This is part of a series of short stories recollecting some of my trips around the country fishing 100 rivers, some were good, some brilliant and some just bonkers, there was always something going on. So when things are quiet I'll cast the mind back in no particular order and remember a few of these adventures.
No.3 The River Colne
I must admit it was a long time ago when I first fished the Colne, matter of fact it was only the third river I had fished and there were never any thoughts of fishing 100 rivers back then in the 80's and early 90's, even so it's worth recalling a special trip when my fishing changed forever and some memories that will forever hold The River Colne in a special place.
Both dad and I had only just got the float bug after watching a stick angler take the Gade apart one day so we were looking for new places to trial our newly learned float skills. We found a free stretch of the Colne that flowed through an industrial estate on the edge of Uxbridge, a much bigger river than the Gade. There were busy bits at either end near the parking but in between it was a jungle, it was mostly in these swims where we caught a mix of chub and silvers in the first season. "You won't get many barbel on float" or "not on that gear" was what most people used to say back then and as a teenager I kind of believed them.
Until one day, the following season.....
It was my day off so I drove down there in the passion wagon(It never saw any passion but saw plenty of fishing)happy to catch whatever as usual, the season was only a few weeks old so there was no path but undaunted I made my way through, waders were handy for this but everything else got scratched or stung by the nettles and brambles seemingly taking their turn to either catch me, or my line as I roved along. Despite this I was happily catching a few chub, dace and perch here and there. Before getting back to the car I stopped off on a swim I had passed on the way up thinking it wouldn't be much good but still hoped for a dace or two.
To be honest I could barely see this swim when I went past earlier but on the way back I noticed I could just get in the water's edge, there was a beautiful willow which overhung the water and collected the greenest bed of ranunculus in a perfect raft, one which I could touch with the rod tip. I had just enough room to trot the float against this raft and down the near side to where it shallowed downstream, however three quarters of the swim was unfishable due to the dark overhang of the mighty tree.
The float bumped against the raft and bobbled along it before disappearing and a strong fish was on first cast, I thought it was strange that a chub hadn't gone for the roots opposite or the weed beds above the tree as it held station in dark water under the raft. I learned quickly that sidestrain halved any fight duration and despite fishing just 3lb 2oz mainline and 2lb 12oz Drennan Double Strength hooklength (remember that) I was soon slipping the net under a lovely barbel.
I went on to get 8 pristine fish in a short spell losing none, I packed up with them still feeding as mum would kill me if I was late for dinner, I think I was only 17 or 18 so I still feared the wrath of mum, especially if she was on the sherry, which whilst cooking she usually was, although It was always just the one of course.
I had busted the myth that you don't get many barbel on float so naturally a few days later I returned with dad.
Remember these were the days before digital cameras so my film from last time was in the hands of the chemists awaiting development (ask your parents kids) So whilst I know Dad believed me I'm not sure he really believed he would catch if that makes sense, so it was that after half an hour in the swim he had caught nothing and was making his way downstream. I was so eager to have a go, sometimes the confidence and cockyness of youth is an unstoppable force and I was soon calling out to dad.
"Got one Dad!" If ever there is a phrase that sums up fishing it's those three words, the excitement, the anticipation, the knowledge that your dad was running back up the river see it.
Then the sight of a beautiful barbel resting in the net at the waters edge once more.
Now dad was to have a go again and I think I told him I'm not fishing the swim until he gets one, no pressure dad, but he needn't have worried as it didn't take long before I was slipping the net under his first float caught barbel. Get in!
Dad was using an old Wilson Avon being more sensible than me with my match rod, although he lost the tip on a branch a few weeks back, he continued to use it claiming it had more power as a result and it was bending well with another fish late on. I can still see his tipless rod bending with surges of a big barbel, dad had to be awkward but the fish was soon in the net.
The record back then was still 14lb and a double figure fish was a monster so after slipping the net under the biggest of the day I went for the scales as dad had caught a beauty, a lovely dark fish that went 9lb dead on, I can't remember if we did high fives, hugs or whatever the protocol was back then as we rested this fish.
I also can't remember how many fish we had that day but it was a hell of a lot, we took turns to fish whilst the other watched and it didn't take long each time, the fish were stunners and even after the great day the time before I was stunned. I can only imagine what dad was thinking, it was a red letter day without doubt.
That season and the following we went on to get many barbel from that stretch even finding another good swim further up that for some reason dad never got on with but I did ok in, a fast run under a tree before running up against an old bridge stanchion. All the time leaving the busy sections to others.
I'm sure our spots were fished every now and then but on the whole they were pretty secret until one year the EA decided in its wisdom that the tree had collected too much of a raft, we turned up one day to find the mighty willow gone, the swim wide open and full of woodchip.
My heart sank.
The barbel were gone too.
To make things worse the upstream spot I liked had a tree come down in a storm deflecting the flow away from the hole and the barbel were gone there too, in both cases many had moved to areas out of bounds and the river seemed totally different, after a few seasons we never fished the stretch again and I don't think it's even free anymore. But the wealth of memories left behind will last a life time
"I got one dad!"
"I'm in son!"
The words of those two seasons will ring true forever for a teenager learning about fishing with his old man, much better than "You wont get many on float"
For you can and when you share that with someone it's even more special.
It turns out Boots did ok with the photos, I didn't get anyone else's holiday photos (this time) nor were any merged with ghostly figures in an over exposure accident, surprisingly they were also free from dads blurry thumb on each pic, I think we take uploading and printing out as as many photos as we like for granted. If anyone says the old ways are best tell them they weren't always.
