The River Wye - Barbelification and Bewilderment

Now there are moments in life when you think you've absolutely nailed it. Booking a father-and-son trip to the River Wye seemed like one of those moments, right up until the Wife wandered past, looked over my shoulder and casually reminded me that I'd also managed to book it on our eighteenth wedding anniversary. Eighteen years. That's not one you can pretend slipped your mind because of "river conditions."

Apparently disappearing off fishing while your long-suffering wife celebrates nearly two decades of marriage on her own isn't considered acceptable behaviour. I briefly considered explaining that barbel don't understand calendars, but experience has taught me that wives are remarkably resistant to angling-based excuses. It's almost as if they've heard them all before.

Fortunately, diplomacy prevailed. "We'll go out for a nice meal on Saturday," she said. "Okay," I replied, sensing I'd somehow escaped with only minor injuries. Then came the knockout punch... "You can pay."

Well played.

Now, regular readers will remember Glynn Purnell's old place, The Mount in Henley. Well that's all changed because it's now a Thai restaurant, run by the same people behind The Bulls Head at Wootton Wawen, and if first impressions count then they're onto a winner because the place was absolutely rammed.

We kicked things off with three starters to share because apparently that's what civilised adults do rather than ordering enough food to feed a stag party. They were superb, but the real star of the evening was my main course, a Panang curry proudly displaying a five-chilli warning like some sort of legal disclaimer.

Now I do enjoy my spicy food. I like a curry that makes your forehead glisten slightly and encourages you to question some of your life choices. This thing, however, was operating right on the upper edge of my personal pain threshold and I absolutely loved every fiery mouthful.

The thick coconut sauce somehow managed to calm the inferno whilst simultaneously encouraging it to burst back into life about thirty seconds later. It was like being repeatedly slapped around the face by a very friendly Thai chef. Outstanding.

To make matters even stranger, the Wife volunteered to drive home. I wasn't about to question this miracle and instead concentrated on ensuring most of the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc didn't go to waste. It would've been rude not to.

It was genuinely lovely seeing such a busy restaurant. The pub garden was absolutely packed with people making the most of the warm evening, proving that good food and decent service still draw the crowds. Funny that.

Earlier in the day we'd met friends at The Fish in Wixford where the conversation inevitably drifted towards fishing. It always does. Give anglers five minutes and someone will either produce photographs of fish or directions to somewhere that definitely contains fish.

During a completely unplanned detour into Angling Direct in Redditch for "just a few bits"—those four words responsible for emptying more wallets than inflation—I somehow managed to leave with a £15 book for a club on the River Arrow. I hadn't gone in for a book. I never intended buying a book. But there it was, in my permit wallet whispering sweet nothings about undiscovered swims and mysterious barbel.

As it happened, someone I know had recently spotted a few decent barbel in one particular stretch. That's all it takes with anglers. Mention the word "barbel" and we're halfway out the door before you've even finished the sentence.

Now poor Sam had spent the previous day at school sports day where, according to him, a lad weighing "about 100 kilograms" decided the best way to celebrate athletics was by body-slamming him. Whether the lad actually weighed 100kg or whether he'd simply swallowed another Year 11 remains open to debate, but Sam's wrist certainly wasn't happy about it.

At precisely 5.45am I poked my head around his bedroom door expecting eager excitement. Instead I was greeted by a rather miserable-looking teenager apologising because every now and then shooting pains were racing through his wrist. Fair enough. Fishing can wait, wrists are quite useful.

 So for the first time in a while, my usual partner in crime wasn't making the journey. Shame really because he'd have absolutely loved this place. Then again, perhaps he wouldn't have appreciated what came next.

Getting to the best swim is less of a walk and more of an audition for SAS: Who Dares Wins. First there's a steep hill that reminds you you're no longer twenty-five, followed by two stiles specifically designed to catch landing nets, then a metal bridge, another gate and finally...

...a very large bull.

Now I'm no expert on livestock but when your route to the river involves crossing a field occupied by something that looks capable of towing tractors for fun, you suddenly become remarkably respectful of personal space. 

I perfected a walking pace somewhere between "calm countryside rambler" and "Olympic speed walker pretending not to panic."

Thankfully the bull looked at me, looked at the rod holdall and seemingly concluded that anyone voluntarily carrying that much fishing gear clearly had enough problems already. Crisis averted.

Eventually I reached the river and immediately noticed the water felt deliciously cool. Gone was the warm bathwater we'd endured previously. 

The plan was straightforward: fish hard through the morning, enjoy some lunch, fish a little longer and escape before the afternoon heat started turning anglers into human puddles.

Before leaving home I'd noticed Angling Direct had virtually no method feeders left apart from their own-brand versions. They're cheap enough and, to be fair, on a snaggy little river that's probably a blessing because feeding expensive tackle into submerged branches is a hobby I can live without.

I started with five feeders.

That detail will become important later.

The first cast had barely settled before the tip bounced round like it had been connected to the National Grid. Fish on. Lovely chub.

Second cast.

Another chub.

Third cast.

Believe it or not... another chub.

It became utterly ridiculous. The robin red pellet wasn't even getting chance to introduce itself before another greedy chub inhaled it. I reckon if I'd cast out an old sock soaked in curry sauce I'd probably have caught one on that as well.

Within about an hour I'd landed ten chub. Not bites. Not missed opportunities. Ten actual fish. The smallest looked offended to be there while the better ones were proper lumps that filled the landing net nicely.

Normally when chub are feeding like this you'd expect the barbel to gatecrash the party eventually. Not today.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The river was low and clear, the ranunculus weed was looking magnificent and from my elevated perch I could see all sorts moving below. The trouble was every single shape eventually turned into... another chub.

I messaged Nic from Avon Angling UK for moral support. He suggested the barbel might be lurking in the deeper hole off to my right. Excellent thinking.

So naturally I cast over there.

Chub.

Again.

Some of these fish were proper footballs with fins. Not quite five-pounders but certainly giving it serious consideration, and every single one was carefully unhooked in the water before swimming away looking vaguely annoyed that breakfast had ended so abruptly.

By lunchtime I'd already lost count of how many times I'd said, "Surely the next one will be a barbel."

It never was.

After lunch I fancied a change and wandered downstream to a faster glide for a bit of trotting. Because there wasn't anywhere sensible to stick a bankstick I wedged the rod and landing net into my waders with all the grace of someone attempting advanced yoga while dressed as a scarecrow.

The float travelled beautifully.

Then disappeared.

Chub.

Obviously.

By now I was starting to suspect I'd accidentally wandered onto the River Chub rather than the River Wye. If there had been a competition for catching species that weren't barbel, I'd have been lifting the trophy with both hands.

Eventually I wandered back to the original swim where the chub welcomed me back like old friends. They were still feeding with exactly the same enthusiasm they'd shown first thing that morning, which was both brilliant and faintly ridiculous. Trotting meat again just chub. 

Meanwhile my method feeders were disappearing into underwater snags with alarming regularity. Remember those five feeders I started with?

By home time...

I'd successfully reduced the population to precisely zero.

Somewhere beneath that swim lies an impressive collection of terminal tackle, enough to start a small underwater tackle shop. If fish ever learn to open businesses, they'll be trading by next spring.

As tempting as it was to stay until dusk, there didn't seem much point. The barbel clearly hadn't read the script and either weren't feeding or had already stuffed themselves senseless the previous day. Sometimes rivers simply decide today's not your day.

Did I mind?

Not one bit.

I'd spent the day surrounded by glorious countryside, watched kingfishers flash along the river like tiny feathered missiles, listened to buzzards calling overhead and caught well over a hundred pounds of wonderfully obliging chub. There are definitely worse ways to spend a Sunday.

The climb back up Heart Attack Hill after the over half a mile walk was surprisingly manageable too. Either someone's secretly reduced the gradient overnight or all this river walking is actually improving my fitness. Personally I suspect it's the latter, although I'm keeping an eye on that bull just in case he's been flattening it out between visits.

So no barbel, no fishing partner, no method feeders and an unexpectedly expensive wedding anniversary weekend. Yet somehow it all worked out rather nicely. The Wife got her anniversary meal, I got my curry-induced near-death experience, Sam gets another trip once his wrist behaves itself and somewhere on the River Wye there's a gang of exceptionally well-fed chub wondering when that daft bloke with the robin red pellets is coming back.

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.

River Wye - Damp socks and Damnification

Now somehow and I’m still not entirely sure how this happened  Ben turned sixteen over the weekend. One minute he’s eating crayons and posting Pokémon cards through the toaster, the next he’s wanting a Fat Hippo “Born Slippy” like a seasoned burger connoisseur and swiping ID-checked mocktails like he’s about to DJ at Ministry of Sound. Time, it seems, is no longer on our side.

Ben having left 'school' will now go to the Welcome Hills 'hub' which is for 'life skills' where he will be until he is 19. We've a few years to decide where he goes from there, answers on a postcard !!

So anyway what better way to celebrate his coming of age than with something greasy, followed by something loud and wildly overpriced? 

Cue the Fat Hippo in Birmingham for burgers dirtier than a Somerset tractor tyre, and then on to the F1 Arcade for the kind of simulation racing where the only thing more dangerous than the virtual crashes is the price of a pint.

Ben’s younger brother Sam, however, doesn’t quite share the same enthusiasm for airshows or faux-driving Grand Prix cars into a digital Monaco chicane. So while Sarah dutifully took Ben and a small gang of turbo-charged teenagers to Fairford Air Tattoo the following morning to ogle jet engines and fried dough, I’d booked Sam and I something a little more... tranquil.

Fishing on the River Wye. Man and boy. With rods, reels, and enough scalded pellets to open a small branch of Nash Tackle.

Now, Sam had been absolutely buzzing for this trip. He’d got his first pair of proper waders for his birthday, the kind that makes a lad feel part man, part frog. I’d barely got the car packed before he was in the driveway dressed like an amphibious knight, armed with a landing net and asking if we could camp “for at least a week.”

When we finally arrived, the Wye looked... well... thirsty. Desperately low and as gin-clear as the posh optics behind a Waitrose bar. The streamer weed, which had been playing hard to get in recent years, was back doing its leafy dance, and there, tucked just off a gravel bar, were the tell-tale flashes of flanking barbel – more barbless ballet than feeding frenzy, but encouraging all the same.

Our swim was marked with a forgotten pair of socks someone had clearly sacrificed to the river gods, then I did what all sensible river anglers should do: fed the swim and didn’t rush in like an over-eager labrador. A half-hour of soaking and some hopeful muttering to the river spirits later, I prepped for the Method approach – on the advice of Nic from Avon Angling, who’d been here two days prior and winked like a man who knew a secret.

Scalded pellet mix. 12mm halibut pellet on the hair. Standard stuff. Except what wasn’t standard was what happened fifteen minutes in. I noticed the line collecting a bit of weed, went to tweak it and then WHACK! The rod tip went full Shakespearean tragedy. A violent lurch, a screeching clutch, and suddenly I was connected to what can only be described as an aquatic freight train with fins.

Now this, my friends, was no chub.

Sam, to his credit, had the net ready and was pacing like an apprentice zookeeper watching his first lion get loose. The fish wasn’t happy. The line was grating. Streamer weed was wrapping around the line like a sullen teenager in a duvet. After some heart-stopping lunges and a final defiant burst, Sam did the honours and netted it like an absolute pro. What a lad.

At first glance, I guessed 7lb. Maybe 8. But once I hoisted her up and felt the weight thumping through my wrist like an angry metronome, I revised my estimate. Scales don’t lie. 9lb 11oz  a proper Wye bruiser and my personal best from the river.

After some resting and obligatory admiration, Sam released it with all the grace and seriousness of a junior fish priest. The barbel, perhaps sensing our awe, didn’t linger. She flicked once and surged away with purpose. Job done.

The rest of the day unfolded like a greatest hits album of classic Wye moments. We swapped between float and ledger tactics. The “gully swim” produced some chub (nothing big), taken on little cubes of luncheon meat trotted through a pacey glide that made the rod tip twitch with anticipation. Sam, despite being only 13, fished like a lad with gills. 

I suppose dragging him to rivers since he was 4 has paid off. He’s got the touch now  the soft flick of the float, the patient wait, the instinctive strike. I mostly just watched, passed him sandwiches, and felt a quiet swell of dad pride.

As the day wore on, clouds began to grumble in the distance like an old man realising he'd left the immersion heater on. We took the hint. Packed up. Began the long trudge back to the car, rods on shoulders, boots clagged in riverbank clay. 

We’d barely shut the doors when the heavens opened in a deluge of biblical proportions. Torrential rain lashed the windscreen with all the grace of a toddler wielding a watering can.

Perfect timing. Perfect day.

And so, after burgers, barbel, and big skies full of Red Arrows and thunderclouds, we returned home damp, satisfied, and carrying the faint but glorious stink of river fish and dirty waders. 

Roll on the next session.

River Wye - Gravestones and Grithbreachs

Ever forgot something, and you realise when you've arrived bankside ? there is a good reason why I have a range of items either in my bag or actually in my car, because it seems to be a regular occurance. A rod rest head, a bankstick, even a spare landing hand handle. 

When I placed the tackle at the top end of the stretch I was fishing and after negotiating 'heart attack hill' and what seems like a mile of walking, it dawned on me, nope not the catapult, but the bleeding landing net FFS. As I pinged in some pellets in a couple of the swims an otter with a smile in it's face popped his head out one of the swim I was going to fish, and then continued to stare at me as it proceeded to waft down the river. 

Bugger !!!, I dumped the tackle and then decided to check the car but then after retracing my steps I rang the Wife and she confirmed "yes it's still in the garage !!!, not like you to forget things is it". Sooooo only one thing for it, onto Google to find the nearest tackle shop and thankfully the Angling Centre Limited was only 17 minutes away and they surely could get me out of the predicament I was in ?

They open at 8.00am which I was surprised at so after arriving at the parking spot at 7.15am that was perfect really, because loaded with tackle it took 20 minutes just to get to the area I was fishing, and then another 15 minutes to get back to the car, up the 'heart attack hill' which now has some newly built steps, and then a short drive to the tackle shop.

I ended up with a Dinsmore Shake n Dry landing net which came with its own storage bag, which is perfect really as I will now leave it in the car. A pony though, £25 quid so this trip is certainly adding up. It was a nice size similar to my Guru specimen net but a nice rubber finish, which does often repel the fishy pong landing nets are prone to. 

So back to the stretch again which took a little longer it was school starting time and the traffic was worse. Phew !!! I can relax now, wasn't too bad, despite me being the cause of all these problems. I fancied chilling out for a bit behind a rod for an hour before trotting the stick float and the first chuck of the feeder in a clear and lowish river, but that never happened.

The chub were on it straight from the off and it didn't take long to have a fish in the net to christen it because after after some ridiculous really powerful pulls on the tip, I switched to a small piece of meat on the hook rather than boilie on the hair and within  a few minutes a fish had hooked itself with yet another powerful bite. 

Then it was fish after fish after fish, nothing big from just under 2lb to around 4lb but I was enjoying this and in the end switched back to boilie on a hair just to revel in the ridiculous bites I was getting. I prefer to trot if I can on the Wye and it was a barbel that I wanted so decided to move upstream to the croy and have a go off there. 

I had already pinged in some pellets in this swim and it only took 15 minutes to get a bite trotting small cubes of meat when the float buried and I was in to a fish. The head shakes gave the game away and another nice chub was in the net after an enjoyable fight on the 15ft float rod.

I had quite a few more fish over the next couple of hours but there was no sign of the barbel. After taking stock with some lunch I decided to check the water temperature which was 9.9 degrees. So a nice temperature but I could see the bottom in most of the swims so I'm sure being clear wasn't helping the barbel front.

I tried another swim next where I have caught barbel before trotting but after another couple of hours with only chub again and the float now becoming difficult to see at the very end of the run, I decided to set my stall out to try and catch a barbel. 

This swim is renowned for the barbel that like to hang around the rocks but fishing a feeder you risk the chance of snagging up and losing gear, which happened twice. In the end I cast to an area that gave a satisfying donk on the feeder that seemed clear of any issues.

Chub after chub again and when the light started to go I though the barbel might come out to feed. The fry were being chased by the perch and activity seemed to increase, with a couple of Goosander popping up in my swim with one of them with a gobful of what looked like a dace. The bites seemed to get more violent if that was possible and a few of them were 100% a barbel bite, until I lifted in to the fish.

The barbel just didn't show for me at all and curfew time came where I reckon I must have had over 30 chub, with the best maybe a scraper 5lber. A really enjoyable day on my tod, but at the moment for the life of me I just cannot seem to catch a barbel. They seem to be a bit of a bogey species for me where on my headstone I think I'll have the chubmeister.  

A chub fest, which I don't mind as you know that, but the barbel again seem suspicious in their absence, but then this is Piscatorial Quagswagging, this is the humdrum. I've another couple of fishing sessions planned before the season end, and to honest I'm stuck in rut really, I think the closed season will be a good thing where I can take stock, sell my rods and take up flower arranging or bird bothering (the feathered variety !!)

I love the Wye though, I've said before it's like entering a different world there really is nothing like it and works wonders for the mind. It's only an hour and 15 minutes away by car as well, so I need to fish it more, not just a handful of times a year. I love long trotting on a BIG river, it feels like proper fishing rather than being stuck behind a rod which as you know my restless legs often kick in. 

River Wye - Fuzzy Rocks and Furunculoids

As we head in to July this month the river is softer, gentler, and à a more even flow. This means that the fish spread out more, are less inclined to stick with their traditional haunts. Weed growth is plentiful, and usually where there's weed there are fish. 

Where the heck is all the weed on the River Wye though ?, certainly doesn't look a healthy river does it, thankfully it's been getting media attention of late since, the River Wye’s health status was downgraded by Natural England a year argo, as wildlife charities accuse the government of failing to stop farming pollution harming the waterway. The government nature watchdog has updated the status of the river from “unfavourable-improving” to “unfavourable-declining”, meaning its condition is poor and worsening.

Usually barring heatwaves, July is a good month. Pleasant weather, everything in leaf or bloom, plenty of wild creatures dropping off overhanging vegetation to the chub waiting below, and plenty of fish on the move. The fly fisherman is happy. If he's not, he should be. All he has to do is count the flies that are buzzing around his head. If he can't match one of those, he's not really trying.

More of that later. Meanwhile, the bream are coming into their own, recovering from spawning and feeding heartily. The bream's habit of moving in shoals of roughly the same- sized fish, and of patrolling to a regular time- table, means that the dedicated and observant angler can whop in a whole shoal, especially if he's prepared to stay up all night.

It's the time of the photographs in the press of dozens of bream laid out on the grass, or packed into swollen keepnets, in front of an angler who is failing totally in his attempts to look modest. It's also the time of the letters of complaint from fish lovers anglers and non-anglers alike about such exhibitionism.

It's the time-and here we get back to the flies-of bites from creatures other than fish. The angler who prefers not to be eaten alive by gnats and midges, stabbed through through by wasps, or chewed up by horseflies, is wise to wear a hat and to use some form of insect repellant. The little perishers always find somewhere to sink their gnashers, but it's worth trying to restrict their choice.

Here follows a list of old country remedies. For God's sake, don't use any of 'em.

One is a mixture of beeswax and turpentine dabbed behind the ears. Perhaps you don't get bitten behind the ears, but you do everywhere else. Another is a mixture of sulphuric acid and seal oil, which is supposed to ward off colds and rheumatism as well as keeping the insects at bay. It has the distinct disadvantage of leaving the user smelling like an old fish dock, which not only gets him thrown out of the pub, but pounced on by every cat within sniffing distance.

The North American Indians covered themselves with rancid bear fat. Very effective, apparently, but not highly recommended if you're using public transport.There's always the good old good one: the smudge fire. This you build on the bank to windward out of damp straw, leaves, wet wood, old socks; anything guaranteed to raise a lot of smoke. Then you sit with your head in the cloud. Coughing.

Though the smoke does keep the insects away, it certainly doesn't have the same effect on the bailiff, who turns up and books you for lighting fires on the bank.

Anyway a short post this because the fishing wasn't exactly prolific and even Nic from Avon Angling struggled for bites with only a few chub caught, from usually productive swims. I ended up fishing two swims as well, with only one swim producing the goods for me. Trotted meat being the downfall of around 20 ish chub, these being the main stamp.

The barbel showed sporadically throughout the day, but they were clearly not in a feeding mood, I'm sure the coloured but low water level didn't help and they could well have had other things on their minds, it's the fuzzy stuff clinging to the rocks I'm more worried about, and how coloured it was, needs a revist soon me thinks.  

River Wye - Jerkinheads and Jersey Devils

Well, what can you say about November?

Except 'Yuk!', oh and for me, it's when the SAD, yeap seasonal affective disorder kicks in big time. 

The weather has usually broken into something resembling a bad day in the Yukon; the leaves are off the trees, impeding the floats, clogging the lines, fouling the water and generally putting the fish off their grub, moving water is starting to move faster and creep up higher.

But take heart. The old standbys the roach, chub and perch will oblige during the milder spells, should there be any. And the pike still have to eat. This is the month that sees the last of the fair weather fishermen for a while. They go back to indoor pursuits such as basket weaving, rig making and annoying their other halves.

It's also the month that sorts the men out from the boys. Those hardy souls still on the bank, sitting out in the wind, the rain and the sleet are the boys. The men have retired to the pub

Anyway November is also the start of the angling wheezing season. Industrial absenteeism rockets as anglers stay on the bank to fish the last of the light, such as it is, having forgotten to put on an extra set of thermals. Winter draws on, as they say. And if you haven't got your winter drawers on, you're a dead cert for a coughing fit on Monday morning.

Don't forget to take something for your chest, either: goose grease, liberty bodice, extra pully, knitted wool scarf, hairpiece. What many anglers take for their chest is port and brandy combo. Then they wonder why they fall in the water. Certainly only the most dedicated night fishers will stay on the bank once November sets in. As the Bard put it so well, in a poem dedicated to Dick Spray and Morris Minor of the Lucians Specimen Group - a pair of dedicated and intrepid nutcases if ever there were, sitting up night after night through the Winter for pike:

When a man grows old (I turned 51 today FFS 🤯)
And his hands grow cold
And the end of his nose turns blue,
And he freezes all night
In the hope of a bite,
I'd say he was mad, wouldn't you?

Anyway I was on my tod for this session down the Wye post storm Ciaran, where gusts of more than 100mph have left thousands of homes without power, forced school closures and caused travel chaos after Storm Ciaran battered the south of England and the Channel Islands.

Damage to properties in Jersey meant some had to evacuate their homes and seek refuge in a hotel, with one woman saying hailstones “bigger than a golf ball” had broken her windows. In the south of England on Thursday, hundreds of schools closed because of the risk to pupils and a major incident has been declared in Hampshire and the Isle of Wight because of the expected pressure on local services.

The storm filtered out before it reached inland however it was still pretty blustery with buckets of rain which meant the Wye was well up with plenty of water on. Barbel were the target naturally in these conditions and I decided to dust off the Korum Big Water rod which is 12ft and 2.25TC. I prefer to use an 11ft rod if I'm honest but hook something half decent I needed some more ommpppphhh than my Harrison 1.75TC mainstay. 

So baits, well the usual really, in the feeder stinky Dynamite Shrimp & Krill groundbait with some grated meat and hemp mixed in with it. Then baits robin red flavoured meat, 12mm pre-drilled robin red pellets and Dynamite Hot Fish boilies too with matching paste.. The usual roving approach where I'd fish swims in rotation to try and get a bite. There seems to be some mixed reports on the Wye, some good, lots bad, but I've found with a rising and high river, I've always done ok on the Wye.

Meat is one of those baits I've utter confidence in and I don't mess around with the size, it's always decent pieces either straight on the hook if underarm casting, or with a korum meat stop when casting far. 

Now after a natter with the farmer I walked the whole stretch and realised that my swim options really were limited. Now one of the reasons why I booked this stretch is because even if the river is well up like it was today the first couple of swims can always be fished, and thankfully I had that option today as it really was banging through.

It took a while to get the first bite if I'm honest but then I had a few chub in quick succession all on the flavoured meat. They were not messing around either barbel esk bites they were straight on it.

I must have had 7 or so in the end, oh and a small eel on the meat and I should have brought some more as I got through it all by the end of the session. What I did get through as well was gear, the same snag put pay to 5 or so entire set-ups. Despite knowing broadly where it was the river flow always seemed to find it, this was using 4.5 ounce feeders too.

The first barbel came from the gully swim which was borderline unfishable but the feeder just held bottom and after 20 minutes this lovely little scamp thought it would like a try and the Dynamite hot fish boilies.

For the last few hours I spent it in the big slack swim where after a couple of chub eventually I managed this lovely barbel of 6lb and 8 ounces. A proper decent fight as well, taking line a few times and I thought it was bigger until I netted it.

Sadly I lost the biggest barbel to a snag that I couldn't see literally a rod length out to my left. After a decent fight it got straight in there and there was nothing I could do. With 3 metres of water on it's difficult to know what was there but that barbel knew, it certainly did.  

So another enjoyable trip to the Wye despite the lost end tackle and lost fish frustrations. The weather made it even more so, even though it was cold the sun made up for it and it was very pleasant indeed. It only take me an hour and fifteen minutes to get here, that's what is so appealing especially with such nice scenery.

Anyway I got back to a lovely Victoria Sponge Sam and the Wife made which was nice. A birthday to remember shame they seem to come round so fast these days. Anyway on to the next one !!!