Damn hot in the Happy Valley

After an easy, Sunday drive west the Princess and I pulled into a now familiar campsite, within four hours of leaving home we had the tent up and the kettle on which is pretty good going.  So there we sat, sipping tea in a chilled out campsite, a flat lush green field bordered by tall trees and on two sides the Garron brook (which is not polluted with carp).  A lovely base tucked away in a quiet corner of this wonderful river valley from which we explore the bandit countryside.  But before any exploring there’s a Test match on the radio!  The kettle was hardly cold before Mark Wood had blown away the tail and had barely boiled again before Stokes had smashed off the runs, game over – an emphatic win.  In the evening we ventured into town but the first two pubs weren’t serving, thankfully it was third time lucky in the Kings Head.  I’d never eaten Pollock before so felt compelled to try it, not bad.  I had drunk ‘Butty Bach’ before and it was as good as I remembered.

This break out west wasn’t a fishing trip as such.  The plan was to go out exploring during the day, taking in the sites and doing the tourist thing with a pub lunch thrown in.  However, the evenings would be spent chilling out on the wild river, a water I’m slowly getting to know and love.  There’s just nothing like it in East Anglia.  So Monday was spent in Ledbury which was a pleasant little town with historic buildings and an impressive church which allowed us to escape from the heat for a bit.  When visiting an old religious building like this I’m often struck by just how much effort would have gone into building it, how great was the motivation and who paid for it all?  Anyway, lunch was a steak pie in the ‘Seven stars’ which wasn’t bad but I wasn’t so keen on the local Ledbury bitter.

We had a siesta at the campsite then when the sun began to cast shadows we loaded up the car and headed towards the river about fifteen minutes away.  At the bottom of the long narrow lane things didn’t seem right, there were about half a dozen cars parked up in a tight space and one of these was straight across the fucking gate I needed to go through.  We hung around for a while but there was no sign of anyone so were forced to give it up and go back to camp frustrated.  Honestly what kind of person does this?  What is the thought process? ‘Fuck it I don’t care’.  How fucking self important are they, how fucking ignorant?  Honestly I was tempted to wreak my revenge but I didn’t, though all the way back to camp I regretted not keying the fucker and snapping the wipers.

The following day was even hotter and we spent it across the border in Abergavenny, which sounds about as Welsh as anything could be.  The drive there was slow and steady through some lovely countryside but the Town itself seemed unloved as it withered in the heat.  Dinner was tapas at a café but I can’t recall its name and they didn’t serve any local beer.  On the way back we called into the castle at Skenfirth, sitting beside the river Monnow.  There are a few of these little castles in this part of the world which seems strange but then again no stranger than the ones in obscure parts of Suffolk?

We head towards the river again in the early evening with fingers and toes crossed.  Tonight there was no moronic parking and I got through the gate to find we had the stretch to ourselves.  I chose a nice flat, comfortable swim – actually a former salmon groyne with room for two although only I would fish, the Princess was busy with her camera.  There was good pace here and nice looking overhanging trees both upstream and down as well as the far bank, plenty of choice, almost too much.  I dropped a feeder to the upstream bush, flicked the baitrunner on then commenced trotting sweetcorn down the stream.  This turned out to be a piece of accidental good angling because not only did I catch half a dozen small Chub but I worked out the downstream margin was a little deeper and the vortices mid river where my float would catch bottom made me wonder if there was a boulder or something out there.  Either way my feeder rig was swung into this area with three cricket ball sized lumps of groundbait chucked on top.

By now the shadows were long and the river was a thoroughly pleasant place to spend the evening.  Three small ducks joined us on the groyne for a while but buggered off when they realised the café was closed.  Almost straight away the tip folded over and I picked up the rod and struck thin air, how on earth did I miss that?  There were definitely fish about, every cast brought some kind of action, liners or sharp pulls – a couple of which I struck at, nervous desperation!  As the light faded I sat holding the rod and feeling the rhythm of the river, more liners and more little pulls then another proper bite and the rod was bent!  But I was snagged solid and ended up having to tackle up again by head torch.

Out went another feeder with an oily pellet on a two foot coated hooklength, (it doesn’t tangle and the fish don’t mind so it’ll do for me).  I should have caught tonight, have I blown it?  I was still feeling the movements on the line, there were definitely still fish about but things did seem to be slowing down and I was running out of time.  Then the rod pulled over and I pulled back into a living creature with a bit of weight and power.  It took a little line off the clutch to begin with but then I clamped down and pumped it slowly upstream and away from the snag.  The fish plodded about in mid river, I some gained line and got it close, a decent fish appeared in the torch beam, here it woke up again and surged away.  I got it close a second time and almost in the net but it wouldn’t quite go!  I’m not used to these faster rivers and had forgotten to get the fish upstream of the net but remembered in time to make it third time lucky.  I’d only gone and caught a Barbel!

This was a modest fish by most people’s standard but I’ve not caught enough Barbel to make this nothing less than a very big deal for me!  I was delighted.  With that we packed up and went back to the campsite, had a brew and sat stargazing for a while.

The next day was hotter still with the temperature reaching 28 degrees but undeterred we went to Hereford which has a cracking looking piece of river running through it and a cathedral but otherwise is just like any other city of this size across the country.  There is a statue of a Bull complete with huge knackers and the city shows its pride in the infamous regiment that is stationed here, which is fair enough but kinda ironic in a way.  No pubs could tempt us in so we head back to Ross and had dinner in the Royal washed down with a pint of Butty.  That evening we returned to the river.

Once again we had the stretch to ourselves so I dropped straight back into the same swim as before, if something works then try to repeat.  I swung the feeder rig downstream again and had a go with the float rod, this brought a small Chub first trot and a handful of others only one of which required the net.  After half an hour this was put to one side as I wanted to concentrate on the feeder rod as this was surely a banker?  To cut a long story short it just didn’t happen tonight, there wasn’t anything like as much activity in the swim and I didn’t get a proper bite.  Maybe an experienced Barbel angler would tell me never to go back in the same swim?

The following day was hot again and we spent four hours in a car on choked roads slowly heading back to the flat lands.  Camping in the happy valley had been fun again despite the heat, every single time I go west the thermostat gets cranked up!  I spent less than six hours actually fishing so all things considered, a Barbel and a dozen Chub – thank you very much.