Now with the wife recently acquiring her second shoulder surgery like she’s collecting the full orthopaedic set the days of guilt-free fishing have taken a bit of a dent (Got to use the private medical insurance whilst it lasts). Last year’s experience taught me three things: she can't drive for a couple of weeks, one-armed dinner prep involves a lot of shouting, and me sneaking off fishing during this period is riskier than waving a red rag at a hormonal bull... while dressed as a matador.
But alas, the Summer Solstice! That annual planetary nudge that whispers “You’ve got daylight until forever, go fishing you fool.” So, with the kids fed, watered, and within arm’s reach of a pillow, I muttered something vague about “needing air” and was out the door before anyone could ask if I’d remembered the washing.
The destination was a handy stretch of the Warwickshire Avon, armed with optimism and a pint of pellets, hoping for a start-of-season barbel amongst the gravel glides and streamer weed. The kind of swim that screams “big whiskers live here!” but only ever seems to deliver chub with boundary issues.
Now, I’ve tried rolling meat under weed rafts before and, to be fair, a couple of barbel did oblige. But this time I fancied a more stealthy approach scaled-down tackle, ninja-like creeping, and only mildly audible swearing when a nettle found my shin.
The first swim I settled into was shallow, clear, and lively. One barbel (probably imaginary) and a gang of loitering chub were milling about like bored teenagers at a bus stop. The plan was to fish here for an hour, then move to a deeper, moodier swim for dusk where dreams of double-figure barbel live and, usually, die.
At 8:00 PM it was still 28 degrees. The sweat was real. I looked like I’d run a marathon in neoprene. But I was fishing, and that made everything else heat, guilt, the impending laundry pile completely irrelevant.
The first tug on the quivertip came quickly... could it be?
Nope. Perch. A small one. Possibly still wearing armbands. How it managed to suck up two pellets nearly its own size I’ll never know. Determination? Masochism? A death wish?
Then came the chub. One after the other, all desperate for a starring role in the “Shoulda Been a Barbel” documentary I’ve been mentally scripting for years. Two came to the net before the swim went quiet. Classic chub move smash and dash.
So off I went to the evening shift swim. A bit deeper, a bit quieter, and with pedigree. I've had barbel over 12lb here in years gone by though recently it feels like I’ve been fishing for ghosts and being outwitted by squirrels.
A few handfuls of pellets to butter them up, a couple of hair-rigged offerings on the dinner plate, and we were back in business. The chub, however, had followed me like bad luck. They battered the rig mercilessly, stripping baits like they were unwrapping sweets.
By this point, I was fed up. So I went full rogue: Peperami Firestick deployed. Let’s see you strip that, lads. And wouldn’t you know it, another chub bigger this time, a solid 4lb brute with a face like it owed me money. Smelled faintly of cured sausage, but then again so did I by this point.
The barbel? Still absent. Probably sulking in a weed bed somewhere, watching me through disdainful eyes and planning their next coordinated no-show. When the bats came out, the insect life turned up to eleven. I was engulfed in a swirling midge soup that made breathing risky and blinking optional.
Still, as I packed down under a star-pricked sky, rods unsnagged and spirits only mildly bruised, I couldn’t help but smile. Barbel? Next time, maybe. But the chub? Oh, they’ll always turn up uninvited like in-laws with keys to your fridge.