I came down the wooded hill into my village, turning the sharp corner at the bottom of the hill illuminating the stone church with my cars bright headlights. As I drove up the village towards my house, not a single light burned out from the cottage windows. It was 2.30am and the village lay sleeping. I pulled onto my drive and stepped out of the car. It was September the 30^th 2000 and I had come home earlier than usual due to the hot weather and the fact that the fishing was awful. The rivers temperature had soared into the mid 70's, forcing the barbel into a state of none-feeding. Rain was now desperately needed in order to bring some fresh, cooler water into the river.

As I walked too the bottom of my drive, I looked skywards. A wind was picking up and its breeze felt cool and fresh. In the night air I could smell rain coming in from the western horizon, a dark band of cloud was gathering. Could this be the rain that I had hoped for? None was forecast for my area, but I knew that heavy rain was forecast for the Southwest. I returned to my parked car and took out my bait bucket, chair and tackle stowing them safely back into my locked garage. I was growing tired, so after a quick cup of tea and a shower, I slipped quietly into bed.

The rattle of a teacup woke me up. I opened my eyes and saw my wife Jo, standing at our bedroom window. "Gosh, what awful weather", she said. "Weather?" I asked as I took up the cup of tea from the bedside drawer's and joined her at the window. "I don’t think that you will be going fishing in this lot tonight my lad", Jo said, as she turned looking at me with a smile on her face. "Jesus! How long has this lot been coming down?" I asked. "Well, the rain woke me up around four o clock this morning whilst you snored, and it hasn't stopped since. I tell you what, you shower and get your tackle ready and I'll make you a hot meal and fill your flasks". How nice it is to have an angler as a wife. Even though she hasn't fished herself for a few years, and then, mostly as a game angler, Jo knows exactly what it's like to have the "Infliction". That rain was "big rain". Flash rainfall that could easily bring the river up in a few short hours.

The drive back to the river was a tedious business as I drove in lines of long traffic slowed to a snails pace due to the torrents falling down on the road. With the cars wipers swishing at full speed, I was very relieved to leave the traffics spray when I left the main road heading towards the river down winding country lanes and through the valleys villages. It was quite a job unlocking the gate at the top of the farm track leading down to the clubs car park. The lock is a combination type that poses problems at the best of times but the driving rain made this task especially hard. Driving down the track, I turned the corner at the bottom pulling onto the stone car park situated sandwiched in between a high hawthorn hedge and the rivers flood bank. YES! I thought. No one else there. I had the whole stretch to myself. Once my tackle was on my back, I walked up the flood bank onto the river's path at the top. The whole river as far as the eye could see was a mass of splashes and bubbles that gave its appearance a "none moving" effect. In the margins, pairs of coots dived as if in bliss amid the pouring rain. Mallards flew past going up and down river, flying past quacking in their appreciation for a welcome change in climes.

I walked for about half a mile in order to reach a favoured pitch. This was on a strictly members only stretch that due to the long walks involved, very few of the clubs membership visited regularly. Frankly, this aspect suits me just fine because this sometimes enables me to be able to move into a variety of pitches throughout a session if needs be. But on that occasion, I chose a static approach due to the fact that the barbel would be travelling far in such conditions. Once I reached my pitch, the river had risen about 18 inches, not coloured but just starting to have that light buff brown tinge to it. Perfect I thought. I erected my umbrella and was joined by fishing acquaintance Graham Daubeny, himself a BCC member. We chatted for a while both eager to get started in the rapidly changing conditions. Graham left to fish a downstream pitch some 200 yards away.

I baited up two swims. One up and one down stream. Using a plastic scoop, I sprayed in hemp, casters and Ebly, which is soaked pre-cooked, freeze-dried durum wheat. Over that, I fished hook baits of NI paste wrapped over a small hair rigged boilee whilst on the mainline, I employed open ended feeders filled with NI pellets plugged with NI based crumble mix. Two rods were cast out, one up and one down river over the baited areas.

Once done, I sat down underneath my umbrella sipping a hot cup of tea. The rain had now slowed down to a steady fall and along the far bank's margins, small barbel started to crash out into the river's surface.

Bream were the first to feed over my baited areas and I took seven around five pounds in rapid succession. Then, a couple more chub, with more bream to follow. This is fairly normal on the Trent prior to dusk falling but once the barbel go on the move, they normally push the bream and chub off the bait.

About an hour before dusk, the bream and chub activity stopped. Then, both rod tips started to twitch and jerk about. That meant that the barbel had arrived and were causing line bites as they brushed against both mainlines.

At 6.45pm, my downstream rod pulled down as the first barbel of the session tore away with my hook bait. What a change from the last session that was. A dour warm river had been transformed into a bubbling rush of fresh water. Fresh water that hopefully, would see the barbel feeding hard. My first barbel of the session came in over the net at 6lbs 4ozs just as thunder in the distant skies rumbled along the valley. I quickly released the fish, re-baited my rod and cast back in.

The rain picked up once more, and flashes of sheet lightening lit up the skies in between the loud cracks of nearing thunder. The lightning flashes turned the drab dark shadows of trees into green living structures for fleeting seconds. The wind blew, the trees swayed and rain fell heavily all around. Although warm, the night became a foul tempest where few would want to be out on the riverbank.

7.15pm, the upstream rod-tip jerked. I did not wait for it to pull down but struck into the fish without waiting for it to tear away with my bait. As the rain lashed down, I played out the barbel whilst watching the bubbles on the river's surface pop in the light of the flashing lightening. Not once did I consider the dangers of fishing in such conditions whilst using carbon fibre rods. In a rapturous thunderbolt, the barbel came over my net at 8lbs 4ozs. The rain grew heavier as I recast my rod back out into the rising river and when once back beneath the dryness of my umbrella, I knew that the night could transpire into something special. And that knowing. Made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Is "she" here tonight, I thought? Perhaps that great uncaught fish that fills my dreams and fuels a passion that I love.

At 7.45pm the downstream rod pulled down as another barbel found my hook bait. Amid the theatre of an electric, stormy night, another barbel was played out coming in at 5lbs exactly. By now, I was becoming concerned that two rods would be an overkill of the possible situation surrounding the night's coming events. So I left out the downstream rod until the upstream rod produced a fish, when I would leave out the upstream rod and re-cast the downstream rod back in. In any case, if I had two bites at the same time, one might just be that fish of a lifetime and on that night, with barbel rising all around, I was taking no chances. So, I re-baited the downstream swim and waited for action on the up-stream rod.

The night's weather continued to be dominated, by thunder and lightening with constant rainfall being a mix of heavy and light falls. Then at 8.20pm, the upstream rod lurched over producing a barbel of 7lbs 4ozs. With barbel rolling in the downstream swim and the fact that I could hear splashing barbel elsewhere all across the river, I released the fish and quickly re-baited and cast the rod into the downstream swim. Amid the storm, barbel rose and crashed out everywhere! As the night wore on, my decision to fish on with one rod would become justified.

The rain kept on falling amid thunderbolts and lightening flashes as everywhere, the wildlife kept their heads down. The only noticeable noise came from distant express trains speeding on their way to who knows where in the night. Then at 8.50pm, my rod pulled around. On striking, I knew the fish was bigger. My response on striking into the fish, was met by the heavy resistance of a slugger, seemingly prepared to fight it out. In the mixed light of dangerous lightening and my headlamp, the barbel rose into view. 10lbs 2ozs of Trent barbel came beaten and uncomplaining into my waiting net. With the rain still falling hard and barbel still rolling, I retained the fish safely in a tube upstream for photographing later. I did not re-cast straight away, but took a little time to reflect on the nights unfolding events. I lit a cigarette and sipped on a hot cup of tea. This, I thought, was what fishing is all about. A moment in time when an angler seemingly gets it right or when a river rewards faithful devotion.

9.30pm and I am in again. Like its kin, the fish fought hard for its freedom going headlong for every available snag. But lady luck was in my pocket that night as a pristine 9lb 2oz barbel came over the net. That fish was quickly followed when at 9.50pm, an 8lb 8oz barbel came in over the net. And still amid the rain, the barbel rolled and splashed out in the bubble filled river.

The night wore on and the rain kept on falling. Then noticeably, my swim went quiet. Have the barbel passed by because all the bait has gone, I thought? Should I re-bait the swim? Questions and doubts that could result in a memorable session being lost if the wrong decisions are made. So, I elected to just throw a handful of my NI pellets into the swim. Just a palm full, whilst not enough to overfeed but perhaps enough to arouse an interest for passing barbel. Then, I sat back and merely waited. Trent barbeling is sometimes like that. Sometimes the fishing becomes a waiting game between the angler and the fish, where the angler needs an amount of patience if not a certain knowledge of the river. At 10.40pm, the rod tip pulled down violently hard. I struck into what I knew to be a big fish. The telltale signs of steady powerful runs, of a fish staying close to the bottom of the river. Runs that for the first few minutes are totally dictated by the fish. The barbel angler has little choice at this stage but to merely give line and hang on. Once the fish was raised, in the light of the headlight, the shape of a big fish was visible just below the river's surface. It was long and sleek. A golden coloured prize coming over my waiting net at 11lbs 6ozs. Once weighed, this fish was safely retained upstream in another tube.

I re-cast the re-baited rod and threw another handful of NI pellets into my swim. Two doubles and the night still young. A sure reward for facing the dour wet night I thought. Angling skill? Or pure luck I thought to myself? An hour passed whilst all the time, barbel rolled along the river's edge. To the hour, at 11.40pm, my rod pulled down once more. Then, a 7lbs 9oz barbel came over my net. Re-baited and re-cast, I realised that I had so much time before the dawn emerged. A third double perhaps? Could I be so lucky?

The night wore on and the rain kept on falling. The thunder storm now long gone, ducks began to fly and coots ventured out onto the dark river chirping as they bobbed about in the rivers margin amid the rainfall. Then at 12.45am my rod pulled around. Yet another big fish running away downstream with my bait determined in its bid for freedom. Once beaten, the barbel came over my net at 9lbs 14 oz. What a cracking fish but oh so close to another double I thought. Three doubles in one night session is rare and I came so close with that fish. I nursed the fish and watched it swim strongly off in the beam of my headlamp. Then I re-baited and re-cast.

An hour passed with no barbel activity whatsoever. No fish caught. No twitches and not a sign of barbel activity on the rivers surface. I noticed that floating rubbish was coming downstream with the rise in the river. That is always a bad sign. Soon the river would be awash with sub-surface rubbish that meant that the barbel would cease feeding. I was on the very verge of the barbel stopping feeding but at the same time, wholly grateful for my night's incredible fishing. I lit another cigarette and mulled things over. With the two fish retained, should I pack in now and photograph my fish or fish on until dawn breaks. I decided to fish on in the knowledge that the retained barbel, were perfectly safe. Then at 2.05am, my rod sprang into life and I was into another hard fighting barbel. That fish tore off away downstream almost hugging the marginal rocks and reedmace. A powerful fish that knew exactly where it was going and where it wanted to go. With my rod bent to almost breaking point, the fish kept on going away downstream. With so much line between myself and the running fish, and the fact that she was dangerously close to the rivers margin, I started to walk downstream with my landing net under one arm whilst holding my bent rod high up over the bank side clumps of common reed. About three pitches down, I carefully stepped down onto a patch of gravel where our battle climaxed. The rain was still falling heavily and in the light of my headlamp, I could see strands of weed hanging on my line as it cut through the mass of bubbles popping on the river's surface. With each lunge coming from the fish, odd strands of weed fell off the line as it pinged and pulled beneath the bending rod. With the fish almost beaten, she came into sight just underneath the water. She was a big barbel, long but broad in the back as she rolled up towards the surface displaying a large dorsal fin cutting upstream like a sail. Once beaten, the fish lay on its side as I reached full stretch to net her in the powerful rivers current. I lifted up my net, and there within the meshed bag lay my prize, another double figured fish for sure. Undoubtedly the biggest fish of the night with long strands of weed covering its mouth and snout, golden and perfectly scaled, it lay with its fins glowing, a translucent ruby red in the electric light.

I unhooked the barbel and carried it in the net back to my pitch. I checked her over for other hooks and injuries, so happy that the fish was unscathed, I weighed her. Folded within my wet weigh sling, I hoisted her up beneath my Avon scales. 12lbs 4ozs dead on! YES! I shouted out into the rainy morn. Quickly, I placed the barbel into a third wet tube and carried it upstream to a deep margin where she was retained safely. Then I walked back downstream and retrieved my rod. On the Eastern horizon, a band of light began to stretch out and the rainfall began to slow down. Up in the grey heavens, gaps in the dark clouds began appearing. All along the river, Reed Warblers began to chirp and sing from within the soaking rows of common reed. Morning had arrived bringing with it, a strange mist that rose from the wet fields as the rain began to stop. I returned to my pitch and sat sipping the last cup from my flask. For me, my session had finished, even though the barbel still continued to rise out in the river. Although I had battled with those fish throughout the stormy night, I found it hard to believe that after all those years, I had finally managed to catch three doubles in a single night session. Down river in his pitch, Graham had another pleasing nights barbel fishing with fish of, 6lb, 7lb 8ozs, 8lb 7ozs, 9lb 3ozs, and a fat as butter, 11lbs 2oz barbel coming over his net throughout the thunder, rain filled night.

Once packed away with the morning's new light flooding through the countryside, we photographed each other's retained double figure barbel one by one then safely returned each one individually, back into their watery world.

Even now, although entirely grateful for that memorable session, it hold's no illusions. That event in my personal angling life did not came to pass through my angling skill or through seemingly special methods unknown too most. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Certainly my intimate knowledge of my chosen river helped, along with perhaps certain knowledge of her changing moods, but as for the size of those fish caught? That my friends, on a river such as is the Trent, where the barbel cannot be watched or seen in its deep water, always remains a lottery. Lady luck, pure and simple remains the over riding and most important factor. And thank God it does. Because that very fact means that everyone has an equal chance of catching that once in a lifetime fish, or experiencing that once in a lifetime session. And that remains the true legacy that the mighty River Trent gives to all that come to fish along her banks. The fishing is there to be experienced by everyone.

Long may that continue to be the case.

By Lee Fletcher

12lb 4oz

11lb 6oz

10lb 2oz

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