A Place in Time - Barbel Fishing in Extremadura

                                           The business end of a female Comizo Barbel

 A few months ago, my old mate Tony Rocca wrote an excellent book about his exploits in the Extremadura area of Spain. He has been visiting there for fifteen years, usually in the company of the Ninja Barbeller, Ian Hobkirk. Plenty of others have joined him and stopped over in his flat, nestling between the terraced buildings of the village of Medallin. I've fished there twice before but not for a few years. So, when I read his book, I was motivated to have another go. 

                                        A Tony with 20.04 caught earlier this year

 Enter Mark Everard, best known as Dr Redfin. I spoke to him and the subject came up, he was especially excited when I told him that Tony and his mates had all had 20lb + fish. Tony said we could join him and plans were made. These were almost put on hold when the area was deluged by mountainous floods. However, the rain stopped a few days before departure and Tone said "Be Rayt". Apparently, that’s Northern talk for, 'We'll be fine, everything will come up roses'. 

 The river was high, brown and angry on arrival but on day one, Tony and Mark had two or three each. I sat in the 'easy' ie shorter casting swim and blanked my arse off. It was a huge pool fed by a turbulent flume that left a long crease. How come I couldn’t find a fish?

Tony lands one and Mark poses with a carp

 

 Next day, we went looking for some sensible water and the Gypsies (Andalusian barbel), that thrive in a massive reservoir. On arrival, the scene shocked Tony as the levels were up by many feet and submerged the bankside foliage. I fished a little point and saw one or two half-decent fish roll but none of us had a bite. I sat feeding Gibel carp in the margins. If you don't know, this invasive species it comes from the far east and makes an easy but hard-fighting fish loved by match anglers. Professor Mark hates them as they hybridise with most carp and do passable impressions of Crucians that cause a lot of false claims for that hallowed species. I caught a couple just by leaving my hookful of maggots in the margin for a minute or so. It was nice to feel a fish but a very hollow result. 

                                                           The dam at the reservoir

 Just before we left, Mark dropped into my swim and also caught one to avoid his blank. Unbelievably, he later said, "I was so pleased to catch that Gibel". Words I doubt he had ever before uttered or indeed will again. 

                                                                                            A pesky Gibel

 I have to add a word about the birdlife there. Tony had his 'Merlin' song identifier on and recorded Serin, Iberian chiffchaff, quail, three types of thrush, black wheatear, bee-eaters, warblers and finches .... the list went on and on. I even had 14 Great Created Grebes in front of me. The birds everywhere were a constant distraction with Vulchers, Booted and Short Toed eagles, countless Storks along with quite a few Glossy Ibis and Hoopoe. You could never float fish.

Day three saw us back at the long crease with me sat in the middle. At last, I opened my account. The fish were easier to find as the levels were noticeably dropping. Tony had 4 or 5 along with a few hard-fighting common carp. Mark did likewise, including a ten pound barbel. I got off the mark with a pair of small barbel. The first was dropped straight back by Mark so, no picture. And a little one of 3-4lb. It was good to be on the score sheet.

                                                                                At last

I never worried about the lack of fish, I stuck at it and plodded along knowing that my turn would come. There’s no point in changing anything when everybody was fishing the same way, it’s just something that happens sometimes. Nicky told me I had a good ‘un coming too, or was she just using psychology? Yes, that’s what I thought.

That evening we hit the bar again and Mark and I shared fish and chips Spanish style. The plate of chips dwarfed the fish, and we nearly burst.

With just two fishing days left, we headed to a new spot. This was after our morning visit to another bar for two feet of toast and coffee. The toast was half a baguette, split then toasted with jam, cheese, ham, butter….. We settled for butter and strong coffee.

The bar was always full in the morning, alive with excited chatter; everybody seemed to know each other. The conversation was rapid with little laughter coming through but everybody was charming and seemed happy in their tight community. I felt very comfortable there and quite envied the village life that Tony enjoys on his frequent visits. I did however, upset the owners wife when I mistakenly visited the ladies instead of the gents. No harm was done and my charm offensive got me away undamaged.

                                                                     Beer and Tapas - joy!

The new swim had deep water with a decent flow coming from the shallows above. It has a history of ‘Big Girls’ at this time of year but we continued to catch mainly males complete with spawning tubercles. I had three fish between one and three pm. All of them gave me a slack line bite as they lifted my bait then plodded towards me, not the usual screamer associated with barbel. The biggest fish was a female but ‘only’ 11.8 which made me very happy. They really do put up a scrap, staying deep and nodding their head until they come up in the water and shoot off in violent bursts of speed. My knackered shoulders ached from the playing as well as the casting.

Tone again had a barbel, this one had a lot of short-head about it but, as there are five species of barbel sharing a river and spawning grounds, finding a mint example is often difficult. We just accepted them as barbel and got on with it. 

Mark worked hard in his swim that needed a long chuck. He went biteless and was a little irked. 

Next day we swapped around and Mark had ‘my’ swim. I went down into Tony’s and Tone took the ‘dead spot’. He didn’t get a barbel from what is usually a good swim, just landing a couple of small catfish - which he dislikes and refuses to touch. Mark had three including another ‘ten’ and I had two of 8 and 9lbs. The sun was hot and relentless, I even put a brolly up. I was sorry to miss seeing a Mongoose running along the far bank and had to put up with a steady stream of bee-eaters arriving from Africa and a constant accompaniment of Cettis warblers that infest the area. 

 Our last trip along the bumpy track to the road was tinged with disappointment but we had all worked hard and had each caught fish to over ten pounds. Maybe Mark and I will get the timing better next time and find one of those amazing Big Girls - that is a dream but could yet happen.

Tony’s book is available by contacting Tony on lazytombstone1884@gmail.com

Catching Small Perch The Expensive Way

As you may have experienced, we've had a drop of rain of late. Around me, inland seas appeared including the proposed site of a new housing project. Will they never learn? Anyway, river fishing is suited only for those anglers with the idiocy of youth or gills. I used to battle these conditions but the thought of trying to escape from fast water becomes more vivid with experience.

What to do? I had been pondering a new direction for my limited talents and, that multi-species trip out of Poole left an indelible mark on me. I began following the blogs of LRF (Light Rock Fishing) anglers and their pursuit of numerous species where even a tiny fish can be celebrated. There was though, a repetitive list of contributors who'd spent a fortune on their gear and were publishing pictures of minuscule perch. The occasional lump appealed to me and I dipped my toe into this new world. Rods, reels, and hundreds of little lures were purchased and I waited for my chance to give it a go

. 

Yay! First cast.

A three-acre, shallow estate lake was my chosen venue and on a cool afternoon, I made my first cast. Guess what? I landed a diminutive perch. I was overjoyed as I had succeeded - sort of. I made my way around much of the lake and landed a couple more small fish whilst watching the resident carp rolling, splashing and throwing up bubbles as they fed fervently in the twilight. I had enjoyed the session but the thought that a different approach could have presented me with a fine common carp irked me.

This has been my problem for quite a while now. Do I go for one method/species or do I fill the car with enough kit to equip half a dozen anglers to cover whatever the conditions throw at us? I rarely travel light but, pondering species and methods distracts me. I recall with some joy the three or four years I spent fly fishing and the lack of tackle I took with me. My belt and braces mentality and being overloaded with gear have been a literal pain in the neck.

We had a week in Cornwall and took some LRF gear to pass the time but the weather, dropping a heavy weight on my foot, and our neurotic dog caused us to return early. My one short session was a blank.

Frustration and research saw Neil and I heading for the Brecon & Monmouthshire canal. We worked hard for a couple of hours without so much as a tug or a sighting of a fish. I managed to lose my hook in a tree and pondered whether or not to set up again. I did and, instead of a piece of plastic, I impaled a redworm to the hook. As I turned to face the canal again, I spotted some movement on the surface. Probably small roach or similar but activity and that's exactly what the predators will home in on.

I cast beyond the movement and twitched the bait back. I had a take! Just a little judder through the sensitive rod but, despite a pause, I missed it. Back out again and in the same spot, another pull. I twitched the worm and felt more interest, this time I left it to lie. Soon the line began to tighten and I was into a 'decent' fish that was bigger than the tiddlers I had last time out. I was genuinely thrilled to land a fish of a pound or so.

Neil joined me and had a smaller one on his lure whilst I managed one last fish again on worm.

Small beer but I was fishing in calm water from an even bank and not too far from the car - result!

So, there you have it. Expensive (so far) but hopefully, it will be well worth it.

Something Different

Steaming out of Poole Harbour onboard a boat full of blokes, most of which I had never met, I was full of anticipation and excitement. The trip had not started well as the journey South had entailed a lengthy diversion and driving through some torrential rain. The car park was the first hurdle of the new day as the payment had to be made by phone app. I'm no luddite but this one had me scratching lumps out of my hair. What app needs your date of birth but only allows you to count back down on a calendar at a week at a time? By the time I had sorted payment I was the only one left in the carpark, I grabbed my stuff and hurried to the jetty. I was later to realise that my hat and many other essentials were still in the boot as the land slipped away behind us, on top of that, my late boarding put me in the crappiest part of the boat to fish from - bugger.

As those around me sorted their kit, it became quite clear that most of the rigs I had pre-tied were inappropriate but sod it, they'll have to do. I began to concentrate on the job in hand as fish after fish started to come aboard..... to everybody else. A run of Scad passed me by, then the Pout showed up. I did eventually get amongst those but, by the time I got into the swing of things, several other species had come over the side. Ballan Wrasse, Goldsinny Wrasse. a Baillons Wrasse (those last two were new to me and I wished I'd had them), then Mark Everard, the trip organiser, had a splendid Corkwing Wrasse. Jack Perks was with us and he had the greenet Ballan Wrasse I have ever seen, it was going well.

My Pout numbers increased and a heavier pull gave me a small Ballan. It was time for a move and a go for some plaice. I had an instant responce on my rag and prawn combo bait but, try as I may it would not develop into a proper pull. In the past I have fished the North Somerset waters where massive leads are required and bulky baits needed to retain some scent in the fast tides, bites there are unmissable but here was more akin to quiver tipping for roach and bream.

We stopped at a Bream area and suddenly it all fell into place. I had half a dozen beautiful Bream, a fish I have always wanted to catch. I did foul hook a tiddler many years ago but that was the real deal. A further move or two and I had a couple of Tub Gurnard and three Plaice, a new species for me. I was very content if a little tired from standing most of the day.

Mark and one other chap had taken 8 species each and our boat accounted for 13 different species in all. The sister boat that shadowed us throughout, also had a good day including an Allis Shad. For me there were several high points and seeing two of Mark's pout surface with Cuttlefish hanging on to them was awesome. But why just his? I tell you, he's a fish conjourer. Another chap has a Squid grab his feathers. It was a handful to untangle and it 'inked' copiously. Waiting for the ink to run out, I leant a hand and teased the hooks from amongst its tenticles, at one point it was holding my finger with its little suckers, that was the best moment of the day.

The day ended at the pub - of course, and Mark handed out some silly prizes. One guy (Martin) had asked on the round-robin email for advice on avoiding sea sickness. I proffered what help I could and we swapped a few messages on the subject, I dubbed him 'Barfin Martin' which caught on but awarded him a special prize for keeping a hold of his breakfast despite feeling queezy when holding a glass of water. I used to go sea fishing with a bunch of mates on a regular basis, I miss the banter, the quiet competativeness and just experiencing seeing something spectacular appear from the depths, I don't think it will be too long before I do it again.

Going Back

I've previously blogged about my first fishing trip way back in 1964 and followed it up with a nostalgic visit some eight years or so ago. Fifty Not Out I have fished the old waters from time to time and always found the Weir to be full of dace, roach and nowadays chub. Trotting maggots in the outflow guaranteed plenty of bites and lots of fish swung up over the fence and into your hand. Anything bigger was 'walked' along to a lower point where it could be netted. It was like fish soup.

This month, I passed my 60th anniversary, six decades of dangling baits in the hope of that feeling through the rod as a fish twists, turns or runs. It has rarely been as easy as snatching fish from the weir but it has always been engaging and entertaining.  There is though an old adage that is often used about fishing spots 'Never go back'. 

I have returned to the scene of past glories and found them destroyed by age, 'progress' or the apparent needs of the matchmen or carp chasers. It is always disappointing but a heavy sigh and a shrug of the shoulders is usually enough to assuage the soul. But not today. 

Let me explain the thrill of the weir to a young lad who grew up and took his own child to catch the magic of its atmosphere. The main weir outflow ran parallel to the bridge and fish could always be seen attacking loose feed or your hookbait. This flow met the lesser outflows whose clear waters ran over clean gravel that harboured trout and grayling. Then the entire force of the currents joined to go obliquely across the pool to where the gravel settled and formed a bank, the perfect roach area. You could catch almost anywhere, but a favourite method as autumn approached was to long-trot silkweed under a bulky float. The float would be dragged under by roach and even dace, it was thrilling and this young man caught a roach just a couple of ounces shy of two pounds using this method. Chub became more prolific over the years but, by roaming downstream a few hundred yards roach could be caught in good numbers.

The white water from the outlet used to push fast water across the pool

To mark my anniversary I decided to fish the weir one more time. I made a considered decision to avoid using maggots. Minnows were cherished when I was young but nowadays, although I do love a minnow, I know that they would only attract small fish. After all, with so many fish available, why waste time on tiddlers, an indication of how my angling developed during my life.

Looking off the high fishing point of the bridge I was immediately aware of how shallow it all looked and the abundance of weed that was growing there now. The main current now dribbled back against the weir sill and seemed devoid of life. The other outflows were too shallow for anything but tiddlers and were again uninhabited. A stronger flow was coming from the far end of the weir but, after a few feet was diverted by a bank of stones and ran across the main pool looking fishless. The banks, despite it being school holidays, were devoid of anglers.

Having set up my tackle I watched four paddle borders gather in front of me. Not something I ever saw in the past but the middle classes do love spending their money, don't they?  Having waved them goodbye, they were later replaced by five more borders and a canoe. To be fair, they did hold off from entering my swim but, in the good old days, all canoeists were greeted with a hail of maggots right along the river. Oh well, times change.

I did see a couple of small trout idling in the current but they soon spooked from my shadow. I scattered a few small pellets and they sank to near the bottom where the minnows bothered them until they could be eaten. As I fed the area a few dace appeared but never really seemed very interested in my offerings. Little chub drifted in and out and a small shoal of dace gathered over some deeper water nearby but these too were gone as fast as they had arrived. 

I fished away from my shadow, tried pellets, some paste that was too soft and some hookable pellets that simply dripped off the hook. I have never had success with hookable pellets. I turned to sweetcorn and impaled a small grain on a size 16, this was presented as delicately as I could but the grain on the hook was never approached.  Where are all the fish? Why are the few I can see acting so indifferently? I felt certain that maggots would have taken something but I had made my decision.

Dispondent

By now I was disappointed, my dreams of reliving the past had been shattered but, ever hopeful, I opted to give the backwater a go. I must explain that the backwater was very different to the fast and clear waters below, they ran slow and deep but the roach fishing could be great fun. It also threw up dace, I once had one of ten ounces, and grayling, chub, even carp. It was more of a challenge but with plenty of places to fish, it always held an army of kids and grownups armed with rods and ambition. Now there is a large cafe and a boat club that prevent access to some of the best water. 

I settled on a familiar swim and put on a waggler. As I set to make my first cast so the wind came up and continued increasing until I left. I was also visited by the canoeists from the club but they were young, saw my disapproval and headed back upstream. I did however have a couple of bites on pellet but failed to contact either. I guess it just wasn't my day.

I finally revisited the weir bridge, it had not improved but I persisted for a while. A group of lads walked past me and one cheeky little begger asked, "What you fishing for - rats? There's nothing in there except rats.... and sticks". He added as he threw a stick into the water. And that summed the day up. Whereas there used to be countless eager youngsters catching or at least trying to catch often visible fish. Where there were grumpy adults each looking for solace by the waterside and harumphing at requests for bait and hooks, there was now nobody. 

I wandered down into the town alongside the river and whereas just a few years ago there were plenty of access places down the bank for the anglers to scrabble and fish, now there were just three and one of those was so overgrown as to be useless.

Maybe all the local anglers are more sensible than I and they waited for less bright and windy conditions. I know that very few kids would be allowed to roam and explore without a parent's eagle eyes upon them and all things considered, fishing is just not attracting people the way it once did. Some were playing football on the green, and a small group with a couple of rods between them did drown a small amount of maggots in a very short time before they left, doubtless to play on a gaming device. Oh yes, they left a plastic bag and drink bottle behind not eight yards from a bin.

Remember these?

I smiled at the elaborate play area where our children can frolic on brightly coloured climbing frames and things that make their senses tingle, all standing on softened flooring. In my day we had a slide, the Weir one being particularly high, black and intimidating but we greased it with candle wax and flew off the end. There was too a 'horse' that sat five or six of us and which threw everyone about as its copious weight gathered momentum. It was a wonder we had no fatalities but, for those that were unseated, a hard concrete ground broke their fall.

My local river, the Wye, is dying on its ass and despite the goodwill of many, it continues to fade. I have long been aware of its ill health and that of many others I have visited over the years but not the Tone. It never was a 'prime angling location' in the way of The Royalty, Throop or so many others but, it was 'my' home river and it kept producing each time I fished it over so many years. But I do now fear for its future and for the future of our hobby.

Unclean

 Is it really July? Where has the time gone?

Talking of time, I'm approaching my 60th anniversary of using a rod and line. Where did that time go?

I left my blog licking my wounds from a rather trying session in France. It brought with it a realisation that I needed to reassess my fishing from top to bottom. Age, injuries and arthritis have all contributed and that happy little bunny that once hopped between swims and fisheries has gone forever. With it my ambitions have had to become realistic so, massive wild lakes abroad are a no-no and even the steep, high banks of the Wye or Teme are demanding a new respect. 

I've not been at my best for a long while. They have dubbed it the 'Hundred Day Cough'  which, along with the weather and my reluctance or inability to push myself, have all brought meagre results. However, I always aim to beat at least one personal best per season and I did that with my second serious trip. 

As PB's go it's a modest achievement as I am certain I have caught bigger bream in the past but haven't felt inclined to weigh just another six-pounder. I have learned that under rather than overestimating fish,  can work against me. So I put a fish on the scales and it went to 7lb 3oz or was it 4? It was a pound or so bigger than my official pb so who cares, it was a job done.

I've got into a routine of blank - catch - blank - catch - a low double carp on the next visit - blank - catch - a couple of chub from the Lugg, followed by a blank the other evening.

My heart hasn't really been in it. Catching bream can be fun but how often can you do it before it becomes tedium accompanied by a smelly net? They really are easy on this water, I'll go for them again but for now I turned to the carp that are a challenge. They only go to mid-twenties which I do feel are worthy however, there's something about the pace that I cannot put my finger on, it just doesn't float my boat.

The Lugg is a very noble challenge but, it does require a lot of walking and some terrible sheer banks. Add to this the coloured water from the fruit and veg cleaning and the inevitable raw sewage, well, no thanks. I found a swim last year where gravel gave you good visibility of the bottom and the numerous chub that hoovered up my pellets and hemp. On one occasion, they were joined by three nice barbel, a difficult target on the Lugg nowadays. I went back a few weeks ago and you can barely see the bottom but the visibility was just good enough to know that not a single fish entered the swim. Very grim.

Incidentally, whilst on the Lugg, my lad had three ahem, large ladies enter his swim, totally ignoring the chap fishing not ten yards away, and moved across him so that he had to reel in. Their conversation included, "Well, it must be clean if there's fish in here". This brought about a reply from Neil "Just make certain you wash your hands when you get home." Some people just don't get it, do they. 

If they'd seen what we've seen floating downstream.....

My tench lake is stuffed with weed plus the fish only seem to feed with any purpose if you arrive whilst the stars are still out. If the birds are singing, the fish have gone back to bed. I do not function after early starts anymore and night fishing for tench is overkill. I've lost interest there too.

What to do? Well, here comes the reason for the title. I need to fish but I need to be comfortable. I shall continue to look for suitable venues and, as the cooler weather approaches, I shall be targeting the zander on the Gloucester Canal for a very doable pb. In the meantime, I have taken the decision to fish Commercials in the form of the Docklow complex. My first look at Docklow was 24 years ago and I hated it, still do in many ways but, there are only so many fisheries around and this one has plenty of variety, easy access and, whatever water you fish, you still have to catch them. I've taken the grandbrats to a few commercials and have always enjoyed trying to make the best of a swim. I do not crave a 'fish a chuck' water and indeed, during my walk around most of the pools there today, I only saw one roach landed. So, I can target carp, tench, crucians or roach and work hard to avoid barbel as stillwater barbel don't count, and ide which should all be abroad - period.

Fishing there will make me feel 'unclean' as it goes against many of my principles but hey, we all have to cut our cloth accordingly - don't we?

Carp, Ciaran, and Catastrophe

During the last visit to the surgeon he seemed impressed and decided that a replacement shoulder could go on the back burner for a while. I even bragged that I'd been moving rocks around our garden pond when his face changed. "No, oh no, no, no," said he. You have to remember that, although things are going well, what is left of your shoulder joint is being held together by tattered bits of tendon and gristle. No heavy lifting!

It took a bit of absorbing but I could see his point which was echoed by the physiotherapist later. She told me that were I to do further damage, I would be left with an arm that would have minimal movement and remain that way. This could seriously affect my Hokey Cokey and it stopped my season in its tracks. I wasn't going to risk further damage and miss out on the year's highlight.

Since October 2022, I have had a French carp trip planned. My lad Neil, good mate Paddy and I were to fish an intimate lake of little more than four acres, which contained some fine-looking fish which grew to vast proportions. The timing was quite late but was chosen to coincide with the half-term to release Neil from school runs. We had all been very eager and there was no chance of me pulling out. I did, however, realise that my syndicate lake full of 30lb+ fish would likely have to be dropped. I had put my back out several times hoisting fish up the bank, for once I had to act my age.

And so to France and a quick mooch around the lake had swims chosen and we all tried to set up before the rain came in. I failed and got wet. In fact, I was having a mare. I hadn't carp fished for 18 months and the rust was obvious. My fingers became thumbs or toes, I was disorganised and it took me ages just to get a rod out. In fact, with one thing and another, it took me a couple of days to get all of the rods out. My head was all over the place, and my bait boat developed a new and sinister personality. 

On night one, Neil hooked a lump. A ponderous weight mooched along the bottom but he felt he was having an impact until - his reel seized. A far from cheap Diawa stuck and useless whilst a fish of 50 or even 60lbs waddled off into the weeds. Neil stripped his reel and got movement back but the fish had gone. He was later rewarded with a mid-double common but he was wounded.

The next morning he hooked a similar small common and again, the reel seized. I arrived to net the handlined fish but Neil was now seething and who could blame him. Luckily, the lake owner gave him one of his own reels to use for the duration.

All of this was forgotten the next day when I looked at my phone early next morning, "When you wake up, come and give me a hand".

We all met in Neil's swim and watched in awe as the net was lifted and revealed a golden-scaled beast.  I was pretty much a spectator as the fish was lifted onto the scales - I now know my limits - and they thumped down and 'errored'. My scales read a bit higher and they could manage the bulk that stopped at 65lb 5oz. To Neil's credit, he was fastidious with the weight of the sling and an eventual weight of 60lb 4oz was settled on but I am sure it was a few ounces heavier but who cares. Sixty bloody pounds! Moments like this are once in a lifetime and we drank in the elation. Neil even smiled in a photo - very rare. Amazing.

Paddy joined the fun by getting a 30-pound leather, things were looking good, apart from his photos.

The full moon was now waning and I felt the pressure to get on board and join the action but, I was struggling for bites despite working hard at it. There comes a point when you realise that it's not going to be your trip. I was happy enough working at it and, if I'm honest, just seeing that huge fish was enough to leave me sated, that Neil had caught it gave me a very warm feeling.

The weather had been wet. Every afternoon brought a downpour and I was thankful that I had purchased the 'Social Cap' for my Tempest bivvy. It effectively adds a lot of space for either socialising or, for me, to increase storage space and to keep the weather out of your bivvy, very useful in poor weather. It was my first trial with the Cap and, apart from the velcro straps proving inefficient at holding it to the bivvy and needing a layer of Gorilla Tape to secure them, I was happy to have a dry bed and room to stretch out. Then Storm Ciaran popped in for a visit.

I had a fitful night and several times had to venture out into the wind and rain to re-peg the Cap front, replace the tension bars that repeatedly fell off and to re-tape the Velcro. I led there, listening to an angry wind (on the outside for a change), the flapping of canvas and the falling branches all around. An old barrow I'd borrowed and left beneath a tree, was blown into my bivvy, it was getting rough. I pondered the idea of being trapped by a fallen tree - sleep was impossible. Then it happened.

The roar of the wind suddenly became deafening, the bivvy bent and twisted then, with one last violent push, I was cast into open air as my roof vanished and my gear was cast to the winds. My Cap had been torn off and my bivvy had launched upwards and was desperately trying to fly to the next county. I found myself with one leg clutched in my outstretched right arm and just about able to hold it as it blew this way and that. I then noticed that I was trapped. The tension strap, attached to my big green kite, had been pulled across my body which was holding me against my bedchair. What a predicament.

I got my wits about me and considered my options. Were I to release or cut the tension strap, I felt certain that the bivvy would be lost. Neither could I bring the bivvy back to ground - what a pickle.

I always keep my cool bag next to my bed as the flat lid is ideal for my watch, phone, spare torch and walkie-talkie. I reached for it but it was gone. I had a headtorch around my neck and began searching, nothing was how it had been. The groundsheet had turned inside out and everything was strewn. I called out for help but no reply. At last, I found my phone and rang Neil, he was obviously sleeping well. I rang Paddy who had heard my plea for rescue and was already on his way around. I lay back and relaxed as much as possible whilst trying to hold a large green parachute determined to head skyward in a hurricane.

I've known Paddy for nearly sixty years and I wondered what quip he would use on seeing me. Relieved to see his torch nearing, he appraised the chaotic and amusing scene, held one leg of the flying bivvy and said, There, is that better? I'll be off then.

I was soon released and scanned the scene of destruction around me. Where do I start? Neil put the bivvy back up and made it secure whilst we all gathered up the sodden kit spread around and threw it into it, a real quart into a pint pot scenario. It took an hour but the guys, both wishing they had put coats on, left me to find a small gap where I could lay in a damp sleeping bag and try to sleep. It was an interesting incident and Neil kept saying, in the days after, 'But what if the strap had gone across your neck'. It didn't, we survived and lived to tell the tail.

The real crippler came when I went to reel the lines in as I did not want to be disturbed again that night. I found that all of the bobbins had blown off the lines and one of the rods was up tight and bent. I lifted into  it only to find that I had been done in the lilies. My only hook-up of the week and I knew nothing of it and a fish lost.

The morning saw me trying to get things dry and tidy but it was a trial and was much the same after a lot of work. I took in the devastation around me, trees down, broken branches everywhere and a big drop in temperature.

A Poplar tree that succumbed to the storm

The island lost a few too

The remains of my Cap

Paddy had another fish of 19lbs or so I think. Whilst Neil had a 32-pound common. Again we gathered for the weigh-in and were joined by one of the owner's dogs, a particularly ugly little French Bulldog with no personality. It liked scrounging and was attentive as long as the food lasted. As we were eating our breakfasts, it was around our feet and happy. Neil took the fish from the weigh sling and revealed it to the air and mutt. It went ballistic and leapt at the hapless carp. At first, I thought it was trying to hump it but no, it wanted to kill or eat it. Neil fought it off amid some colourful language and Paddy ushered it about seventy yards down the path. He returned, thinking he had trained it but it ran straight past him and leapt again onto the unhooking mat growling and snapping like an angry weasel. I was beside myself and laughed for ages. Anyway, another lovely common for the boy. 

Grrrr

The object of a certain mutt's desires

I kept at it despite everything but the few bites to the others had dried up and the trip home looked grim. We had to wait another day before our changed bookings saw us leaving France and a bumpy crossing to Portsmouth.

We all learn from victories and failures. What if Neil had landed that first fish? It could easily be another sixty at this time of year and, having had one of the big ones come out last week, the two biggest fish often follow. Imagine the boy having a brace of 60's, it could spoil him for life - not to mention him spoiling mine.

I accept the blank as being all part of the game. I know I was on some good spots, and I kept at it until the last morning. Maybe it was for the best, imagine me trying to do it all alone and finishing my shoulder off on a big fish? Who knows, I'm big enough and ugly enough to put this one behind me, it's whether I do it again that's in doubt. I turned 68 during our stay and I know that despite looking less (or so I'm told), my body is ageing and I have to learn to be sensible and listen to whatever bit is complaining.

I guess I'll stop when the laughter does.

Weight

How important is it to weigh your fish? How often do you get your scales out? At what size do you get curious about your capture's weights? Like many would-be specialist anglers, I used to weigh far more fish than I do today. I recall my diary pages from 1970s tench trips as just a list of exact times and weights with little or no information of commentary added.

 When I fished the Tone in Somerset, I meticulously recorded the details of my chub captures even though they topped off at just 3lb 6oz. That was soon to change. I moved to Herefordshire and quickly discovered that the Wye was home to an enormous amount of fat chub and, bar getting a sighter or two early in the season, I was flicking four pounders off in the margins without so much as a second look. I'd check the weight of anything that looked like a 'five' and soon became quite adept at guestimating the difference between a 4.14 and a 5.01. 

But sometimes you lose your accuracy. I was happily watching my rod as a lump of meat explored a back eddy one day when John Bailey stopped for a chat. I instinctively reacted to a pull and quickly landed a nice chub. I slipped the hook out and immediately released it into the water at my feet, "A nice four", I said. John, slightly incredulous, replied, "I'd suggest it was beyond a four and by a fair bit in my opinion". I shrugged it off as just another chub but, was slightly irked that I hadn't been able to accurately log another five. Chub are like that, they can vary depending on body shape and just how fat they feel. I once dismissed a customer's first Wye fish as a nice but average chub, only for it to go 6lb 6oz. Boy, was I off the mark with that one. I have reached a stage where I do not worry so much about runner-up fish's weights and my son now slips back carp as mere 'low thirties'. I always put big carp on the scales. I also weigh any barbel that looks to be nine pounds plus, decent roach, tench etc. but, there is one fish that, until yesterday, I hadn't weighed for years.

Bream, love 'em or hate 'em, they can still demand some respect - honest. I've never had a double, far from it but, the best I ever put on my Avons was a 7lb fish that was foul-hooked. I had previously had them to 6lb 6oz and called that my pb. But, I seem to have suffered from bream blindness. I fished a small carp water that held just carp and a few large bream. I did take a couple of them one day and brushed them off as 5-6 pounders and a fellow member asked if I was certain as he's never heard of one under eight. When fishing the Severn and Wye, I sometimes envied mates who'd been pestered by eight pounders while mine were always under six. Am I just unlucky? I fished for bream on the first lake I mentioned and blanked whilst my son, fishing for carp, landed a bream of exactly eleven pounds. I did think it looked a little small for such a weight. 

Last week I had a chub that I put down as 'about three and a half', but I may have been under by a bit but, the tail is long so I told myself to weigh one or two to get my eye back in. 

Then, yesterday, I targeted some bream on another pool having heard of fish to double figures. The day was muggy and overcast, just the sort of summer day that, during the 80's and 90's would see me rush to Sedgemoor and bream fish on any one of several favoured drains. It felt cock-on for action and not long after my PVA bag of goodies and a lump of meat splashed down 35 - 40 yards out, the bobbin rattled to the butt ring. The wind was hammering into my face which brought a touch of drama to the proceedings. The familiar bream responses of pretending to be a plastic bag did little to enhance any excitement and a good-sized fish was soon netted. 'Hmm? Probably nearer 6 than 5' I thought and took a quick snap of it.

 I soon had a smaller one of maybe four pounds then another which, looked suspiciously large but was obviously smaller than the first fish. I decided to put a number on it just to set my mind at ease and so that my guesstimating would at least be more accurate. It went 6.02, and, as the two pictures will show, took up quite a bit less net space than the first. So, just how big was the first one? 

I think I'm going to have to go back and soon.

 Incidentally, if you do weigh every fish regardless of size, I suggest that you are being over fussy and possibly causing damage and stress needlessly to those fish. An ounce here and there means little so don't get so hung up on it. Catch a whopper though, and weigh away but please, do it quickly and carefully without allowing any fish to flop about on hard surfaces or to get dry. You know it makes sense.