Warwickshire Avon - Sawdust and Serenity

There are moments in a man’s life when he looks out over his garden and feels that primal urge to do something about it. 

Normally, I can suppress such dangerous impulses with a strong cup of tea, a digestive biscuit, and a quick scroll on that there Ebay for fishing tackle I don’t need. But not today. Oh no. Today, the DIY gods were whispering in my ear, and they weren’t taking no for an answer.

It all started with a pile of oak sleepers that had been loitering at the back of the garden like a gang of surly teenagers. 

The plan and I use that word loosely was to chop them into manageable chunks for next winter’s log burner sessions. 

You know, the ones where you sit smugly in front of the fire pretending you’re a rugged outdoorsman while actually Googling “what’s the best temperature to slow-cook brisket.”

Now, I’ll be the first to admit gardening is not my thing. In fact, gardening can quite simply do one. I’ve got neither the time nor the temperament for it. 

The very thought of pruning something or mowing the lawn brings me out in hives. 

It’s all right for OCD David next door the man’s grass hasn’t seen a weed since Tony Blair was in office, and his hedge is trimmed so symmetrically it could probably get its own exhibit at Kew Gardens. But me? My lawn’s a biodiversity hotspot. If David’s garden is Versailles, mine’s the Amazon rainforest.

Still, these sleepers had to go. So, out came the fifty-quid electric chainsaw  the sort of tool that looks like it’s been designed by someone who’s never used one but has a passing interest in medieval weaponry. I wasn’t expecting much. I mean, for the price of a half-decent round at the pub, you don’t get professional lumberjack vibes, do you? But credit where it’s due it actually did the job. The little outlaw roared (well, purred) into life, and I began hacking through the oak like I knew what I was doing.

Of course, being oak, it fought back. The chain dulled quicker than my enthusiasm for exercise, and every cut sprayed me with a delightful mixture of sawdust, moisture, and regret. The noise wasn’t too bad either, which was a shame really, because I’d secretly hoped it might disturb David’s afternoon ritual of tea, crumpets, and silently judging me through his conservatory window.

After an hour or two of sawing, sweating, and swearing, I’d reduced the sleepers to a modest pile of firewood. The family collectively known as The Diary Makers because they always seem to have something else booked whenever there’s actual work to be done didn’t offer so much as a token hand. My back began to stage a full-scale rebellion, so I decided the most sensible next step was to go to the pub.

It’s funny how quickly your back pain subsides when there’s a pint in front of you. By the second, I was practically cured. But when we got home, reality hit harder than a wet landing net the pain was back with a vengeance. Thankfully, the missus and Sam took pity on me and decided to finish the job. I supervised, naturally, which mostly involved leaning on the fence and making encouraging noises like “that’s it, watch your back” and “don’t drop it on your foot.” whilst enjoying a tot of rum cask Jura. 

By the end, the sleepers were stacked neatly in the garage, my back was still moaning, and I was seriously considering becoming a minimalist who only burns tea lights for warmth.

The next morning, the forecast had threatened biblical rainfall, so I was fully prepared for a lazy day of doing absolutely nothing. But when I peeked out of the window, the sky looked as innocent as a church fete. And that’s when another bad idea took root fishing.

I told myself it would help my back. A bit of gentle movement, fresh air, spiritual healing you know, all that guff we anglers tell ourselves to justify sneaking out of the house for a few hours.

Down at the local stretch, there was a match on, but only over about a third of the pegs so I literally has 30 pegs to myself. Perfect. I decided to do what I like to call a “roving session,” which is basically code for “wandering aimlessly and hoping for divine intervention.” I primed a few swims with bread mash, imagining fat chub lurking under the snags, just waiting for a slice of Hovis to come wafting down like manna from heaven.

Seven or eight swims later, the only thing I’d caught was a mild sense of déjà vu and possibly a touch of trench foot. Twice  yes, twice  the quivertip actually moved, though whether it was fish or a submerged crisp packet, I couldn’t say. The bites were so tentative they could’ve been polite refusals. Probably small dace, or possibly fish with commitment issues.

And then, right on cue, the heavens opened. I’d just packed up when the first drops fell smug doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

 Within minutes it was hammering down, the sort of rain that would make Noah check his weather app.

Back home, I did what any sensible angler does after a day of questionable decision-making slow-cooked beef brisket and roast potatoes. 

The kind of comfort food that makes you forget the blank, the blisters, and the fact that your garage now smells faintly of damp oak and despair.

Was it a productive session? Absolutely not. Was it worth it? Strangely, yes. Because as I sat there, full of brisket and self-satisfaction, I realised something my back felt better. 

Not perfect, but looser, freer, as if hauling myself around muddy banks had realigned something important. As a veteran of the Sciatica Wars of a few years ago, I don’t take a good back day for granted. So while the fish didn’t play ball, I reckon I still came out on top.