The client I work for just happens to have their design studio on the Warwick University campus and there is one thing I have noticed about the Generation Z students and that is how immersed in the phones they are. There’s something rather fascinating and mildly terrifying about the start of a new university term.
One minute, the Warwick campus is a tranquil place where you can hear the rustle of oak leaves, the distant hum of the ring road, and the odd magpie squabbling over a half-eaten Greggs sausage roll.
Then, as if someone’s lifted the lid on a tin of Red Bull-fuelled sardines, the students return. Generation Z, in full force, wandering the campus in their thousands, eyes welded to the glowing rectangles in their hands, fingers twitching like caffeine-powered crabs.
Now, I’ve seen some odd behaviour in my time barbel anglers wearing camo so loud they could frighten a stealth bomber, or match lads taking selfies with their keepnets like they’ve just discovered the cure for gout — but this, this is another level. These students, bless ‘em, glide about like extras from The Walking Dead: TikTok Edition.
You could drop a marching band, three Morris dancers, and a streaker juggling flaming torches in front of them and they’d still be scrolling, thumbs swiping like they’re in training for the next Olympic Games of Pointless Content Consumption.
Even when they’re chatting, they’re still attached to their phones like umbilical cords. You half expect one of them to say, “Sorry mate, can’t talk my battery’s low, and if it dies, so do I.”
How the heck will they concentrate on a fishing float ?
Now, I always thought students were supposed to be skint living on a diet of Super Noodles, cheap lager, and dashed hopes. But not this lot. Oh no, these are walking around in trainers worth more than my car and ordering oat milk frappo-whatevers with contactless flair. Honestly, they spend money like Rachel from Accounts at a budget meeting splashing it around with carefree abandon while the rest of us are checking the price of luncheon meat and wondering whether we can pass off Aldi bourbon biscuits as “artisan” if served on a slate.
Anyway, enough social anthropology. I didn’t drive all the way to campus to watch the nation’s youth turn into iPhone zombies. I had a mission. A tree mission.
You see, a few weeks back, I stumbled upon a sight so surreal I thought I’d either discovered a portal to Narnia or been accidentally exposed to one of those “herbal” brownies from the student union café. A tree an ordinary, middle-aged Warwickshire tree was lit up like the Blackpool illuminations.
A natural fairy light show, shimmering, flickering, glowing. Magical stuff. I half expected David Attenborough to appear from the bushes, whispering about bioluminescent fungi in that hushed reverential tone of his.
No I hadn't been on the acid (not that evening anyway !!)
So, with the students back and my curiosity still burning brighter than a headtorch on turbo mode, I decided to return to that same stretch. But this time, the rods were coming too.
Nothing fancy just a couple of trusty 12mm pellets (one krill, one halibut, because variety is the spice of life), a bit of krill groundbait to get things moving, and a small PVA bag of freebies for good measure.
Two hours on the clock. Short session stuff. I wasn’t expecting fireworks, but you never know what’s lurking when the sun dips and the shadows start dancing on the water.
The first proper whack on the rod came not long after the bait settled that unmistakable chub thump that jolts you upright like you’ve just sat on an electric fence.
A proper good’un too, followed quickly by another bang. Foolishly, I struck at the second one like an overexcited spaniel, and of course, nothing doing. Schoolboy error. I gave myself a quiet talking to something along the lines of “Patience, you impatient plank” before rebaiting and getting the rig back out there.
Fifteen minutes later, the tip twitched, quivered, and then went full-on medieval. Proper barbel-style bite. The kind where the rod almost leaps off the rest and into the next postcode. This time, I didn’t flinch. I sat on my hands, heart thumping, and let the fish do what fish do best hang itself.
And sure enough, after a short tussle under the willows, a chub slid into the net. About 4lb of pure Warwick muscle. Not a monster, but a fish with attitude. The sort that looks at you like it’s about to ask for your Wi-Fi password. The light was starting to fade, the bats were out doing their aerial acrobatics, and for a brief moment, all was right in the world. I could hear the faint murmur of students in the distance probably arguing over the ethics of avocado toast while I sat there, mug of tea in hand, basking in the timeless simplicity of a bend in the rod.
Then, a splash. A proper one too. Something big breached the surface like a submarine coming up for air. My heart rate spiked. Another splash. Surely another chub? Or maybe a barbel on patrol? I sat there expectantly… and waited.
Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a tremor. Just the faint hum of the motorway and the rhythmic rustle of the reeds.
And the glowing tree? Sadly, it didn’t show again. Maybe it was a one-time thing, or the ghost of a forgotten fairy rave. Who knows? That’s the beauty of this daft hobby you never really know what you’ll get. One minute it’s students glued to their screens, the next it’s a fish on the line or a tree glowing like it’s had too many sherbets.
But that’s fishing, isn’t it? Half mystery, half madness, all magic. And that’s exactly why I’ll be back again soon same spot, same setup, same faint hope that nature might just decide to switch the fairy lights back on.
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