The River Wye - Mirth and Misadventure

The Bat Phone at the Avon Angling headquarters (he does guiding sessions don't you know) flashed like a disco ball at a 90s wedding. My message was simple, succinct, and laced with urgency “River Wye. Forthwith. Let’s go!!” and before he could even butter his toast, he was already mentally packing the barbel rods, a flask of extra-strong coffee, and a large helping of misplaced optimism after I'd booked the tickets quicker than a lie from Lammy in parliament. 

You see, Nic and I or as I affectionately call him, the Barbel Botherer had been watching the weather like a pair of anxious meerkats. The Plynlimon mountains in mid-Wales had been coughing up rainwater like a cheap lager drinker at last orders, and that, blog readers, can only mean one thing the Wye was on the rise. Now, most sensible people would take that as a warning. Nic and I ? we both took it as divine invitation. After all, mild weather, a bit of flow, and a day away from work what could possibly go wrong?

Now, I should probably mention that taking a day off costs me roughly the same as a small family holiday in Skegness. Being back on the contract grind means that any absence from the job equals money out the window or worse, into Rachel Reeves’ bottomless fiscal black hole. I'm enjoying it though especially when my pension pot via salary sacrifice is being topped up like never before. Retirement is still a away off but looking at ones finances there seems light at the end of the rather long but gradually reducing tunnel. 

But there comes a point, doesn’t there, when a man’s wellbeing must take priority over the Treasury’s spreadsheets. And frankly, if catching a barbel doesn’t count as a mental-health intervention, I don’t know what does.

The plan was simple. Nic, ever the early bird (when fishing is involved), would arrive first, pre-bait a few swims, and report back via WhatsApp with a full operational update. Except the message that pinged through as I was halfway up the A46 wasn’t exactly reassuring: “We might be flooded off, mate.”

Now, that’s the sort of text that can really test one’s commitment. I was already thirty minutes into a seventy-five-minute drive, halfway through my travel mug of coffee, and fully emotionally invested in a day of piscatorial enlightenment. Turning back simply wasn’t an option. After all, I’d fished it at 4.2 metres and it was fishable despite the flow. If it we were forced off then we'd ironically came up with the same piscatorial answer to out predicament and would fish the Warwickshire Avon stretch where the barbel the barbel go big, the neds even bigger. 

Nic’s dog, Tess, a retriever of Olympic pedigree, was apparently on standby should we need an emergency rescue. That’s the sort of foresight you need when your fishing partner starts referring to “escape routes” and “higher ground.”

When I finally arrived, heart rate slightly elevated after descending what I lovingly refer to as Heart Attack Hill, I was greeted by the sight of the Wye in full, untamed glory. The river was charging through like a runaway freight train, churning with so much debris I half expected to see a wardrobe from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe float by, closely followed by the White Witch herself. It was less “idyllic rural river” and more “Amazon Delta during a monsoon.”

Still, never let common sense get in the way of a good session. I dropped into the first field, where Nic had already baited a swim with his usual meticulous attention to detail (and probably half a bucket of scallded pellets). A few casts later, and lo and behold, the tip wrapped round and I was into my first barbel.

Now, let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like that first fish of the session. The bite came so quickly I nearly spilt my tea, and the ensuing battle had me grinning like a loon. A feisty little scrapper, powered by two spicy sausage pellets and enough krill groundbait to start a marine ecosystem of its own. By the time it was in the net, I was convinced the day was already a success even if the rest of it went downhill faster than the price of bitcoin.

As the hours wore on, the river kept rising, and the debris situation escalated from “mild inconvenience” to “floating forest.” where throughout the day it seemed all those thousands of trees from Brazil they cut down to build the four lane eight mile road for Cop30 were coming our way. 

Every cast became a race against time before a small branch, a log, or an entire hedge came sailing down to pluck my line from the current like a magician’s trick. 

But you know what? There’s something exhilarating about fishing in those conditions. You’re not just angling you’re battling the elements, defying logic, and possibly risking hypothermia for the love of a whiskered creature with fins. After a blank hour, I wandered over to Nic’s peg to see how he was faring. 

True to form, he’d winkled out a chunky chub from a tight swim and was just finishing his celebratory polish garlic sausage when the rod hooped over again. “You watching this?” he shouted, as if I could miss it. His rod was bent double, cork creaking, and Tess stood there, tail wagging, looking every bit the proud assistant. Another barbel glistening, golden, and full of fight.

At this point, I started to think Nic was whispering some kind of druidic spell into the water when I wasn’t looking. 

The man just has that touch. Meanwhile, I was out roving, missing bites left, right, and centre, each one a masterclass in how not to strike at the right time. Probably chub. Probably my own fault. Probably karma.

Eventually, I found myself back in the swim where I’d started, the water now lapping at the grass like an eager Labrador. I hooked into something solid really solid only for it to bury itself under a hidden snag. I might have muttered a few words unfit for print, but let’s just say it wasn’t a hymn of gratitude.

Nic, of course, carried on serenely, adding another three barbel to his tally like it was nothing. None of them huge, but all immaculate, bronze perfection. By this point, the sun was dipping, the air cooling, and we were treated to the sort of cinematic finale only the Wye can provide  a low fly-past from two Typhoon jets and fireworks cracking in the distance. It felt like the river itself was giving us a standing ovation for sheer stubbornness and was still rising when we left. 

Looking back, I probably should have jumped into the next swim along from Nic’s, but hindsight, as they say, is 20/20 unless you’re me, in which case it’s usually 20/200 and slightly fogged up with mist from your flask. But no matter. It was another chapter in the eternal love affair with this glorious, moody, mercurial river. On another positive note the margins were alive with fry, the first scoop of the landing net harvested me these !!

Because the Wye isn’t just a place it’s a state of mind. A place where logic goes to die, wallets go to empty, and yet your soul walks away feeling rich. If you look up Utopia in the dictionary, there’s a fair chance you’ll find a picture of Nic, Tess, and me, rods in hand, rain in the air, grinning like idiots, somewhere along its banks.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.