Atmosphere

 I nipped down to the river on the 16th. A quick evening visit to catch a chub to whet the appetite for the coming season, and more importantly, to see if my fat, crumbling body will tolerate the banks of our most alluring river. 

I blanked, and I had difficulty finding a comfortable spot. Not a great start.

A distant balloon

There's more to fishing than just drowning maggots. We become aligned with a level of awareness of the weather, atmospheric pressure, and, of course, the memories of previous encounters. On countless occasions, I have dropped whatever I have planned and rushed to a river, always a river, and fished, confident of success. I've even explained my erratic behaviour to Nicky with a "There's a big one waiting for me", and have come back with tales of double-figure barbel.  

Yesterday, the Wye got under my skin, and I felt compelled to go again. There is a swim that has long been a summer favourite of mine. It's a place where the wide sky entertains with fabulous cloud patterns and quite glorious sunsets. As the light fails, the creatures of the river become more animated: birds, insects, the occasional fox or badger, and the fish apparently, jump and roll for joy. It has an atmosphere that is quite intoxicating and one I haven't sampled for far too long. I needed a fix.

When I reached the first gate, I had a sudden epiphany and headed to a different spot. I cannot explain my change of mind; it just does that sometimes and I am drawn elsewhere. I settled into a swim with an equally sumptuous view, but where I have rarely had much success. No matter, I got to it, put a couple of rods out and enjoyed the ever-changing sky, the song of the reed buntings, and watched a distant hot-air balloon. I was very content.

After an hour or so, I checked both baits, and they were both missing. Having thrown my gear together, I had left enough behind that meant I was banding boilies, never a great idea, especially when those lock-picking chub are around. I recast the left rod with a PVA bag and half boilie, then sat faffing about trying to get a bait to sit on my hook without it pinging off and making me grind my teeth even harder. I was losing my buzz, I was here for peace and harmony, not this.... Hang on, my left rod is nodding.

I lifted into a throbbing weight. The strong head shaking suggested a chub, but the line was dragging against a snag of some sort. It felt like a sunken line, but I was gaining my own line and kept at it. Eventually, the snag released its grip, and it was just the fish, which was showing signs of getting heavier. A deep, line stripping run proved it was a barbel, and it battled on with the usual dogged determination they display, and that I have missed for too long. As it flashed and rolled before having that 'just one more' charge toward the deeps, it occurred to me that I have only had one barbel in the last two seasons. I won't drip on about the reasons, but I was glad to be back. Muscle memory did the rest, and it eventually slid into the net.

It was just after 9pm, and I hadn't yet witnessed the final act of the show when the sun sets and the river comes alive. I was, however, satisfied. I slowly packed my gear, wrote my diary, then trudged back to the car. I paused at the gate and took a shot or two of the vista, aware that I will be called back very soon.