Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.36

Well I never thought I'd day it but I can see why many like anglers like their creature comforts these days !! you see I'm getting worse sat behind a motionless rod and having to wait patiently for a bite I seem to be struggling with more and more.

You know things are bad when even the wife’s yoga class becomes the evening’s most successful exercise in patience and flexibility. 

There I was, perched on the banks of the handy syndicate stretch  handy in the sense that it’s close enough for me to delude myself into thinking I’ll “just nip down for an hour” and somehow conjure a barbel from the ether before being summoned back by the relentless tick of domestic obligation. I swear the clock moves twice as fast when you’re bankside and half as fast when you’re forced to watch Bake Off.

 Now, in theory, this should have been a banker. Prime time, dusky skies, a whisper of cool air brushing the willows, and that faintly fishy tang of the river that makes you believe just for a second that you actually know what you’re doing. 

 I even brought along my best groundbait, a krill concoction so pungent the dog tried to roll in it before I’d even got the lid off. This was serious business. The rod was set, the isotope gleaming like a tiny nuclear beacon in the gloaming, and I sat back in my chair feeling, for once, like I might be part of nature’s grand plan.

That feeling lasted about nine minutes.

Because as soon as I settled into that calm, that tranquil oneness anglers are supposed to have with the elements, my mind wandered to the curfew. 

You know the one  the invisible countdown timer that starts the moment you leave the house. “I’ll be back by seven,” I said, casually, knowing full well that the only thing casual about my evening would be the speed with which I’d later be packing up like a contestant in a supermarket sweep.

Still, I persevered. The river looked perfect moody sky, gentle flow, not another angler in sight. Even the cows in the adjacent field looked relaxed, which is rare because usually, I’m the idiot who sets up directly in their line of curiosity. 

It’s always the same: I find a nice peg, settle down, and suddenly there’s a herd of bovine hecklers edging closer like they’ve paid for front-row seats at “Man Loses Another Lead – The Live Show.”

I lobbed the lead out with what can only be described as textbook form (if the textbook was titled “Casting for the Slightly Inept”). The lead hit bottom with that beautiful, confidence-inspiring donk the kind of sound that makes you think, Yes, that’s a clean gravel run. That’s where the barbel are. That’s where it’ll happen. Spoiler: it didn’t.

 For the next half-hour, the isotope remained motionless, mocking me with its stillness. I gave it the occasional glance, pretending not to care, but we both knew I was one twitch away from full-scale paranoia. 

Normally, I’d at least expect the odd chub pull that half-hearted rattle that gives you a reason to shift in your chair and mutter something about “finicky bites.” But tonight? Nothing. The rod might as well have been cast into a puddle in the car park.

Then, without warning, it happened. The isotope moved. Not much, just three inches to the left but enough to send my heart rate into defibrillator territory. 

You know that moment: when your brain goes from “nothing’s happening” to “oh sweet mother of piscatorial miracles, this is it!” in less than a second. But instead of a glorious curve of carbon and the thump of a hooked fish, it just… stayed there. Three inches left. Suspiciously still.

“WTF?” I said aloud to nobody but the cows (who by now looked thoroughly unimpressed). I lifted the rod gently, expecting resistance, maybe even a gentle nod from a curious chub but no. Instead, there was that unmistakable gritty thunk of hook meeting submerged debris. I pulled a little harder.

Nothing. A bit harder. Still nothing. Then that horrible elastic moment where you just know what’s about to happen. Ping! The hook pulled and whatever it had been branch, root, lost shopping trolley, the shattered remains of my optimism was gone.

Of course, by now, the clock had performed its usual dark magic, and my “quick hour” had shrunk to its final ten minutes. I gave the bait one last heroic chuck into the flow, more in hope than expectation, while quietly preparing myself for the inevitable blank. Dusk settled, the bats came out, and I sat there convincing myself that maybe I’d feel the tiniest pull just as I was about to reel in that classic angler’s fantasy of the “last cast miracle.”

Naturally, time was called by the universe and the wife simultaneously. The phone buzzed: “Leaving soon. Don’t forget, I need the car.” Translation: You have three minutes to pack up or I’m sending a search party.

So, I began the routine: head torch on, reel in… and immediately felt it. Solid. Not a snag, not a fish but a biblical-level entanglement. The kind of snag that laughs in the face of your 10lb fluorocarbon and says, “Pull for a break, sunshine, because you’re not getting this one back.” I tugged. I swore. I gave it the old “steady pressure” nonsense for a few seconds before finally conceding defeat. Snap.

And there it was another glorious session at the handy syndicate stretch. Ninety minutes of high hopes, zero fish, one lost rig, and a fresh reminder that optimism, in angling, is just stubbornness with better PR.

I loaded the the car, muttering to myself about how “at least it’s nice to be out” the universal lie anglers tell when they’ve been thoroughly humbled by the river. 

I could already picture Sean, that jammy devil, reeling in Barbara the Barbel again next week while I sit at home, de-barbelling the washing machine hose for brownie points. Still, I’ll be back. Of course I will. Because as much as I moan, as much as I swear blind that I’m “taking a break from it all,” we both know I’ll be back down there at the next available window, krill groundbait in hand, convincing myself that this time this time  the isotope will move for the right reason.