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.