Personal Best
by Peter Foster
The season was drawing to a close, and I knew this would be my last session on my local river, the lovely little Rother in Sussex. I was planning to fish my last day of the season at Throop on the Dorset Stour, so I knew I had just two chances to improve on my personal best barbel of 10.12, a weight I had managed twice with two different fish from Throop caught a season apart. My personal best from the Rother was smaller at 10.3, but relatively speaking to my mind a much bigger achievement, as a double from this river is something of a rarity.
So here I was, settled into my favourite swim after a couple of hours roving without success. Now the sun had just set, and my favourite hour had just begun – that hour of fading light when bites begin to come and you have to be at your most attentive. If you’re going to catch, this is the best time. I was feeling confident, too. Only the previous week I had caught my first Royalty barbel on my second visit there, and that gave me great pleasure as not only was it a double, but also the first fish caught on my newly acquired rod, purchased only two hours earlier! I had decided, after much research, to go for a beefier rod than my favourite Avon, and had come down in favour of a Harrison, narrowed down on my visit to the tackle shop to the Chimera Barbel. How pleased I had been, that after only half an hour’s fishing, I was into a fish that would severely test my new acquisition. The rod passed with flying colours, and so now I sat holding it in the fading light, hopeful that I might end the season on a high note and confident that any barbel the Rother might hold would not be a match for the Chimera.
Now for the first time in this session there was evidence of activity with the rod tip twitching. Would this movement develop into the unmistakable pull of my favourite quarry? No, not on this occasion – the movement was jagged, but nevertheless it was a definite pull that required a response. You’ve guessed it – an eel. How do they manage the huge chunks of meat I thread onto the hook? Well this one had. Fortunately it was hooked in the lip and easily released. Bigger than most I had caught, but still very unwelcome (sorry to those anglers who pursue eels, but, like most, I can’t stand them on the end of my line). So now time was running out, just half an hour left, still the best time, but would I catch? I just had to make it count. Quickly rebait, cast and concentrate.
I did not have long to wait. This time the little nudges were soon converted into a firm tug that I could not fail to connect with. At first I felt a heavy weight that didn’t do much. Then it came to life, moving purposefully off downstream. It kept going and the reel began to sing. As the fish took more line I applied more pressure, confident that the combination of the Chimera and 10lb line would be up to the job. Now I began to recover line bringing the fish towards me, but next it was off upstream moving fast. More pressure stopped it reaching the snags of the tree on the opposite bank, the only possible haven that it could reach in this swim that had now become quite well-known to me. After playing the fish for about five minutes, I began to realise that this must indeed be the one I had been hoping for – it had to be bigger; here I was with stronger tackle than I had used before on the Rother, still fighting this fish which didn’t show any signs of capitulating. I was in charge, yet not completely. Each time I gained some line and looked like bringing it to the surface, it would take off again. "What size must it be?" I began to wonder. Dreams of a 13, 14, 15 pounder went through my mind. "Rother barbel record shattered" – I could see the headline now.
Time passed, darkness arrived, and my arm was now beginning to ache so much, I was starting to think that I might be just too exhausted to get this fish in. Up and down it went. Each time I thought I was in the ascendancy, it gained some strength from somewhere to take line again. And so the battle went on until the time came when I was certain that there were no strong runs left. It was time to ready the net and bring this fish in. Easier said than done. My weary arm was barely up to the task of raising this fish from the depths, but it had to be done. Now I saw it as I drew its long shape towards the net - a truly big fish, but what light there was showed me something that brought instant disappointment – along its length were huge scales and hanging from its mouth not four barbules but only two. This fish had given me a great fight, and I had to show it respect, even though it was not my intended quarry.
Click here to see a picture of the fish!
As it lay in the net in a shallow bay, I examined my capture more closely by torchlight. Oh, if only, I thought – a barbel this big – if only. Well how big? I hear you ask. My poor aching arms struggled to raise the weigh sling far enough off the ground to register a weight, but eventually I managed to hold it still long enough to see that this fish was by far my biggest yet – 17lb exactly. Not big by carp standards, but for a river carp and this particular river one to be proud of. And I was proud. Of course, I had rather it had been a barbel, but it had proved a truly tough adversary. As I released my capture back into her home and watched her disappear into the depths, I wondered how old she was. Older than me, most likely, I thought. How many more battles would she fight, and who would be next to have the honour?
© Peter Foster 2002