Martin Bowler’s Adventures Take a trip to the River Wye on opening day
...and my new season started in style on the River Wye
AN old salmon hut, once a bowling pavilion but moved to the river bank in the early 1900s, was base camp for my latest adventure.
On the balcony, behind weathered green and white railings, I sat on my bedchair preparing next day’s tackle.
My Drennan 2lb test curve rod and 15lb Syncro XT mono would clearly take no prisoners, nor did I intend giving any quarter to hard-fighting barbel in this boulder-strewn river.
My end rig was equally uncompromising – an E-S-P lead clip carrying a 3oz-4oz weight, a 2ft length of 20lb Tungsten Loaded in camo brown and a size 8 Gripper hook, knotless knotted to form a hair that would support a Sticky Krill dumbbell.
All E-S-P Cryogen hooks are super-sharp but I still gave the point a couple of licks with a stone, more out of habit than anything else. Tested on my fingertip, it drew blood just as the mozzies would over the course of the trip.
It was definitely a shorts and T-shirt evening as I wandered the bank preparing spots for a morning cast. Here and there I threw in Krill boilies and 6mm pellets, not minding that they would be spread widely by the flow – this would help draw barbel in from a wide area, and tomorrow I’d be more focused.
I wasn’t the only one enjoying the last of the sun – I noticed a slow worm sucking up the warmth from a discarded sheet of corrugated iron until its cold-blooded body and flickering tongue were fully charged for the night ahead. I left it in peace and returned to the hut to make tea and watch night arrive from the comfort of my bedchair.
A tawny owl called in the distance before I drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened at 1am by a strange sound coming from the direction of a disused railway bridge to my right.
Under the light of my torch hundreds of shad were thrashing the surface in their final ritual before returning to sea. Tonight, under a full moon, they had chosen to spawn on the gravel runs – I watched this rarely-observed spectacle for a while before returning to the hut for a little more sleep.
Sunrise on the Wye comes early in June, and by the time I’d made black coffee and PVA bags of free offerings, warm rays were breaking through the trees to provide dappled light as I wandered down the meadow. This is always a special time when the raucous walkers and canoeists still doze, blissfully unaware that nature will have retreated into the shadows well before they stir.
Never mind the bags under my eyes, I had an early appointment to keep with the first barbel of the season. Skipping breakfast, I made my way to an old crib and a crease that bisected the river. Here I lobbed the rig into 6ft of water before retreating into the background, only stirring to mend the line and avoid flotsam heading downstream.
For 20 minutes little stirred below the watery veil, then I felt movement on the line through my index finger and the rod-tip pulled round in a gentle draw. At least one bronze-flanked warrior was investigating the food!
I tensed slightly and prepared for the bite, but it was two more minutes before it came. The tip slammed over and I struck the hook into a lean, post-spawning barbel. Unremarkable in every way except for one important factor that made it special – my season was underway!
I sensed I needed to move if I wanted more fish, so I headed upstream to a fast run where the Wye fairly flew over the bottom. I reckoned that the water here would be carrying extra oxygen, attracting barbel.
I had no time to waste, because once the rabble of canoeists passed over the shallows with their heavy paddle strokes and constant shouting this would be a no-go zone for fish. Donning chest waders I crept stealthily across the Wye and punched out a Krill dumbell with its PVA mesh bag of free offerings to the far-bank run.
Despite the extra pace I hadn’t changed the size of my lead, instead letting out extra line to create a large bow. With pressure on the line reduced, the weight and the rig it carried sat patiently on the gravel while a number of mouths worked their way towards it. I had found a shoal, and was soon to be made aware of the fact.
The rod-tip sprang back and the line fell slack. That could mean only one thing – a barbel had hooked itself.
I didn’t strike, but merely wound the reel handle until I was in contact with a fish determined to battle it out until it was sapped of its last burst of energy.
Over another precious couple of hours the story repeated itself. Then fish and angler left before later-risers could spoil the party.
The barbel season had begun in a very special way.