Nick's
barbel diary - part 7
by Nick Coulthurst
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It’s funny how things in
life often come full circle. As a young boy, the passing of time was marked by
the changing of the seasons : collecting frog spawn from farm ponds and hearing
the first cuckoo call in Spring; seeing the first swallows appear and going to
bed whilst it’s still light in Summer; throwing sticks for conkers and kicking
your way through piles of leaves on your way home from school in Autumn; seeing
your breath cloud the morning air and watching an ermine scamper across the snow in Winter.
This fascination with the
changing of the seasons remained, until one day a delicate thud was heard by
the good people of Lea village, as something small but precious was dropped in
the Coulthurst household, and an octave was added to my vocal range.
That summer, the
swallow’s arrival was overshadowed (literally) by the arrival of two large
lumps under the T shirt of our next door neighbour’s 13 year old daughter. For
much of that summer I spent my free time hiding in chest high nettle beds
watching her play, desperately praying for someone to suggest fun and games be
had with the hosepipe and sprinkler. I myself had devised at least 20 different
fun games, all of which involved some form of jumping and at least one change
of clothes !
A couple of Springs after
that, the fascination of tadpoles metamorphosing into frogs was overtaken by
the miracle of yeast turning malt and hops into beer, and so I entered the
lager and ladies years, with the emphasis being very much on the lager, mainly
due to trouble sourcing a reliable local supplier of the latter.
After that the seasons
all blended into one, as I lived the life of a drunken dog. I distinctly
remember my dad telling me he knew a place where boys like me were sent, and
shortly after so did I, as I enrolled at college. Three years there and I was
now a professional drunken dog with two whatsits, who barely recognised his own
parents never mind the changing of the seasons.
Eventually though, after
having become expert at clearing nightclub dance floors and having a set of
near record sized grapes hanging out of my backside, I turned my back on that
life and am now back in tune with the seasons. I’m not sure my local nightclub
ever found anyone who could clear and polish the dancefloor in one movement,
hopefully my departure created two new jobs.
Nowadays, the season I
most look forward to is Summer, not for the coming of the swallows, however,
but June the 16th, the opening of the traditional coarse fishing
season. This year, it couldn’t have come around soon enough : such was my rabid
enthusiasm for all things DIY during the closed season, I’d just finished
painting the telephone and doorbell and was about to do my toenails next as the
16th rolled around. The house never looked so good.
This year, in contrast to
previous years, the rivers were in terrific shape at the start of the season
due to healthy rainfalls. The fish in the opening weeks were crawling up the
rods as they say, and anyone new to barbel fishing could be excused for
thinking it was like taking candy off a baby.
“Ribble In Early Summer
With Two Foot On – Candy Off A Baby”
For my first session of
the season I decided to visit the same stretch as on opening day last year, but
in a different area. With me was my mate Glynn, still, after two fruitless
sessions with me last season, in search of his first barbel. At about 10pm my
mid-river rod pulled round and after a really physical scrap, a fine barbel of
exactly 10lb lay in the folds of my net. Glynn came over to do the honours and returned to his peg with renewed optimism.
“Opening Day Scraper
Double”
About 30 minutes later I
heard a sound, which I initially thought was the mother-in-law subtly
requesting another top up of her G&T, but I then realised the dry, rasping,
spluttering noise was the clutch of a Mitchell 300 in the distance. By the time
I got to Glynn, the fish was ready for netting, and moments after that Glynn
was posing with his first ever barbel of 8lb 7oz. I later added another of
about 7lb and we both went home happy bunnies.
That night was a real
watershed for Glynn, since which he’s been able to move on to lesser things in
life, such as looking for a girlfriend and training to become a pilot. I would
have posted up a photo, but when good looks were given out, Glynn came a couple
of places after the African warthog and is very hard on the eyes. Fortunately
for me, he’s in Canada at the moment.
Early on in the season I
was making my way up the A1 to visit the in-laws in Lincolnshire and a session on the Trent.
I know I’ve said it before, but going to Lincolnshire is like going to a foreign country. For starters, a significant proportion of
the population (most of the males aged between 15 and 25) drive on the wrong
side of the road and use hand gestures, which I can only presume are from lands
other than our own.
I know it’s hard to drive
with due care and attention when you’re sitting on a pair of balls which are
bubbling at an average temperature of approximately 100 degrees C, and you
can’t see out of your windscreen because there are too many burst spots on it,
but surely these obstacles also had to be overcome in the driving test?
Perhaps though, a licence
to drive shouldn’t be issued until burning off a tractor and two OAP’s in an
Austin Morris 1100 on a hairpin bend, slips to lower than number 10 in your
lifetime ambitions. Just a thought, and before anyone asks, no I was never
young.
I’ll stop there, because
my mother-in-law has always said if she wins the lottery she’ll buy the missus
and myself a house in Lincolnshire,
and knowing my blasted luck it’s bound to happen. More of this later though.
On my first session on
the Trent, I
moved away from fishing over droppered beds of small particles and instead
fished over beds of pellets and boilies, introduced using groundbait. With it
being summer, my first cast was made in daylight, after which I settled down to
an hour’s wait, when darkness would fall and the run-off would start in
earnest. To my surprise, the downstream rod pulled round after only 10 minutes
and I was into my first Trent barbel of the season. Although it was only a little fella at 7lb, I was pleased
to get off the mark.
After that the inevitable
happened and I spent the next 4 hours without so much as a touch, until out of
the blue the same rod heeled over and I was into another fish. The fish came
straight in and was nodding it’s head under the tip, which prompted me to say
out loud : “This must be one hell of a bream”. The fish understandably took
offence at my comment and immediately responded by stripping 20 yards off my
clutch. A couple of minutes later I slid the net under a plump barbel, which
went 11lb 4oz on the scales. All in all it was a successful return, and not a
single bream bite all night.
“An Early Trent Porker of
11lb 4oz”
Back home on the Kennet,
I decided to put a bit of time in on a canalised stretch which had rewarded me
with 4 blanks in 4 sessions last winter. After an afternoon walking the stretch
I found an inviting run of thick cabbages on the nearside ledge and decided to
put some bait in with a view to returning later that evening.
When I returned and cast
in, within seconds a warm glow came over me as I realised I had again been
chosen to sponsor an extended family of crayfish for the season. I know many
people go fishing in order to relax and get away from the many disasters and
catastrophes that happen in the world today, but how can we ignore something
which is right under our noses. Just £10 of boilies a week will help save
thousands of crayfish, so please give generously. I personally recommend a kilo
of Arctic Arsenic each visit.
After several hours of
the tips pulling slightly down and then back again repeatedly, my nearside rod
pulled round sharply and I lifted into a good fish, which I quickly bullied
away from the cabbages into midstream. Once in open water the white flag went
up and she was netted in a matter of seconds. Under the torchlight I peeled
back the folds of the net and realised I had banked something very special
indeed : it had a hump back, a Nemo like lower lobe to its tail fin and a huge
abscess in it’s mouth. Fish care being uppermost in my mind, I quickly pulled
on some surgical gloves, tried not to look her in the eye, and weighed at arms
length the fish that time forgot.
To my surprise, it only
weighed 10lb 7oz, and after one last stomach churning glance, I gingerly
returned her to her bacterial world. I had thought of giving her a kiss, just
on the off chance she may turn into something beautiful, but daren’t risk her
lips falling off. A quick check of the net later confirmed she hadn’t left me a
keepsake, such as her good eye.
Exactly a week later I
was in the same swim on the Kennet fishing over a bed of boilies I had fed
earlier in the day. This time the boat channel rod pulled round and a heavy
fish was plodding around in front of me. After little pressure the fish was up
on the surface, and in the torchlight I could make out the disfigured shape of
old humpety hump once again. This time the scales pulled down to 11lb 2oz which
confirmed she had been on the munch big time, or so I thought at the time – more of this later.
.
“A Real Rarity : A Full
Set Of Fins and Jon With A Smile : 11lb 9oz”
Tight Lines Nick C
© Nick Coulthurst 2005
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