Bob Mortimer says that the only real beauty that we see in our fishing lives is natural and apart from the very occasional old bridge or thatched cottage, perhaps, anything made by man is going to detract from the scene.
Who am I to argue with Bob and generally I agree his point is sound but know that before I came to Norfolk aged six or so, my fishing was done up north? Canals, mills, workers cottages, chimneys and soot were my world and I found something haunting in it then as I do to this day. So, when I found myself Bakewell way last week, it was something of a homecoming, with a quest thrown in for good measure.
The thrust of my time there was to locate the legendary wild rainbow trout that breed, almost uniquely for the UK, in the Derbyshire Wye. My hotel was situated a few yards from where the Dove joins the Derwent and this is a little less hifalutin as a fishing venue with coarse fish making a show.
To cut a convoluted story short, my friend Rob and I found two stunning looking barbel living under a viaduct only 50 yards from our hotel car park. Wow... and when the river keeper kindly told us we could fish for them when we weren’t working, a plan formed.
I suggested we bait morning and evening for two days and then move into our “attack” position for the last evenings of our stay, after Rob had finished his film directing duties. We were excited as children. This was a true angling adventure, a real edge to our week in the north west.
For forty-eight hours we dribbled in our boilies every spare moment and on our penultimate evening we felt our trap was sprung. After dinner, Rob and I crept like thieves in the night down the embankment and eased our way to the footings of the Victorian viaduct.
Down river from us an equally ancient road bridge spanned the A6 but the gurgle of the Derwent drowned any noise. It was Rob, me, our barbel and the magic began. What a thrilling place it was to be as the dusk descended, as the trees crowded close and the bats strafed the warm night air. One rod. A single bait so close we’d know if either of those golden fish even breathed on it. Tingling anticipation. An intoxicating mix of grand architecture , untrammelled nature and two fish more precious than jewels. When one of them rolled, shattering the black river into silver shards, we nearly died but at 10.30pm we reeled in to calm ourselves with a night cap before sleep.
Our last day filming passed in the usual frenzy but as the afternoon drew to a close, our thoughts turned to our nest by the viaduct. Dinner was bolted with unseemly haste and there we were on the river, just before the bats, just as the first owl called.
John Bailey's angling companion, Rob, waits for the barbel. Picture: John Bailey (Image: John Bailey)
One rod, one bait, one cast and again the darkness settled. We reflected that whilst fly fishing for trout is a wonder, an art form and a challenge that has kept anglers beguiled for centuries, there is still an artificiality about it. The rule on the Dove that an angler has to fish an upstream dry fly is the right one for sure lest all those precious trout be fooled too easily. But, to catch our barbel, there were no restrictions in place. It was us against them, gloves off, no quarter asked or given. This was raw and brutal, two anglers trying every trick in their armoury to outwit two naturally born giants of supernatural cunning and awareness. Only nets, poisons and dynamite were off limits.
We were on the point of failure, bums sore from the rocks beneath them, the bar exerting its siren call, when the rod tip knocked and the whole damn thing simply daggered round, almost into the Derwent itself. Rob caught it in the nick, the reel gave line and then, in a heartbeat, the fish was off. We heard a splash from downriver, the barbel laughing at us perhaps, a derisive celebration that anglers had once again failed and the natural world had survived unscathed.
So, defeated, we sat in the bar but our mood was exultant. The adventure had been everything and had the moon been laid at our feet and that barbel had been netted would we have been triumphant or in some way deflated, we wondered?
It’s better to have loved and lost, we agreed. And whilst it would have been remarkable to have gazed into the eye of that giant, somehow we preferred to leave Derbyshire knowing its invincibility was intact.
The memory of the quest was all we needed to take with us.
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