Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.37

It’s that time of year again the clocks are about to change, the mornings are darker than a politician’s expense report, and Rachel from Accounts has clearly been sharpening her fiscal pitchforks for another tax raid.

Honestly, I’ve started flinching whenever I see the HMRC logo. They say death and taxes are inevitable  I’d add Rachel’s spreadsheets to that list.

The chatter on the radio the other day didn’t help. Apparently, while we’re all juggling heating bills, the government’s decided to chuck £75 million at a scheme to promote the sale of contraceptives in Pakistan. Condoms in corner shops, posters on buses, the full works. 

There’s another £14 million to “identify cultural barriers to modern contraceptives,” whatever that means. Meanwhile, I’m here rationing my luncheon meat and contemplating whether to sell a kidney to pay for the next batch of pellets. 

I get that “global development” is important, but maybe just maybe they could start with fixing the potholes between here and the Avon. I nearly lost a wheel last week on the B4455.

Anyway, I promised myself I’d stay off the news. Too depressing. So, to counterbalance the doom, I did what any sane man would do: loaded up the car with rods, bait, and false hope, and headed down to the syndicate stretch for a bit of piscatorial therapy. The WhatsApp group had gone quiet always a good sign. The fewer anglers about, the better the chance of a proper session. “You’ll have it to yourself,” they said. “Peace and solitude,” they said.

Except, of course, when I pulled into the car park, I saw a familiar shape in my pre-baited swim.

George bloody Burton.

There he was, rods out, kettle on, the smug contentment of a man who’s just sat in another bloke’s armchair and changed the TV channel. I drove by, wound my window down for a natter, trying to look casual while mentally reciting a list of Anglo-Saxon vocabulary.

“Didn’t realise it was your spot, Mick,” he says “Only just got here. Fancy the one down from me?”

The one down from him was about ten yards away close enough to share sandwiches and cast over each other’s lines. I smiled that tight, British smile that hides deep resentment and said, “Nah, I’ll try somewhere else.”

I lugged my tackle further downstream, muttering darkly about loyalty, WhatsApp etiquette, and the unwritten laws of pre-baiting. 😄

To be fair, the new swim wasn’t half bad. Narrow section, faster pace, a decent snaggy overhang on the far side. It screamed barbel potential if you squinted hard enough. I balled in some krill groundbait, set up the rod, and set about “operation warm-up” which, given the wind, was like trying to stay cosy in a walk-in fridge.

This is where my Mum’s old microwave came in. Bless her, she’d told me it was “playing up,” which, in Mum language, usually means “a fire hazard.” I’d inherited it after replacing hers with a newer one, and I’d brought it along to test with the Jackery power station.

Now, if there’s one thing the Jackery doesn’t appreciate, it’s a microwave drawing more amps than a Glastonbury headline act. The thing roared to life like a dying jet engine, the lights dimmed, and before I knew it the power meter was spinning faster than the national debt clock.

Still, credit where it’s due my Tesco Thai Red Curry was nuked in about 90 seconds instead of the advertised six minutes. Tasted vaguely of ozone and regret, but it was hot and vaguely recognisable, which, at my age, is all you can ask for.

As I tucked in, I could almost convince myself that all was right in the world. The river whispered, the isotopes glowed faintly in the dusk, and the only noise was the faint hum of the motorway and the occasional owl wondering what the idiot with the glowing sticks was doing out at this hour.

I cast out and waited. And waited.

Then my phone buzzed.

“Just had a nice chub,” says George.

Of course he had. Probably one that had been fattening itself for a week on my pellets.

I replied with the obligatory “Nice one, mate 👍”  which in angler code translates roughly to “May your line tangle and your hook rust.”

Time passed. The temperature dropped faster than a pension fund after a mini-budget. Not even a chub pull. I started talking to myself. I even found myself checking the tip light every thirty seconds, as though sheer willpower could make it twitch.

Eventually, I gave in and moved to the corner swim  you know, the one you always say you’ll “try later” but never do because it involves effort. Half an hour there, same result: nothing, nada, naff all.

By now my fingers were numb, my hands had gone cold, and my self-esteem was circling the drain.

I called it. Packed up the gear, dumped it in the car, and reflected on the evening. Yet another blank. Another character-building session, as we anglers like to call it when we’ve been well and truly outsmarted by creatures with brains the size of a baked bean.

Still, despite the cold, the blank, and the creeping sense that Rachel from Accounts is secretly siphoning my bait budget, I’ll be back next week. Because that’s what we do. We curse the taxes, moan about the prices, swear we’re selling the rods and then spend the next five days tying new rigs and planning the next assault.

And who knows maybe next time George will find that someone’s been pre-baiting his driveway with cat food and hemp, and heck we may even see a blog post about it ?