My First Barbel - River Whispers & Patience

There’s something about rivers—the way they wind through landscapes, carrying secrets in their flow, whispering tales only the patient can decipher. For years, I’d been chasing one such tale, or more accurately, the fish at its heart: the barbel. A fish of mythic reputation, sleek and strong, elusive as mist on a warming dawn. It wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d spent countless hours by this riverbanks, sometimes stalking and sometimes with rod in hand, watching the light shift on the water’s surface, feeling the tug of time itself as I waited. And waited.

But yesterday, it finally happened.

The day started like so many others. Early. The kind of early where the world is quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional murmur of birds waking up. My kit was already in the car before the sun had fully crept over the horizon—a ritual of preparation honed by years of routine. My rod, the reel, the bait; all checked and double-checked, as if precision alone could summon the barbel from its hidden depths. I was going over it all in my head the night before while sat in front of the TV the night before with my wife.

That morning, as I dropped my son at nursery, half-joking, I said, “If you give me a kiss, I’ll catch a fish today!” He obliged with a big grin, planting a kiss on my cheek. I smiled at the innocence of the exchange, not realising how those simple words would echo through the day.

The river was a familiar one, its bends and shallows mapped in my mind from endless visits. Yet, it never felt stale. Each trip brought something new throughout the year: the broken fence, the fallen tree, the streamer weeds in the shallows, the way the water’s colour shifted throughout the day. 

I set up near a bend where the current slowed and the water was deep - I've fishing this swim before and seen the fish it can produce. The bait and method was simple but deliberate—a chunk of luncheon meat (SPAM) on my hook length with hemp and my trusted Robin Red pellets as an attractor. As I cast, the familiar ritual unfolded. The soft “swish” of the line slicing the air, the quiet “plop” as it landed. And then, the wait. The movement of the quiver trip hypnotising me into what would actually become a short nap! 

Waiting is an art in itself. It’s not about impatience or the absence of action; it’s about being present. Listening to the rhythm of the water, feeling the tension in the line, sensing the subtle interplay between hope and reality. Yesterday, that balance tipped.

The first sign was a tremor in the rod tip—barely noticeable, like a breath held too long. Then, a more deliberate pull. My heart quickened, a sensation both familiar and exhilarating. I’ve had false alarms before, lines caught on debris or the playful nudge of smaller fish. But this was different. This was alive. A chub! A great start but not my chosen quarry. I put him back and started to build the swim again. 

2 hours later, half asleep - the strike came suddenly, forceful and uncompromising. My tackle was on it's way into the drink - I caught the rod and lifted it, the line tightening as the fish surged against it. And then, the battle began. Barbel are known for their strength, and this one lived up to the reputation. It pulled with determination, testing both my resolve and the limits of my gear. I like to fish light, to give the fish half a chance - it's only fair. The reel hummed as line peeled off, the rod arched, the connection between angler and fish stretched taut across the current.

Minutes felt like hours. Each turn of the reel, each surge of the fish, became part of a delicate dance. I could feel its power, the way it used the river’s flow to its advantage, the instinctive fight to break free. But slowly, steadily, the balance shifted. The fish tired, its runs shorter, its resistance waning. And then, with one final pull, I brought it to the shallows and into my net. I sat down and rested along with the fish for 5 minutes.  

There it was. My first barbel. Sleek and golden-bronze, its whiskered face almost otherworldly in its beauty. I knelt by the water, hands cold and trembling as I cradled it gently, the culmination of years of effort shimmering in my grasp. For a moment, time stood still. The world narrowed to just me, the fish, and the river’s quiet applause.

After a quick photo—not for bragging rights, but as a memory to hold onto—I lowered the barbel back into the water. It lingered briefly, as if acknowledging the encounter, before disappearing into the depths with a flick of its tail. I sat there for a while, the weight of the moment sinking in, the river’s whispers now carrying a note of fulfilment.

Catching that barbel wasn’t just about the fish. It was about the journey, the quiet mornings and the endless patience, the connection to a river that had become more than just a place. As I packed up my gear and walked away, I knew this wasn’t the end of the story. It was just one chapter, the river’s flow promising more tales yet to be told.

It's only a fish, it's all a bit silly and yet it feels like it means so much. Weird. 

Words and photos by Thom Barnett