Warwickshire Avon - Perambulation and Persiflage

Now there’s always one, isn’t there? That species that seems to exist purely to wind you up. For some it’s the elusive grayling that vanishes when the camera’s ready, for others the carp that shows its back at dusk then ghosts away as soon as you reach for the net. 

For me, blog readers it’s the barbel !!!, Whiskers, the Bronze Torpedo, the River Prince. The bogey fish that haunts my dreams and mocks my bait.

Now, don’t get me wrong I’ve caught plenty of barbel. I’ve even managed a few decent ones that put a nice bend in the rod and a grin on my face. But specimen barbel? 

Those real Warwickshire Avon bruisers that look like they’ve been bench-pressing lead shot and bullying chub for lunch? Nope. They’re the Houdinis of my angling career.

You see, every season I tell myself, this is it. This is the year I crack the code. 

I study the maps, check the river levels, and even resort to that most desperate of modern measures YouTube reconnaissance and Swim Jumping. 

I’ll spot one, too. A real monster. Broad as a plank and shimmering in the current like a sunken bronze statue.

So I do the right thing. I keep schtum. No “look what I saw” WhatsApp messages, no casual mentions at the tackle shop. Tight lips and quiet swims, that’s the way. I sneak back at twilight, heart pounding, a bait that smells like the devil’s sock drawer on the hook. And what happens?

Nothing.

Barbara the Barbel (We think)

Well, that’s not quite true. What happens is that the barbel buggers off, and a week later someone else lands it in the very swim where the bankside is still warm from where my backside had been planted for three nights running.

It’s like the fish are in on it. A secret WhatsApp group of their own.

“Right chaps, he’s back. The one with the ridiculous head torch. Scatter!”

I’ve tried everything. Boilies that smell like fermented Christmas pudding, pellets soaked in more flavouring than a vape convention, even chunks of Spam that could knock a badger unconscious. 

I’ve swapped rivers, swapped baits, swapped hats (because we all know that sometimes it’s the hat’s fault), and yet the bogey barbel remain as elusive as ever. And here’s the kicker it’s not as if they’re not there. Oh, they’re there all right. Coming out all around me. On stretches of the Avon where you can practically hear them chuckling in the flow. Fish that would smash my 12lb 14oz personal best into the silt without so much as a tail flick.

.“Look, there he is again, Mick’s cousin twice removed. He’s trying the spicy sausage this time. Bless him.”

Still, I mix it up. No putting all my eggs in one basket. Different stretches, different moods, a flask of something hot (or occasionally, medicinal). I tell myself that the blank sessions build character. That one day, one glorious day, I’ll lift the net around a proper slab-sided Warwickshire warrior, bronze flanks gleaming in the headtorch, tail still beating like a drum.

Every angler has one. The fish that keeps you humble, that teaches patience, persistence, and the art of creative swearing under your breath.

Send some luck my way please !!

Anyway another post work session, I rock up to the Avon all confident, gear packed, river looking spot-on, and I’m thinking this is it barbel time. Open the boot, rod in hand, bait ready, PVA bag glugged so heavily in barbel sauce you'd swear I was marinating a Sunday roast… and then the familiar sinking feeling taps me on the shoulder.

Landing net?

Nope.
Again.

Honestly I must have been a moth in a past life because I flutter to the riverbank full of purpose, then immediately forget why I came. Luckily the emergency spare net was still in the boot the one that looks like it’s designed for scooping drowned footballs out of ponds, not wrestling double-figure barbel. But needs must, and if a lump wanted to play ball tonight, we'd improvise. Worst case scenario: wet feet and shouted profanity.

My PB 12lb 14oz

The river had a bit of extra push, churning away like someone upstream had discovered the joy of matey ,matey bubble bath and a reckless attitude to dosage. 

Not perfect conditions, but enough to get the optimism gland pumping. Dropper thuds down on a clean patch; a few pellets fired in like barbel-scented confetti and the rod rests set. Wait mode initiated.

Dusk slides in. Bites nowhere to be seen. The brain starts doing that thing where it questions why I didn’t just sit at home like a civilised human. 

Then bang. Well, more of a tap-tap-oioi-now-we're-moving. Rod bends, fish charges, adrenaline spikes… and of course, chub. Small cheeky sod too, like it turned up just to remind me who’s really running this river. Still doesn’t matter. No blank is a no blank.

Rod out again, another jittery enquiry that turns into yet another chub, slightly bigger but still looking like the understudy in a barbel pantomime. Two chub in quick succession  the barbel clearly clocked off early and left the river’s idiots in charge.

Half an hour of staring at the rod like a man trying to telepathically summon a fish, then I caved and packed up. Meanwhile, word reaches me big-barbel-boffin Dave Williams blanked on the WBAS syndicate stretch. If he's drawing blanks there, my pellet-flinging antics don't stand much chance.

Still, there are lumps in that stretch. Night sessions are calling, and I feel like I’m missing something obvious  probably “don’t forget the landing net like a wally”. But we go again. Because hope, like fishing tackle, is expensive and impossible to stop collecting.

Next time then !!