Steve Pope Barbel Fishing

A new season and I’m full of hope and expectation totally aware of the daunting task before me, this beautiful stretch of river does not easily give up her treasures – after all this isn’t a fish I’m after, it’s so much more, it’s a creature truly mystical and a gift from the ancient Gods. It’s actually become quite spiritual now, that’s where I’m at after a lifetime of interest in the most captivating of species named barbel.

My muse or perhaps I should say my nemesis is playing hard to get, she sometimes sends me one of her hand maidens to maintain my interest but is determined to keep me waiting, I suppose that’s only fair, after all she is a goddess and I’m a mere journeyman desperate to make her acquaintance!

Yes I know, I’m losing the plot but what can you expect when I sit in motionless silence spending hours waiting for the sirens call, I become Dr Doolittle, often talking to the animals, especially the friendly bovine buddies who are my companions during this campaign – this is serious stuff, this really is my personal odyssey.

I ventured down to the venue at the beginning of July and the first visit was only for four hours or so and that has become the norm because long sessions do not appeal anymore. For sure I’m certainly reducing my chances but this journey is on my terms and I have to make it work. You have to remember this is doorstep fishing, twenty minutes from home, exactly how it has to be for me now.

I took some time out to walk the complete upstream length and have to say it is absolutely stunning, nothing at all like the Severn most people know, this is something else as it meanders through the glorious Welsh landscape, this is The Hafren.

It’s no wonder these special barbel frequent this area, they have a wonderful choice of environment but I have concluded that the deeper sections are where I will meet them and I put that down to their instinct to survive, predators have been here for a long time and what barbel there are have surely learnt to adapt – I sincerely hope so.

The first session drew a blank and so too did the next couple, I was under no illusion. My fishing at this time was very much a fit in with other things that were going on. I was still very much involved with the school runs which involved a hundred mile round trip, but I knew this would soon be coming to an end as my daughter and grandson were soon to be heading off back to Australia. That was obviously playing on my mind as I was obviously sad at this outcome. I did manage to get Henry his barbel from Atcham, that’s a moment and a memory that can never be erased.

A trip back down south saw me visiting Wembley Stadium for a night out with my youngest daughter rocking the night away to Bruce and the E Street Band.

With few other distractions I pushed the boat out in August managing half a dozen visits to the river but once again all to no avail.

Because my sessions are short there’s no time to be bored or heaven forbid lose faith.

I have adopted a static approach which obviously means I’m hoping there are a few barbel close by, not quite a needle in the haystack but not far off.

September and autumn, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness – not sure John Keats was referring to mid – Wales, these days the season of floods.

Anyway, it was a Wednesday and I arrived before midday, a short walk from the car to the swim, just one stile to climb over with my gear.

Very little in fact, the rod holdall takes two made up rods plus the dropper rod and my usual four rod rests. Two buckets, a chair and an unhooking mat that has side pockets, the buckets contain hemp, meat, pva bags and bait pellets and one utilises a top tray which has my weights, superglue and a few bits. Everything else is left in the car, simples.

A dozen droppers of hemp and pellets and then I sit back totally mentally prepared for another four or five hours of silent therapy.

Today was different, my muse had sent one of her servants to pay me a visit, either to test me or to just let me know that perseverance pays and she has taken note of my travails.

Enough whimsy, suffice to say that around forty minutes past midday the old Rapidex began to turn, slowly but definitely and with enough speed for me to spring ( As quickly as I can at my age) into action.

A really tough battle ensued, the deeper water means the barbel here hug the bottom and go upstream and downstream in a very purposeful manner, my technique is well established – I push my tackle to its max.

By that I mean I put a real bend in the rod and let it do its own job, it works but you need faith in your gear and a deft thumb on the ‘pin.

I use a really big landing net when I’m fishing here, my optimism is absolute and I take no chances.

It didn’t take long before my prize was on the surface and seconds later safely captured in the mesh of my deep net, to say I was pleased would be a huge understatement, and I was overjoyed because it was quite clear that this was another Welsh double – a true warrior.

I gently removed the hook while she was still in the net at the water’s edge and then put the rod to one side, once that was done I put her on the wet mat and put her through the indignity of weighing, she was beautiful, unblemished as are all the barbel who live here.

Just under the eleven pound mark but it really matters not, every barbel I catch here is special to me and Branwen was no different.

Yes I named her, a goddess of heartbreak, grief and loss but also love – seemed appropriate.

I put her back in the net and let her rest up as I secured the net with a rod rest and set off back to the farm to find my photographer, I knew he was in residence!

After a bit of gentle persuasion my Welsh buddy made the very short walk to where I was fishing and proceeded to take some excellent photos, I’m trying my hardest to give him regular practice!

My prize looks stunning, a perfect example befitting a goddess of love.

As she swam away back to her domain I said a silent prayer of thanks to the fishing gods and also to Rhiannon for sending one of her “family” to me.

The ensuing weeks brought me back to earth, blank after blank. However there was one day that confirmed why I persevere and it involved Norman, my octogenarian barbel catching friend.

The rain had created a degree of havoc and the river was up and down like a yoyo but at the end of the month Norman caught three doubles and one of them was big, possibly the fourteen I have previously caught but I’m by no means certain. On the same day another double was caught, now four doubles in daylight is exceptional and it’s why I will continue until I’m just too old.

One big negative is the foam situation that has become very apparent this year; I shouldn’t be surprised as there is a sewage treatment plant not far away upstream. I tried to let it not affect me but knowing what good friends and first class anglers have said when fishing downstream it’s hard not to become depressed.

There’s no doubt it has a detrimental effect on barbel and that’s scandalous but we are powerless to stop it.

My fellow man, a species I despair of and the older I get the further I distance myself from.

But I digress.

October and November didn’t produce a single bite and I’m pinning my hopes on an end of season upturn, one or two barbel will make me very happy.

My quest continues, Rhiannon and her group of goddesses has drawn me in and there’s no escape……….