Well what a year!!! Best wishes to you all, settle down with a cuppa and enjoy the revised account my day out with Colin Culley, the personal highlight in a year replete with great memories. I would be gratefull that this write up NOT be copied and shared on other sites, thanks ;) What’s in a day? This tale starts in early October with the traditional angling, retro tackle Facebook group, or TARTS as we like to be known, meeting for a much anticipated days angling at the wonderful Barton Court fishery on the river Kennet, organized by TART stalwarts, Colin Culley and Andrew Green. Ours was a trip long in the making, having been washed out by the terrible floods that afflicted the country the previous winter. Of course when we arrived it was tipping it down and did so for the whole day, but the fishing and the company made the weather nothing more than a minor irritant. And the cane! A thicket, as our most highly regarded TART, Mal Baird, would say, so many wonderful rods to waggle that the fishing was often rendered immaterial. For someone who only picked up a cane rod 3 years ago, I felt like the proverbial child in a sweetshop! Despite the distractions, some splendid fish were caught; Perch aplenty including a mighty 3lbs beast to Andrew, and so many daft Trout that keeping score was pointless. Andrew also caught his first Lady of the stream, a wondrous specimen of around two ounces, a beautiful reminder to us all that they don’t have to be big to be memorable. I however, along with my brother Christopher, struggled for a bite. Having walked for what felt like miles across tussocks and over innumerable styles I came to a wonderful spot, a confluence of sparkling streams running away and under a solid looking stone road bridge of such character that Pooh sticks must surely be obligatory for all stand upon her. Dark pools fringed by tumbling shallows, overhanging trees with roots trailing away into unseen depths, this then was the spot we had been seeking all morning. And an angler was already fishing in the swim. Bugger. On closer inspection the angler turned out to be Colin Culley, a chap who over the preceding two years has answered all sorts of questions and dispensed advice freely to this cane novice through the Facebook group as I followed my path away from the chains of carbon and towards the simpler pleasures of angling with a stick. We had a good chat, preceded of course by the obligatory inspection of the rods that, as all traditional anglers will attest to, is a ritual as timeless as two dogs meeting for the first time and having a good sniff! In my case there was also the all too obvious envy of the piece of miraculous machinery that held Colin’s line, a Centre pin of such sheer beauty as to send my wallet into immediate and unrestricted spasms of sheer panic. With obvious sympathy for our plight, Colin suggested we try his swim. It was full of Trout and he was hoping for a Perch, but at least we would get some bites. I thought about being gracious and declining Colin’s very generous offer, and then promptly cast my worm out next to his float. Of course, the float cocked, bobbed and slid away within seconds, the Chapman 500 deluxe was swept back and a good Perch was hooked! It is the measure of the man that he was genuinely delighted, Colin performing the honours with the net and a sparkling perch of a pound and a half, the first of a dozen to Chris and I, was safely landed. I do believe it was at this point the Colin made the leap from my Facebook friends list to my real world list of mates; it’s hard to judge someone over the soulless façade that is the internet, general impressions can be formed but its actions and character in the real world that found proper friendships. At the end of a fantastic day Colin invited me to try a guest ticket on his club water Newbury Moors, an offer I was all too glad to accept, the prospect of good company and expert guidance just too good to refuse, no matter how far the drive. So it was then, after an abortive attempt when work got in the way, we agreed to meet on November 11th. My time is precious. Such a cliché but in my case all too true, I work seven days a week, damn near every week to support my family, this day would represent my first day off and first fishing trip in 4 weeks, so when the alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 3am, in a way known only to anglers, their long suffering wives and other lunatics, I was up and dressed with indecent haste and away for the 3 hour drive down the M4. Colin was met, pleasantries were exchanged, Bacon was consumed, coffee was drunk and then the fishing commenced. Newbury Moors, it sounded mysterious, slightly forbidding even, the overcast sky filled with low clouds scudding along, driven by a brisk wind that promised a persistence of drizzle, this then, combined with the flooded access track left me wondering just what had I let myself in for? Tackling up by the cars meant that I could not see the river that waited with timeless patience as it flowed through the rough grassland that stretched out before us, however a fresh round of cane sniffing distracted me nicely, brightening the dull morning. And then Colin produced another centrepin from the depths of his battered wicker creel. This one damn near burned the retina so glorious was it to look at! Glorious is a good word to use on November 11th, remembrance day, and Colin had bought with him a very special stick indeed to partner his fantastical reel, a gleaming piece of cane that was built by 2 brothers that went off to fight in WW1, a fitting day to use such a noble rod. Colin explained; ’ The rod was a 1911/1914 built rod by two brothers John and Thomas Nettleship from Alnwick right next to the Hardy Factory before they left for the Great War. The company was run by father Charles and there is some evidence that Hardy pinched their patented ferrule design. The two brothers both died in November 1914 in different parts of France.’ Of we trudged into the gloom and the mud, accutly aware that we faced nothing more serious than falling on our backsides in the treacherous conditions on a day that 100 years ago saw men walking across muddy fields to an entirely different fate. Then my first sight of what I fully expected to be a filthy brown river in full, raging, spate. Clear water, fronds of rippling weeds, gleaming gravel interspersed with milky white chalk patches and masses of minnows swaying in the gentle flow was not in the script but to my complete amazement that is precisely the sight the greeted our arrival. ‘Told you it was nice’, I could hear Colin thinking! Making our way over the main river Colin guided me to a small carrier stream, gentle bends interspersed with rapid shallows, lined with reeds still remarkably green and lush and framed by rows of overhanging Beech, in full leaf still and hanging on to autumn with grim determination. Gesturing towards a splendid looking bend with his rod, ‘Drop yourself in there Matt, should be good for a Chub if you give it time’ Colin spoke as he departed to a swim with an inviting weed raft 20 yards downstream. Mindful of Colin’s advice to be patient, a half dozen maggots were flicked midstream into the deepest part of the swim followed by one of Andrew Greens fine handmade floats with double maggot on a size 16, set to a couple of feet deep to start. First run down and the float dragged under, as I instinctively lifted the ever reliable Chapman Hunter to trip the float off the bottom the rod lunged over and the Match Aerial stuck a high note of protest as a large Chub crashed towards the nearside reed bed! My brain took a while to catch up with my arm which had reacted with a wonderfully instinctive strike, leaning out into the flow I began to apply just enough pressure with the 3lb line to hold the brassy Chub away from is sanctuary deep within the reeds. Startled by the rapid success, Colin looked up in astonishment, ‘you got one first chuck!’ he exclaimed. Splashing noisily on the surface now, the progressive curve of the Hunter effortlessly absorbing the ever decreasing ferocity of the Chub until beaten, the fish flopped into the net expertly wielded by Colin. The net! The events had all happened so quickly that I had completely overlooked my brand new, hand crafted, traditional landing net made by fellow TART and master craftsman Martin Herington. I had promised Martin I would get a picture of a good fish in his net and I had failed utterly at the first time of asking, the Chub now residing beaten in the bottom of Colin’s net! As Colin took the pictures of a pristine Chub of around 4 pounds I silently prayed I had not peaked too soon and another chance would come along to christen my net and secure Martin his well-earned picture. All the same the pressure was off, a good fish landed on the very first cast and, wonder of wonders, the sun had broken through, albeit very briefly! Over the course of the next half hour the same spot yielded a succession of small Trout, a Dace and most welcome of all two small Roach. What is it that compels one to pause and study every Roach landed, no matter how small? Come to think of it, what other piscatorial pleasure is referred to as ‘mint’, or ‘like a new penny’ every time it is caught? Perhaps with these Roach it is the memory of what was, the glory days of the Kennet where 3lb Roach were not a dream but a living, breathing myth, pursued by anglers of legend, perhaps these small Roach are a promise, like the first flowers in Spring, of better times to come,perhaps once more the Kennet might hold monsters….. ‘Time for a move Matthew’ Colin said, breaking the dream of the Roach. We set off across open field, a small vole scurries across my boot oblivious to the giant in its path, no doubt more concerned with the Kestrel that hangs above the moor and that must haunts its every waking moment. My respect for Colin’s guiding skills has been reinforced by that Chub caught to order. A couple of swims are tried on another small carrier with some more of those small but beautiful Roach caught on the maggots, and then we come to a lovely looking swim, a deep looking near bank run overhung by willow, faster water further over that holds the promise of Dace if the relentless Minnows can be avoided. ‘Drop it in close, looks good for a Perch’ was Colin’s advice as he moved off to his own swim. In went the float, not pausing as it went straight down the hole it had made on entry and kept going as the inevitable Perch made a bid for its home amongst the willows roots. I was beginning to think that Colin had paid these fish to put on a show! A pound of bristling aggression dashed this way and that, wildly panicked minnows scattering across the stream before the Perch was subdued and guided into the waiting net. The most appropriate of specimens to christen the new net with then, when I had collected my net over a pint with Martin the conversation had swirled around the resurgent Perch, we were both delighted with just what a wonderful era for big Perch we are blessed with right now, both old enough to remember the ravages of disease that wiped out so many of our childhood haunts. We also remarked on the merits of the river specimens with their dark stripes and bright red fins, just such a specimen now lay in my net raising its spiky dorsal fin in a final gesture of utter defiance, a veritable Sargent of a fish fit for the day. More delights followed from this lovely swim, the Dace as expected and then a real delight as a good Gudgeon was swung begrudgingly to hand. These little fellows just make me smile, childhood memories mixed with a recent desire to go back to simpler times, a ditching of the carbon and all the paraphernalia collected over years of sheep like stupidity, the Gudgeon surely epitomises the full circle that my fishing has now travelled. I laid him gently on the damp grass, a noble little fish worthy of recording on camera. This Gudgeon however had ambition, flipping up in the air and landing on my recently acquired and yet to be mastered Allcock Aerial! What a picture that made, glinting purples and silver, a true rock star this little fish, back he went and I moved off to find Colin. And then, 11 o’clock, and all is still, two minutes with which to think on 100 years of sacrifice, a prayer forms as it does every year in my mind on this day, Dear Lord, don’t let my sons go through what those men did. Colin had found no luck on his worm baits as yet, sticking it out for a good Chub or Perch, we convened on a bridge across the stream and after a coffee he decided we should try another side stream, mysteriously named the Parliament stretch. Is it full of sh*t then Colin?, was the all too predictable comment….. As it turned out, it was full of surprises. I tried a couple of swims, catching the inevitable Trout, greedy and intrusive as any MP, but the bend we had walked past on our way up to the head of the stream had imbedded itself in my mind, distracted I made my way back towards a swim that looked like it had been carved by the river to the sole purpose of giving shelter to the Roach. The river came off a long shallow run and dropped away deep, 4 foot or so of clear water on a stretch averaging just 18 inches before flowing steadily for twenty or so yards to a sharp ‘T’ junction, creating two creases with a deep central run. It sang of Roach this swim, surrounded by sheltering trees, overhung and undercut banks, and water too deep to see the gravelled bottom; my anticipation was so great that a slightly unsteady hand stuffed my first cast straight into the nearest tree! Tackled up once more I flicked out a pouch of maggots and the float sailed down in pursuit, a shard of crimson surrounded by unseasonal green. 10 yards and the float dipped, serenely I lifted into the 4 ounce Roach, content that this was the one swim I had worked out for myself, I knew full well that more Roach would follow. Fishing just upstream, Colin called encouragement as another Roach was swung to hand. Then another run down stream, another dip of the float. Thump, thump. CHUB! screamed the brain. Roach, whispered the heart. It rolled, dear god, don’t. Gone. A pulled hook, nothing more than that, the first and only hook pull of the day and a Roach of well over two pounds is nothing more than a fleeting, mocking memory. I have come a long way in 3 years since abandoning the bite alarms, I did not even swear. Colin, looking on mouths ‘Chub’ to me, ‘no mate ‘I respond ‘a Roach, a really big one’. We take stock and after 5 minutes a thought breaks through the dark cloud, I have just had a great morning, this delightfull river that I had never met before has been generous but not to a fault, and it was good was it to see a Roach like that, however brief the conection. And on November 11th, we remeber a loss far more agonising than just a fish. Life, for this blessed generation, goes on. The incurable optimist that is Colin has a plan, a different stretch for the afternoon with the chance of a Barbel. Music to my ears, as some TARTS will recall a certain Barbel rod was acquired some weeks ago and questions needed to be answered, specifically, is it as good as it looks? After a short drive we arrive at the main river, I am again astonished at how clear it is after what seems like weeks of rain, my own local Kentish Stour has been in the fields for better than a week, this river looks in need of a good drink. ‘This is your swim’ said Colin, pointing at a long run of deepish, steadily flowing water with Alder and Beech overhanging both banks and with a small tree partially submerged on the far bank, a feature that pushes the flow back across the river towards a bank that looks to be heavily undercut. Colin, in a typical act of utter selflessness, decides not to fish, electing to sit behind me and talk me through a swim he clearly is old friends with. ‘Cast three quarters across and roll it into the near bank is the advice’, a 3 swan link ledger and lump of krill paste is duly swung into position, the first cast on a cane rod that represents my first proper find, a rod sourced and purchased outside the comfort zone of the TART members, would it be up to the task? It certainly looked the part, dark honey coloured cane, with black and yellow whipping, low bell rings and possessing a reassuringly solid looking aqualite butt and tip ring. Built by a London Tackle shop long since gone and named the ‘Royalty 1959’, grand aspirations indeed. About a pound and a quarter was the opinion of Colin ad Andrew Green when I proudly showed her off at the Barton Court meeting, should make a good Barbel rod, and now here was the chance to shine after years of neglect. Normally I use the dependable Mordex Merlin for all my Barbel angling; however these had been dispatched to yet another TART for a well-earned, service and paint job. A Mitchell 300 with 8lb line was a worthy stand in. The first cast was spot on and I settled back and waited for the light ledger to roll across stream. Except it wouldn’t budge. Even after all that rain the flow was too weak to shift it, a damming witness to the madness of the excessive water abstraction regime that has humbled this once mighty river, in the end just a single swan shot was required to roll the paste bait into place. Ten minutes go by, passing in quiet and wide ranging fishing conversation, before a sharp pull is missed, ‘felt very Chubby that one’ I report to Colin, and not long after the sequence is repeated with another crafty Chevin getting away with it. My phone goes for the first time all day, my wife telling me her Mum who has been very poorly has been told she needs to see a specialist as a matter of urgency, the spectre of the word we all fear the most looms large on the horizon. Colin comes to the fore, quiet words spoken between friends about a subject we are both dreadfully all too familiar with. Guides put you on fish, friends put you at rest. Good friends sometimes do both…. After a thoughtful silence the talk returns to Barbel, I try and fail to describe adequately the tingle on the line when a Barbel comes to rest on a bait that all those who touch ledger will know well, the electric shock is what I call it, usually followed by that wonderful jolt a Barbel gives when it makes its mind up. Of course, about fifteen minutes later, it happens. The bait rolls a foot or two and comes to rest, the Royalty transmitting the bumps across the gravel in a way that says all is well with this rod and there the bait rests, the rod held lightly over the lap with index finger extended without thought to the line, feeling, waiting. The rain, which has fallen steadily since lunchtime, slows and then dies. Electric shock bite, then the rod starts to move, again the unthinking arm responds before the cumbersome brain makes sense of the situation as a large Barbel moves towards the far bank snag with a breath-taking show of power that the largest of Chub could only dream off. The Royalty hoops round, having skulked neglected in a cupboard for 20 years or more, finally released to its sole purpose, now we will see, does its soul remain? ‘Don’t let it get in there mate’ Colin calls with some urgency as the Barbel powers purposefully towards the safety of the fallen tree on the far bank. Over goes the Royalty, side on, smoothly delivering a reserve of as yet unseen power as a rod that was once a living, breathing, organic organism comes back to life, fibres meshing to the purpose that a long ago rod builder envisaged nearly a score of years before I was born. The Barbel lunges even harder for the snag, clearly a good fish as it thrashes frustrated on the surface, agonisingly short of its refuge as the rod delivers still more, joyful at its release, not so much as a creak of complaint is heard, the Barbel turns and sulks mid river, both the fish and the angler know that the rod has won, it’s now just a question of how long the Barbel can continue its defiance of the inevitable. One last hurdle, after several powerful surges the Barbel rolls over in the mid river, spent. Now just so much dead weight in the current, the rod draws the Barbel relentlessly up river and then with a slight slackening at the right time the Barbel rolls downstream and into the waiting net , Martin Herrington’s build quality again showing through as the fish thrashes in hopeless anger. Colin looks up from the net with the look of a man who has accomplished every possible target for his friend writ large across his smiling face. Pictures are taken, my now well used net full to the brim with autumn gold, and then back she goes, flashing bronze as she kicks powerfully away to mid river, arrowing uneringly back towards the sheltering trees. We both agree, to stay any longer would be an abuse of generosity, no more could be asked of this rememberance day. The M4 beckons, at the end of that road another 4 weeks of striving to keep the wolf from the door, today has been so replete with memories that I may just make it through to my next trip to the river without going insane. What’s in a day? I suppose its whatever you fill it with, for good or for Ill, or, if you’re really lucky, it’s whatever your friends help make it. Thank you Colin.
Posted on: Wed, 31 Dec 2014 18:23:46 +0000
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