supposed waterproofs. The hats brim sagging against the onslaught.

What care I, as fumbling fingers joined the rod and rummaged in the bag for the reel. A stillness, the rain ceased allowing me to fix my end tackle and the small brass sinker, before another monstrous thunderclap signalled an end to the brief respite. Another fish rolled upstream, porpoising from the water and crashing down sideways as if in play.

Rod rest in position and the water before me gathering pace as the storm nearly rained out the far bank view. God it’s wet and it’s frightening but it’s wonderful.

Fumbling fingers moulded the paste on the hook and it was swung underarm downstream into the centre of the river. I believe that when river flows initially increase, the barbel move to the fastest moving water over the shallows to take immediate advantage of the newly disturbed bankside food washed into the river, only later when partially nourished do they move into the deeper, steadier water during the peak and drop off.

Six small pieces of paste thrown upstream in line with the hookbait followed by a pint of hemp, liberally scattered upstream and level with me. The fish are active and looking for food, no need methinks to concentrate them in an area and potentially frighten them off after hooking one.

Damn! The rod whips over and springs back twice as fast, just as I release the last handful of hemp into the flow. I smile the stupid smile to myself whilst a few choice words convey my inner feelings. There will be more chances.

But there isn’t! Three hours pass and the rod tip has not once even nodded. Still the barbel roll, every 10 minutes or so a fish bulges on the surface. The rain has stopped but the skies are still grey. The gravel bar on the far bank has nearly disappeared from view beneath the now coloured water and the level has risen over a foot.

The fauna has become vibrant, with fellow river dwellers woken from their summer laze and racing to and fro. A mink, charges along the tree line, nosing back and forth amongst the tall grass for a tasty morsel. Pheasants call to each other in challenge and the green woodpeckers scream their joy for all to hear.

What is going on? The bait is lifted from the water, unmouthed. And I creep along the bank keeping low. 15 yards downstream a brassy flash in the water concentrates the eyes, and I sit and watch. Seven, eight, or more barbel are holding midstream, with what look like small chub flanking them. I return to my swim and put in a further handful of hemp and edge my way downstream to the shoal. Time to remember that fishing is about always learning. The barbel quite simply go electric, the two outside barbel glide out wider pushing the chub from the swim, and then the fish start to turn and roll, diving down to collect the hemp particles washing through. The effect mirrors the earlier lightning flashes, but this is underwater, and the colour is pure gold.

The barbel, like so often in rising water are holding mid water, happy to move down in the water to the bottom for a bounty but simply enjoying the feeling of fresh water over their backs and tickling their pelvic fins. Another fish rolled.

The darkening was lifting now, and with it the chance to practice that most enjoyable art of trotting the stream. Float rod set up in double quick time, a size sixteen hook baited with a tare on 7.9lb b.s. Silstar with a four bb stick float.

First trot down it happened, a typical barbel bite that simply buries the float as they twist to take the bait and ended with the angler connected to his quarry, the mighty barbel.

Now the fun. It can take a long time to land a big fish on a standard float rod, but the Proton I use has power through to the butt, in fact you can bend it through 90 degrees. The skill of the float fisher however is to land fish with the minimum of pressure exerted, because the harder you pull the more they fight back. It takes confidence to cajole a fish after the initial surge, upstream under minimum pressure but believe me it works. Despite many conflicting views, when the fish often erupt in the net after capture you know you have simply tricked them into it rather than bullied them.

The biggest fish in the next two hours was around 9lb in a total bag of seven golden wonders. I packed my tackle away despite the fact that the fish were still feeding, nodded to the river in farewell before turning around and heading back along the path.

As I approached the car, the sun flashed a smile from between the cloud cover, I saluted it in return and gave thanks for living and fishing.