This is about two fish, both in their own way my first barbel but with their capture separated by more than 40 years.

My first came from the River Kennet many, many years ago when I was a youngster with just one rod but a whole lot of enthusiasm. I can’t remember exactly how old I was, but it was the late 50s, and I wasn’t yet a teenager (for that’s when my enthusiasm began to wane). However, I do remember that fish was caught legering a piece of cheddar cheese, using a dough bobbin as a bite indicator. Although it weighed only three and a half pounds, it gave me the hardest fight I’d yet experienced and brought me tremendous satisfaction, as I’d been trying for a long time to catch a barbel.

My second "first barbel" came from Dorset’s Throop fishery in the late 90s. Its capture was equally memorable but much more dramatic, for I landed this fish after a long and energy sapping battle for both of us.

I’d been trying for a barbel since the previous season when in August I gave myself a couple of days off and booked myself into a delightful little B&B at Holdenhurst. My very first attempt nearly succeeded, too. Just an hour or so into an evening session my bait, which I was legering close in, was picked up and my rod nearly pulled off its rest. The struggle lasted barely five seconds. I saw the fish move out into the middle of the river headed for weed. I applied probably too much pressure, and the hook pulled out. I stood there shaking and cursing myself as the fish, which, to make matters worse, was a large one, disappeared into the streamer weed. So near…

I fished the next day and returned several times during the following autumn and spring, and although I improved my best chub vastly to over five pounds, I had not even connected with another barbel.

And so it was that I stood on the banks of beat 2 at Throop on a sunny hot July afternoon trotting a float down a likely looking swim expecting a bigger chub but secretly hoping that perhaps one of my long sought-after quarry might intercept my piece of Spam. I was using my tench rod with which I had successfully banked tench to six pounds and match carp to eight. I coupled this for the first time with a closed faced reel which I had recently bought specifically for trotting; this was a mistake waiting to happen, which I was very soon to find out. I had been trotting the float quite close in, down to an overhanging tree, for some time without success, when suddenly it disappeared. At first I thought it had been dragged under by weed or had snagged bottom, but I struck rather half-heartedly nevertheless, and was met, much to my surprise, by some heavy resistance which suddenly started to move. I’m sure all of my readers will recall their first barbel, but this one was nothing like that first of forty years ago. There was so much power, I felt almost helpless, under-gunned as I was. To make matters worse, it wasn’t moving away from me but was pulling furiously to the near bank about fifteen yards downstream. Poor novice that I was, I couldn’t really understand what was happening, but I just hung on for dear life and tried somehow to retrieve some line. The only way I could do this with the closed face reel was to employ a sort of pumping action, having to physically hold the line at times. By various means, I managed to get the fish closer to me so that it was actually under my feet – a situation I had never encountered before and a most bizarre one, in that I was trying to pull the fish out from beneath the heavily undercut bank on which I was standing. This new situation, combined with the fish’s determined efforts to get further under the bank, resulted eventually in my losing my footing and sliding down the bank to join my adversary in the (thankfully) not too cold waters of the Dorset Stour. My sudden immersion up to the chest was not only a shock to me but to my adversary, too, and resulted in the serendipitous outcome that the fish rushed off in the opposite direction away from the bank and out into the main flow. Now all I had to do was keep it out of the profusion of streamer weed! I’ve never tried wading and fishing at the same time before, so I was on a steep learning curve. However, I was determined not to lose this fish, as I’d been making the 125 mile round trip for nearly a year now in an effort to catch my first barbel since that day long ago on the Kennet. All I had to do was concentrate and try not to think of what that water was doing to the various contents of my pockets, which included credit and other cards as well as my Ringwood club book, not to mention the wad of tenners!

Compared to what had gone before, the next part was relatively straightforward. I was now in control and the fish was tiring. I first had to reach my landing net and somehow hold it level almost with my shoulders before I could secure my captive. How happy I was, as I drew it over the net knowing that this battle was over and my ambition achieved.

Having at last netted the fish, I then faced the problem of how to exit the water. I hadn’t seen anyone else for about an hour, and there was nobody nearby on either bank (a bit unusual for Throop), so I was on my own. It was only when I was trying to get a toe-hold, that I began to appreciate how undercut the bank was. Now it became clear how it was that my float had been nearly disappearing beneath where I had been standing, and I had set it to a depth of about six feet! I struggled for what seemed an age, but was probably only about three or four minutes, before I managed to drag myself out, clinging to a tuft of grass in one hand and a bunch of stinging nettles in the other (ouch). Next day I realised just how unfit I was - muscles I never knew I had ached to beggary.

Once out of the water, I was able to admire my catch. Unfortunately there was still no-one else around, so I would have to rely on the timer for the photographs. At first I thought I had caught a double (again the optimistic novice), but the scales showed 8lb 5 oz. Was I disappointed? Of course not. It was a splendid fish and a great adversary. I had proved I could do it and now I had a new target to aim at for my next barbel session. The fish and I spent a few moments together at a spot where I could easily hold it in the water, while we both recovered. Eventually, strength restored, my former opponent swam powerfully and majestically away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and sopping wet clothes.

A serious note to conclude. I was lucky the water was only about four or five feet deep and that it wasn’t freezing cold. Lucky that the sun was shining and I could dry off without catching pneumonia. Lucky, too, that I had a change of clothes back at the car. I now no longer keep any money or paper of any description in my trouser pockets (although it did all dry out all right). And how fortunate, too, that I’d left my mobile phone in my bag on the bank where I could have reached it if necessary.

Everything turned out fine including the photographs. I told the story to friends and family and we all had a good laugh at my expense. I don’t think I would have been quite so prepared to laugh at myself, though, if I’d lost that lovely fish.

© Peter Foster 2002