The tidal Trent, an inhospitable, intimidating, temperamental landscape, barren to the eye in parts. As the river meanders through the flat lands of Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire, the tide brings with it eternal angling hope, tales of behemoth bronzed barbel and weather fronts that are wholly unpredictable. These tales are founded upon “The Barbel Society” waters of both Sutton and Normanton on Trent. Here, the river serves the visiting angler a full examination; one that evaluates physical being as well as your very angling soul. Occasionally you ponder the whereabouts of your sanity, leaving you to question, heaven forbid, why you even decided to lay a hand on a fishing rod as a child. Come through unscathed, no willingness to surrender from what is bestowed upon you and the rewards can be rich and fulfilling.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder: for many this is a landscape, much like a lost world, far away from the bullshit of the everyday stresses and strains. You are entirely cut off, the innate ‘fight or flight’ sense is now stirring within, the needle on the dial is starting to tick. On some trips the river and banks appear serene: lush emerald green hues greet you, innocent sheep dotted along the flat holm, grazing contentedly. On others, the skies are laden, charcoal black; a brutal wind bites; enough to weather your skin to the state of Jurassic rock. The cattle have a glint in their eye; the herd moves as one, back up the bank from the cattle drink downstream: your defences ought to be stout. Here you are at the mercy of Gods elements. Be wise, visualise the end game, this is but a façade laid down to distract you from excavating the gold that lays on the gravel before you. Features that are lacking from above the water’s surface are acutely juxtaposed by a thriving ecosystem below. Deep holes and pools, large gravel runs, ancient snags; an ever-changing legacy left from one winter flood to the next. The river here is wide and deep: fin perfect, torpedo shaped gravel sifting barbel, in the rudest of health, flank side by side with record shaking zeds. Shoals of silverfish abound, and carp patrol the marginal slacks, mopping up an easy, opportunist meal.
The glorious 16th: whatever the opinion of the closed season, opening day musters a nostalgia from within; a giddy, childlike excitement on a constant, circling loop around the brain of anglers with a riparian persuasion. Post hiatus, new hopes and aspirations, last season’s successes and failures now consigned to history. A new beginning awaits; anything and everything possible, that niggling barbel itch, can, at last, be scratched……
It was a clammy, sultry, early summers day. The fishing wagon, laden with gear, hummed in the outside lane, as I headed northeast to the banks of Normanton on Trent. This was a virgin trip, a stretch that felt minimal angling pressure, well away from the maddening crowds populating other fisheries along the Trent. The track down to the river was long and pitted; lush vegetation overhung my eyeline as the bonnet of the motor parted the cow parsley and thorny bows; mind torn between accelerating with excitement and slowing to keep my motors suspension intact. On arrival, I bundled all of life’s belongings for the next two days up the steep flood bank. Steadying the barrow whilst navigating two clapper gates that marked the downstream point of the fishery, I closed them quietly behind me. From the vantage point of the flood bank the Trent glistened below, silverfish pimpled the surface, the sun’s rays breathing life into the flora and fauna. It became abundantly clear that there was no chaff here: only wheat. Barrowing my way upstream, slaloming in between the nettle outcrops and cow pats that littered the path, I felt alive, the hunting instinct awakening. Ten minutes later I found myself on the inside of a shallow bend. I had since bumped into a couple of other lads, wise cookies who knew their onions, but above all, fellow brothers. As other members gathered in the Lord Nelson pub, a couple of miles upstream in the village of Sutton, for a pre session beer, I honed my angling brain. Fair game that, a ritual for seasoned members, exchanging barbel tales; regaling one another with anecdotes of red-letter days, whilst fending off the obligatory mocking jibes. Respect. It is this communion that transcends the actuality of angling.
I was in no rush, the magic hour of midnight was a good while away: instead, I would set out my battle plan, feed the swim and drink in the silence. This part of the Trent is an ornithological paradise, enough to make the palms of a dedicated twitcher sweaty with expectation: Egret on the mud flats; early morning oyster catchers squark, awakening you from a morning slumber; hobbies hunt on the wing above the grasses of the holm. “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing it is not fish they are after” A flippant, philosophical quip it is not, rather words that clarify the very motivation to wet a line for many of us.
My lead descended through the water’s layers, bumping on contact with the river bed, simultaneously painting a picture in my mind’s eye of hard gravel; a dining table that I’d hope barbel would be drawn to once the heat had drained from the day with the setting sun, coupled with the onset of darkness. Several pay loads of bait- a healthy smorgasbord of boilies, hemp and pellet were deposited with a spopper, hand crafted by the dearly loved but sadly departed Christophe. Once set, shelter erected and rods readied, the dwindling evening was shared in the company of angling friends. Vino was sipped, a bit of scran to fuel the body for the nightwatchmen, it was much needed, but above all the anticipation was mounting. “Good luck boy’s” as I made the short walk downstream to my swim, thistles biting at my ankles and nettle leaves nipping at my hands.
The first casts of the season, hope and anticipation followed my boilie baits to the bottom of the river. What followed was a procession…. of bream. Each one carefully unhooked in the margins, reticent to switch on the head torch for fear of mozzie inhalation: it makes one cough!!! The bed of bait had drawn in the shoals: in due course I knew that the tide would bring the barbel on the feed. The funeral like silence of a sticky mid-summer night was shattered by the enthralling shrill of a high tone Delk; one single beep as the tip wobbled then a continuous soundwave that lingered in my ear drums. I leant into the fish, the rod with its forgiving action, arching, like a bow on the battlefield: that first barbel of the season, angry and slugging it out for all it was worth; the tight clutch yielding as it arrowed its way downstream. This is why we go, for that indefinable rush, not knowing when it will strike and take hold: no narcotics needed, just natures steroids putting out. A few minutes later the barbel was resting up in the deep and rocky margin, this was a summer night so respect of the fish was paramount. A while later, she was carefully cradled for some self-takes; a sizeable fish; amber toned flanks and coral tipped fins glistened under the camera backing light: it felt great to be bankside once more.
Hitting the angling sweet spot and riding the wave of seasonal change can be ‘fill ‘yer boots time’. With the horse chestnut spent and all manner of deciduous leaves littering the rivers surface it is time to get credit in the bank with the good lady at home and make haste to the river. The Trent barbel will be switching up the olfactory senses, as hunting for food by sight, becomes an ever-diminishing reality. Opaque, often turbid flows, will generally dominate, coercing the barbel into using their fabled barbules to seek out food morsels, intercepting them on the riverbed: they become gluttonous beasts, waxing fat and filling up the larder for an arduous, looming winter. The cusp of climatic change brings with it unpredictability: weather fronts gather quickly and make haste across the open flatlands. Planning and preparation are prerequisite skills, the seemingly most insignificant item of tackle left at home can make for an uncomfortable and regretted trip. Bankside vegetation has subdued, only the hardiest, leathery faced souls remain whilst the cattle have been retired from the holm. Autumn through winter is a period when the graft and reconnaissance of earlier months can pay off substantially – blanks can be interspersed with red letter days: watercraft, combined with a healthy dose of occasional luck as the ball falls kindly on the roulette wheel. This is the time to make hay, broaden the shoulders and eat Weetabix for breakfast: all manner of shite will be posted through the letter box of your shelter, you just need to be fettled and primed.
I had arrived on the banks of Sutton: opening the driver’s door, reluctantly, as the motor was buffeted by a swirling wind. The sky threatened like the ‘Ripper’…. armed and holding aloft the sword of Damocles within his hands, waiting to strike; I sensed wrath; only a matter of time before natures evil would rock up. Sand was passing through the hourglass, that relentless race against the clock – we have all been there: this experience was at the very base of Maslow’s theorem. Luckily for me the flood bank would offer a modicum of respite, all be it fleetingly. I decided to roll the dice, driving down and navigating the drop to the edge of the river. I would concern myself about my outbound exit at a time when rationale and calm had resumed. Fronting up the wind, so that it deflected at the most obtuse angle, the Lo Pro, with all my might, was unfurled and set firm, true to its name, as low to the ground as feasibly possible. Pegs were malleted to oblivion: this was no summertime chalk stream haven – the antithesis in fact; primarily, I needed to be warm and dry. With base camp set and the added security of the motor that was parked parallel behind my shelter, attentions were drawn to the challenge ahead. Baiting tactics needed to be accurate and hard hitting; droppers of John Baker’s finest were deposited on the riverbed, close to the bank, amongst the rocks, releasing a pungent attraction in the hope of dialling up the barbel’s senses. Time for hot drink as the swim brewed for a while. I tried to relax a taught angling brain; all this graft better be worth it. I spaced my bank sticks out, facing them at a forty-five-degree angle, downstream, so as to negate the strong flow of the river. The first casts of the day were merely flicked past the nearside rocks and held firm, as the line gathered tension. I glanced behind my shelter, as the wind whipped up, a mighty storm was close: within minutes hale stones battered and bruised the holm; in anticipation I grabbed onto the front spokes of the brolly, sat on my bed chair as discontent turned into laughter at the sheer ferocity of the storm. This was utterly biblical; I gazed out at the river as crested waves surged downstream; each gust seemingly more powerful than the last. Five minutes had passed, nature was still not finished: I feared a temperature drop in the water with all of the ice that had been showered into the water column- time would tell if it would be detrimental to the chance of a bite. At last, the wind had dropped off; I lessened the grip on the brolly; tinges of blue, in the sky above told me the worst had been navigated. The banks were now treacherous: risk assessment key to fathom how to master the slippery bank under the cover of darkness, if and when a barbel bolted with my rig in tow. The storm, now a distant memory, almost like a different day entirely, gave way to natures wonder- hundreds of Jackdaws gathered; a murmuration formed above the bushes on the far bank, twisting and turning in unison: the inimitable ‘clatter’ filling the air. A real winter treat.
The sound of the farmers truck, wheels cutting through the mud, struggling for traction on the path behind the flood bank told me that another angler was stranded: I prayed I would not suffer the same fate. It was at this very time that the isotope on my upstream rod caved towards the river’s surface, moments later the Delk burst into song, one audible low tone blur until I lifted the rod. Pitch black, I fumbled and engaged the head torch, the light breeze cutting through the line creating a satisfying sound akin to a symphony orchestra.
With the tide now fully turned, ebbing its way back to the sea, It became a proper battle of attrition: rod kept high whilst crabbing my way down the rocks to the edge of the river I could not afford to yield, she’d stuff me up in the rocks and the liberation of my prize would be complete. Cranking the double handled reel with my thumb, the fish was inched back from the depths below; she breached the surface for the first time, under the watchful spotlight of my head torch. The margins erupted as she powered off once more; undeniably, the rush of playing a big barbel is one of angling’s great privileges. Moments later she lay beaten on the surface as the net engulfed her considerable frame. With the net tethered by means of a bank stick, she rested up, no doubt trying to shed the lactic acid build up after a short but powerful bout. With camera paraphernalia, and unhooking gear readied I cautiously carried her to the top of the bank. The size eight wide gape buried to the eye, holding firm and the coated braid repelling the friction of the rocks: the tackle had served its purpose. A significant Trent barbel filled the confines of my mat, exposed for a brief moment in time, she had let her guard down and I was the benefactor. The air was cold, and the night was jet black: the camera’s flash bounced against the steep flood bank, illuminating my winter prize.
She was in fine shape, as most of these fish are, lean and mean, built for power and to wreak havoc amongst the faint hearted. She would receive the utmost respect, as she was rested one more time before her release into the calmer marginal flow. I was a gruntled angler, content with my evening’s exploits, I cupped both my hands and blew warm air into my palms, hoping to regain feeling and blood flow once more. With the Plough constellation vivid above my head, I would light the stove, make a brew and reflect for a while, wishing to cherish the moment, as, with the onset of time, even life’s most lucid memories can fade….
Giles Burdett
May 2025