Warwickshire Avon - Flummery and Fandangle

You know something’s up when you can see the bottom of the Warwickshire Avon as clearly as the landlord’s face when you ask for another pint after time’s been called. 

Honestly, it’s been gin-clear for weeks now and while the chalk-stream dandies down in Hampshire might swan about with their floppy hats and Latin fly names, up here in Bard’s country, we’re more used to a bit of colour. Not just in the water, mind you, but in the language when the fish ignore us.

Those big old residents the barbel, the chub, the elusive pike with an attitude problem they’re no fools. In water this clear they can see you blink on the bank, let alone the lump of pellet you’ve delicately presented like a Michelin-starred meatball. 

So, unless you’ve got night-vision goggles and the patience of a heron on tranquilisers, you’re better off waiting for dusk.

Still, Friday means freedom as I finish at 12.30pm. Forty-five hours of toil done, a cup of instant coffee sloshed down the hatch, and off I went with a plan more cunning than Baldrick with a new hat. 

Three swims in mind: the first opposite the houses (which always feels a bit like fishing in someone’s living room), the second at the whirling weir (which currently whirled about as much as a puddle in a drought), and the third, the infamous Pot Hunter’s Paradise, where legends are made and landing nets are occasionally broken, and well know anglers get caught night fishing.

I’d armed myself with two rods: one set up with a dead roach under a pike float more in hope than expectation and the other, the trusty barbel rod, rigged with a pair of 14mm pellets. Back in the day this stretch was known as Barbel Alley, until the otters turned up and declared squatters’ rights. The few that survived that fur-lined invasion had the small matter of a pollution incident to contend with, so really, any fish caught here now deserves a medal and perhaps counselling.

The river was so low I could practically see my reflection on the gravel. “Crap conditions,” I muttered, deploying the kind of optimism that keeps anglers buying tackle. The first swim, opposite the houses, is always awkward — you’re half expecting someone to open a window and ask if you’d like a cup of tea or to please stop peering at their hydrangeas.

Still, I set up, pinging pellets to the far side, deadbait in the margins. After ten minutes of total inactivity, the highlight was the young woman opposite finishing her painting job, peeling off her overalls to reveal an outfit tighter than a pair of new waders. She was clearly off to the gym or perhaps trying to break into orbit. Either way, it made the lack of bites slightly more tolerable. I know anglers are meant to commune with nature, but I didn’t realise that extended to admiring the local wildlife in yoga shorts.

After an hour of absolutely nothing unless you count mild dehydration and a crick in the neck I packed up and trudged to the weir. Or rather, what used to be the weir. It was barely dribbling, like a pensioner’s teapot. Still, moving water’s moving water, so out went the rods again. Half an hour later, while winding in the deadbait, something suddenly grabbed hold. At first, I thought it was a small pike with a death wish. Then the fight went all weird not so much a run as a wriggle.

“Hang on,” I said to nobody, “this feels eel-y.”

Sure enough, up came an eel not the stuff of nightmares, but certainly the biggest I’d hooked in years. It twisted, squirmed, and gave me a look that said, “I was minding my own business, mate.” A proper scrap, too, and when I finally landed it, the hook popped out neatly in the net. After a quick photo (and a moment that resembled a Thai massage involving slime), I sent it back to terrorise the local roach population. Blank avoided! Always nice to have something other than a sandwich to show for your efforts.

On to the final swim, then the willow peg. A nice bit of depth there, with a whisper of flow and the kind of overhanging branches that scream “ambush point.” A quick underarm lob sent the pellets and a PVA bag across, the lead plopped down perfectly, and I sat back feeling quite smug.

Five minutes later, the rod nearly did a somersault off the rest. One of those bites where your brain can’t quite keep up with your reflexes. I lunged like a startled heron, somehow grabbing the handle just in time. The fish had already made ground to the right, heading off like Two Teir Keir at the first whiff of a photo opportunity.

It was a chub. You can always tell the head thumping fight, the solid weight, and the distinct feeling you’ve hooked something that’s just remembered it’s got somewhere better to be. A fine fish too, tipping the scales at 4lb 2oz, bronze flanks gleaming even in the fading light. Not the biggest, but considering the river looked more like a bottle of tonic than a barbel paradise, I was chuffed to bits.

That was the lot for the afternoon, as I packed up, I glanced back at the water, clear as a conscience before payday, and couldn’t help but think: we need rain. Not a drizzle, not a shower, but a good, old-fashioned biblical downpour. 

Until then, I’ll keep trying, keep hoping, and keep pretending that watching a motionless rod for three hours is character-building rather than evidence of poor life choices.