It was one of those clear Warwickshire evenings when the Avon moves like a thoughtful old philosopher, slow, green, and apparently pondering the meaning of worms. I had settled into my usual swim just below the bend where the reeds droop into the current like bored spectators at a county cricket match. The target, as always, was barbel those whiskered torpedoes of the riverbed, equal parts muscle and mischief.
Traditionalists will tell you that barbel fishing requires little more than patience, luncheon meat, and a spiritual acceptance that the fish are almost certainly laughing at you from beneath a snag.
But the modern world moves on.
Recently, while enjoying a cup of tea of such heroic strength it could have stripped varnish, I stumbled across news of the Royal Navy's 300 million Dragonfire laser system a device capable of striking objects with extraordinary precision using concentrated light.
Apparently it costs about £10 to fire the laser to shoot down a drone, which is rather remarkable when you consider that the usual solution involves launching a missile that costs something in the region of one million quid.
Naturally, my first thought was not of naval defence. (boy we need it)
My first thought was: I wonder if that would help with barbel.
Consider the possibilities.
You’ve located a proper Avon specimen one of those great bronze-backed fellows that sits beneath the far-bank roots like a nightclub bouncer who’s seen it all before. Normally the process involves a careful cast, a well-placed lead, and a quiet prayer to the patron saint of anglers.
But imagine instead a discreet tripod-mounted laser array beside the tackle box.
A gentle beam across the water… just enough to illuminate the precise feeding lane of His Whiskered Majesty. No splashing leads. No tangled rigs. Just pure, scientific piscatorial persuasion.
- Precision bait warming gently heating a cube of luncheon meat to release maximum aroma into the glide.
- Snag trimming a tidy zap to that one offending twig that eats every rig you send downstream.
- Barbel encouragement—a polite flash of light to suggest that yes, dinner is indeed served and located conveniently near your hooklink.
Of course the purists would object.
They always do.
“Next you’ll be fishing with satellites,” they’ll mutter, while threading yet another heroic cube of cheese paste onto a hook roughly the size of farm machinery.
But anglers have always embraced technology. Carbon rods, braided lines, bite alarms that scream like startled smoke detectors, and bait boats, bait boats FFS, The slope has been slippery for years.
And somewhere down that slope there may one day be a man on the Warwickshire Avon quietly adjusting the targeting optics on a portable directed-energy platform.
Not to harm the fish, you understand.
He simply wishes to highlight the exact patch of gravel where a twelve-pound barbel is about to pick up his bait. And when the rod finally hoops over magnificently, violently, gloriously he will play the fish in the time-honoured fashion: bent rod, slipping clutch, and a grin wide enough to concern the herons.
The barbel are still in charge.
And they know it.
Enough of that Mick, to the fishing !!!
I rolled out of work at half-four with the sort of optimism only an angler can possess—namely the belief that tonight, tonight, the river would reward my persistence instead of laughing at me like it had done for the previous forty-odd attempts.
My destination was the swim affectionately known as Piccadilly Circus, which in fishing terms means “good pegs” but in reality usually resembles the M25 at rush hour with rods.
As I trundled closer, hopes high and kettle in mind, the car park appeared on the left… full. To the right, a field… also full. Cars everywhere. Blokes everywhere. Trolleys stacked so high with gear they looked capable of surviving a three-month Arctic expedition. The match had clearly just finished. I muttered something polite and respectful like “Bugger.”
Plan B it was then. Not far away, thankfully, though the riverbank field resembled a sponge that had recently fought a losing battle with the Atlantic Ocean. The track was non negotiable.
I parked the car just inside the gate and began the usual angling ballet: rod out, bag on shoulder, bait tub under arm, trying to look like a man who absolutely meant to step in that puddle. The swim I fancied was the one that had kindly produced a cracking 5lb 10oz chub at the end of last season. A proper swim it is too features everywhere, cover down the right, a tidy crease and a little slack close in that screams “fish live here, mate.” Or at least whispers it politely.
Now with dusk less than an hour away and my curfew looming like an over-enthusiastic bailiff, I went straight in with the good stuff: a 15mm Robin Red drilled pellet, paste wrap, and a PVA bag of little pellets for company. The sort of bait package that either catches a fish or at the very least makes you feel like you know what you’re doing. Out it went, plopping nicely into the crease. Then I sat back to “chill”, which in reality meant slowly turning into an icicle while pretending the wind was refreshing. The water was a positively tropical 9.4 degrees however, decent if you ask me.
The evening looked perfect in that picturesque sort of way clear sky, sun dipping, everything glowing beautifully. Unfortunately, the fish hadn’t been consulted. The rod tip remained as still as a taxidermy exhibit. Not even a cheeky chub pluck. Just me, the river, and the creeping suspicion I’d once again driven somewhere purely to sit in the cold. Then, about half an hour in, there was a twitch. Maybe a line bite. Maybe a fish. Maybe the river simply mocking me again. Still, it was activity, and after fifty sessions where I have tried for barbel in and amongst them you learn to celebrate even theoretical fish.
A short while later the rod tip gave two sharp bangs, the rod hooped over, and suddenly everything went into what anglers like to call “melt-down mode.” I lifted into the fish and immediately knew it wasn’t a chub. This was a barbel, and a lively one at that. The smaller barbel seem to fight like they’ve had three espressos and an argument with a swan, and this one tore about the swim, and taking line with admirable enthusiasm. Given the number of times I’d fished this stretch without so much as a polite sniff, I suspect I was more surprised than the fish.
Eventually after much puffing, muttering, and pretending I was in control the fish slid over the net cord. “A fish! A fish!” I may or may not have said out loud like a Victorian naturalist discovering a new species. And not just any fish either: a barbel, and my first from this stretch after what felt like roughly seventeen geological eras of effort.
.jpg)
With darkness closing in and my curfew ticking loudly in my head, I conducted the world’s fastest photoshoot. The phone flash did well, though the riverbank lighting could generously be described as “mysterious gloom.” The barbel was returned after resting, the tackle sorted, and I legged it back across the soggy field like a man who had finally achieved redemption, whilst leaving Nic from Avon Angling a voice message.
Nearly Fifty sessions it had taken. Fifty. But as I drove home, smug grin firmly attached, I realised something important: sometimes persistence pays off… and sometimes it just makes the eventual barbel taste even sweeter. Figuratively speaking of course. The barbel was fine. I, however, was absolutely buzzing. 🎣another smash and grab session that went to plan. Only a few days left, why the heck is it always the same every season, the bigger fish seem to show themselves just as the drawbridge goes up.
0 comments:
Post a Comment