Well, I’d built this one up in my head, hadn’t I? A cheeky smash-and-grab session after work, just enough time to squeeze in a couple of hours before dusk a tactical strike, a covert operation, a piscatorial Mission Impossible where, if everything went to plan (which it never does), I might just winkle out a barbel or two.
I arrived armed with optimism, two 6mm pellets, and the sort of misguided confidence that only comes from forgetting how bad your last trip was.
Now, I wasn’t going in heavy this time. No, this was a stealth mission a small PVA bag of freebies, a delicate rig, and a prayer to the river gods.
I primed the swim first, because that’s what proper anglers do when they’ve watched too many YouTube videos of people who actually catch fish. The swim looked perfect a lovely shallow glide dropping into a dark trough that’s held fish before. Textbook stuff. You know that feeling when you just know? Yeah, me neither, but I like to pretend.
As I ambled down to the peg, I noticed the usual carnage. The cover to the left had been hacked back, branches floating everywhere, the sort of job only a chainsaw-wielding canoeist could love.
It’s supposed to be a non-navigable stretch, but apparently the canoeists think “non-navigable” means “excellent shortcut.” You can almost hear them thinking, ‘Let’s improve nature with petrol tools!’ I swear they’ve taken to gardening the banks more than I do my own lawn.
Anyway, I got set up. Rod positioned. Line tight. Pellets out. Then, right on cue, the Avon whispered that sweet promise only she can a couple of twitches, a few line flicks, and then, at that magic moment between day and night, a bite straight out of the Barbel Textbook of Violence.
The tip wrapped round like it owed me money, I struck like a man possessed, and… nothing. Absolutely sod all. The line went slack, my heart sank, and I invented three new swear words that frightened a nearby moorhen. I’d pricked it not properly hooked, not properly lost, just that frustrating halfway house where you know it’s your fault but you’ll still blame the hook, the current, and possibly NATO.
Still, ever the optimist (read: idiot), I recast. Twenty minutes later, not a twitch, so I decided to move to another swim you know, that angler’s logic where “the next peg” is somehow teeming with fish while yours is clearly cursed. This one was on the main river, a proper pace to it, and within five minutes I had another bite. Missed it again.
At this point, I seriously started considering golf. At least when you miss there, people clap politely and offer you gin.
But that’s when things took a turn for the weird. Across the river, I saw what looked like a head torch beam flashing in and out of the trees. Bright, white light proper LED power, not the yellow glow of a bivvy lamp. I thought, “Great, another angler playing Jedi Knight with his torch.” But as I squinted, it wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t moving like a torch.
It was pulsing. Like the trees themselves were switching on and off, lighting up in brilliant flashes and then fading again, as if the Avon had developed its own Christmas display.
Then it hit me blog reader and fellow Avon wanderer Jon Pinfold had once shown me a photo of what he called “the glowing trees.” I’d laughed at the time, assuming he’d been at the homemade sloe gin again, but there they were: real, radiant, ethereal.
The light wasn’t flickering like fireflies or car headlights it was inside the trees, cascading down branches and shimmering over the water. Mesmerising. I sat there, rod in hand, gobsmacked, looking like a man who’d just seen a barbel jump into the car and drive off.
Part of me wanted to grab the camera, set up the tripod, document it for posterity but the other part remembered the time I nearly fell in while trying to film an otter.
The sensible bit of my brain (tiny, but vocal) told me it was time to head back. Curfew was calling, and if I didn’t make it home, I’d have more to worry about than missed bites.
As I trudged back to the Jimny, I noticed something even more absurd. From behind the bumper, that weed seemed to have got bigger from when I left the car.
Not clinging on growing. I swear it wasn’t that big when I parked. A proper green shoot, waving mockingly in the evening breeze, as if the river itself had decided to take over my motor.
Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe nature’s just reclaiming what’s hers. Or maybe, just maybe, the Avon has decided that if I’m not going to catch fish, it’ll make sure at least something flourishes near me. Either way, next trip I’m taking a strimmer for the bank, the Jimny, and possibly my sanity.
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