The Wife raised an eyebrow when I announced we were having chilli con carne for tea. Fair enough really. A few days ago she was sat with her feet in the paddling pool, gently nursing a gin and tonic like she'd discovered the secret to surviving a British heatwave. Boy, it's been hot hasn't it? thankfully the 35 degree days are behind us (or are they ?), roll on winter !!
"what about a kebab wrap with loads of salad and plenty of tzatziki ?"
"Perfect!!!" she declared, before taking another sip of gin. Funny how these things become less of a discussion and more of a change of government.
I'd been itching to try one of those viral doner kebab tricks anyway. You spread seasoned and spiced mince between two sheets of greaseproof paper, peel one off, fold an inch or so, fold it again, and keep going until you've created what looks like the world's meatiest paper fan. Into the oven it goes, and somehow the magic happens.
I'll admit, I wasn't expecting much. Social media recipes can be as effective as a fart in a hurricane. But blow me down, it came out cracking. Packed into a wrap with crisp salad and a dollop of tzatziki, (with lots of chilli sauce for me) it was dangerously close to the real thing. Another meal added to the ever-growing armoury. Which is handy, because if this weather keeps up, the chilli can wait until October.
Now talking of meat there are certain summer days when a river appears to have signed a private agreement with its barbel. The terms are simple enough: the fish agree not to get caught, and the river agrees not to reveal where they are. The water is gin clear, the sun is blazing away like an overenthusiastic security lamp, and every fish in the county seems capable of identifying the make and model of your hook from twenty yards.
On such occasions, many anglers respond by becoming ever more complicated. Out come the microscopic hooks, the fluorocarbon so thin it can only be seen by astronomers, and rigs with enough components to qualify for planning permission. Meanwhile, one of the most effective approaches of all sits quietly in the background like an old pub regular who knows exactly how the evening will end: trundling meat.
The curious thing about trundling is that it feels almost suspiciously sensible. A piece of meat enters the flow and proceeds downstream exactly as countless edible items have done since rivers were invented. It does not arrive attached to a feeder the size of a small grenade. It does not sit bolt upright in the current like a traffic cone.
It simply wanders along with all the purpose and dignity of a mildly confused sausage.
To a barbel accustomed to seeing every conceivable modern presentation lowered onto its nose, this can be alarmingly convincing. Summer barbel, particularly in clear water, often resemble elderly gentlemen peering through net curtains. They see everything. They inspect everything. They trust absolutely nothing. A static bait can receive the sort of scrutiny usually reserved for suspicious parcels left outside government buildings. The fish circles. It pauses. It tilts.
It appears to be conducting a full risk assessment. A trundled bait, on the other hand, drifts past with an air of complete innocence. The fish has only moments to decide. There is no committee meeting, no consultation period, and no opportunity to spend twenty minutes glaring at the hooklink. It is either food or it is gone.
This urgency is one of the great strengths of the method. Barbel are not always hungry in difficult summer conditions, but they are often opportunistic. A piece of meat rolling naturally through the swim can trigger exactly the sort of impulsive reaction that a carefully positioned static bait may never provoke. The take often feels less like a feeding response and more like a fish suddenly thinking, "Hang on, if I don't grab that now, Dave downstream will have it."
One angler who appears to understand this better than most in recent times is fellow blogger and angler James Denison, who I've been lucky to meet and fish with (he's difference gravy !!) During his quest to land double-figure barbel from forty different rivers, he has frequently spoken about the value of mobile, searching tactics, particularly when approaching unfamiliar water.
It is easy to see why. When you arrive at a new river, armed with little more than optimism and an inflated belief in your own watercraft, trundling allows you to cover water, learn the contours of the swim and put a bait in front of fish quickly. Rather than spending three hours convincing yourself that an empty peg is "bound to switch on at dusk", you are actively hunting. The river starts revealing its secrets far sooner.
In many ways, fishing a new river resembles being invited to a party where you know nobody. Some anglers immediately march into the middle of the room and start talking. Others stand awkwardly near the buffet hoping someone recognises them. Trundling meat is the angling equivalent of quietly wandering around introducing yourself to everybody. Before long, you discover where the interesting characters are gathered and, more importantly, where the barbel are hiding.
The method also remains gloriously underused because it demands rivercraft rather than shopping. There is no need to remortgage the house for the latest titanium-enhanced, aerospace-derived widget. The principal item of technology involved is a lump of luncheon meat. This is deeply disappointing for anyone hoping to solve the problem by purchasing another £17.99 packet of something described as revolutionary. Trundling requires observation, movement and thought, all of which are regrettably difficult to hang on a tackle-shop display hook.
Indeed, much of the pleasure comes from becoming actively involved with the river. One starts watching currents, studying gravel runs, and considering where a drifting bait might naturally travel. Before long, the angler is creeping about the bank like a Victorian naturalist with slightly poorer posture. Every crease looks promising. Every shaded run acquires significance. One becomes absorbed in the process and temporarily forgets that the fish are doing their very best to make a fool of everyone.
The bait itself deserves some credit. Luncheon meat possesses a remarkable ability to remain effective despite being treated with almost complete snobbery by sections of the angling world. Pellets arrive with scientific names and nutritional profiles. Boilies are discussed with the seriousness of fine wine. Meat arrives in a tin and looks as though it should be served with chips. Yet barbel continue to eat it with an enthusiasm bordering on embarrassment. If fish had social media, many would probably deny ever touching the stuff while secretly queuing up for another piece.
Perhaps the greatest reason trundling meat excels in clear summer conditions is that it appears so utterly unremarkable. Rivers are full of things moving downstream. Rivers are not full of suspiciously anchored cubes of food attached to invisible strings. The more pressured the fish become, the more valuable that ordinariness is. A bait that looks boring to anglers often looks entirely believable to barbel.
So when the river is low, clear and apparently devoid of cooperation, it may be worth resisting the urge to become ever more technical. The fish have already seen most of the clever ideas. What they have not seen nearly as often is a humble piece of meat tumbling naturally through their world. It lacks glamour, prestige and fashionable terminology.
Which is probably why it keeps catching barbel while everyone else is busy explaining why it shouldn't. And if a man can travel the country in search of double-figure barbel from forty different rivers and repeatedly place his faith in such a simple approach, perhaps there is a lesson there for the rest of us. Sometimes the cleverest tactic on the river is the one that looks as though it ought not to work at all.
So anyway, I better get the gear and get trundling !!
Now I'd had the evening mapped out in my head. You know how it is. I'd mentally packed the tackle, already decided which swims I'd fish and was halfway through catching a mythical twelve-pounder before I'd even left the house.
Then, out of absolutely nowhere, the Wife casually announced, "Don't forget I'm going over to Sarah's later." Well... that rather rearranged proceedings. "Errrrrrrrr... OK then. I was actually going fishing then... bugger." Without missing a beat she replied, "Well why not go now then?" It was one of those rare moments where arguing would have been both foolish and potentially time-consuming, so I simply grabbed the gear and made a tactical retreat before the offer was mysteriously withdrawn, and now I'm fishing late morning.
It wasn't until I was halfway down the road that I realised I'd forgotten the suncream. Fortunately I had a bottle rolling around in the ruckbag somewhere between spare hooks, old receipts and enough loose pellets to start my own fishery. I arrived at the river looking less like an angler and more like someone preparing for a day on Bondi Beach, slapping the stuff on so enthusiastically I probably frightened a passing dragonfly with my amplified 5'oclock shadow. I hadn't even finished rubbing it in before destiny interrupted.
The first swim was one I've always fancied. It's tucked just below the weir providing plenty of oxygen with thick cover hugging one side and a narrow channel that positively screams, "There's a barbel hiding in here." Of course, saying that and proving it are two entirely different things. As I crept into position I managed to disturb a couple of chub that disappeared with all the grace of teenagers avoiding household chores. The water is ridiculously clear at the moment, which is wonderful for fish spotting but absolutely useless when you're trying to sneak up on anything with fins.
The first trundle through with the meat produced absolutely nothing. Not a twitch. Not even the optimistic knock that convinces you a leaf is actually a fish. The second run was different. I couldn't even see the bait anymore, but holding the line gently between thumb and forefinger I felt those unmistakable little taps. Then everything tightened. The rod tip confidently pulled round a couple of feet as though someone downstream had decided to borrow my rod. I struck... and instantly knew this wasn't one of the local chub.
The fish bored off with all the determination of someone late for the last train home. This swim is awkward enough to make a yoga instructor complain, with roots, branches and submerged nasties waiting to claim expensive terminal tackle. Thankfully experience counted for something and after a proper scrap I managed to guide a lovely barbel into the waiting net. Result! Now we're talking. That's exactly why you ignore the sensible option of mowing the lawn.
I didn't bother weighing it because sometimes a good fish is simply a good fish. I'd put it somewhere around seven-and-a-half to eight pounds, give or take the usual angler's optimistic eyesight. It rested quietly in the margins while I grabbed a quick trophy shot before being allowed to recover properly. A few moments later it powered away with a splash that thoroughly soaked one of my boots, which I took as the fish's polite way of saying, "Cheers... now leave me alone." As a certain famous DJ would say... Oh yes! Oh yes!
Buoyed by early success I wandered downstream wearing the smug grin that only anglers understand. You know the one. The grin that says you've convinced yourself today is going to be one of those legendary sessions where every swim contains an obliging fish with poor judgement. Naturally the river immediately reminded me who's actually in charge. Swim after swim appeared to contain absolutely nothing apart from water, optimism and the occasional suspicious-looking stick.
Eventually I reached one swim where curiosity got the better of me. The bankside vegetation was so thick that the only sensible option was to climb a nearby tree for a better look. Nothing says "experienced angler" quite like clambering into the branches clutching a landing net. Thankfully nobody witnessed it because explaining that to passing dog walkers would have been difficult. From my leafy observation platform I finally spotted them... two barbel sitting quietly mid-river.
Neither fish was enormous, probably around the five-pound mark, but they were perfectly respectable and certainly worth pursuing. I carefully rolled meat down towards them. Nothing. Another run. Nothing again. Then another. Eventually I swear one of them actually glanced at the other as if to say, "Honestly Dave, does he think we're idiots?" Moments later both fish casually drifted upstream into thick cover where they remained hidden behind what was probably the underwater equivalent of drawn curtains.
Being stubborn, which is a fairly essential quality in fishing, I returned later to find they'd wandered back into exactly the same position. Brilliant! This time I'd outsmart them with a couple of pellets. Except I hadn't. They reacted as though I'd thrown house bricks into the river, disappearing into cover again with complete contempt for my carefully crafted masterplan. I suspect they'd already uploaded my photograph to the local Barbel WhatsApp group under the heading "Avoid This Bloke."
The next swim looked promising enough but after several careful trundles I succeeded only in alarming another unsuspecting chub. Then, as if someone had flicked a switch, a proper lump of a barbel materialised from nowhere. It wasn't just big... it was one of those fish that immediately makes you stand up straighter. Double figures without question. It casually swam almost beneath my feet before disappearing towards a sunken tree with all the confidence of something that has successfully embarrassed anglers for many years.
I gave that swim absolutely everything. Rolling meat. Holding back. Fishing static. Different angles. Different presentations. Quiet optimism followed by louder optimism. The fish, meanwhile, displayed all the interest of a tax inspector at a birthday party. It had clearly survived every bait, every rig and every hopeful speech from passing anglers. It wasn't joining my landing net today, but I walked away smiling because at least now I know exactly where the old warrior lives. We'll meet again.
One more swim remained before sensible responsibilities called me home. It was shallow, weedy and looked more suited to ducks than decent fish, but rivers have a funny habit of rewarding persistence. Sure enough, a beautifully coloured summer chub darted out from its little interception point and absolutely nailed the rolling meat. It wasn't a giant, but it fought with all the enthusiasm of something twice its size and rounded the afternoon off perfectly.
By this point the invisible domestic curfew alarm had begun ringing inside my head. Every married angler knows exactly what I mean. There's a point where "just one more swim" quietly transforms into "Why are you home so late?" and experience teaches you not to discover where that line is. So I reluctantly packed away, gave the river one last look and headed back towards civilisation.
Looking back, it was one of those sessions that almost never happened yet somehow turned into a cracking few hours. One lovely barbel safely returned, one handsome chub, a pair of suspicious middleweights that completely outfoxed me and a genuine river monster now firmly lodged in the memory bank for another day. Not bad considering the whole adventure only existed because Sarah fancied a catch-up with the Wife.
If every rushed session turned out like that, I'd happily race out of the house wearing half-dried suncream every weekend. Mind you, next time I'll try to remember putting it on before leaving home. The steering wheel is still greasy.
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