I did wonder what this pond was outside the office, it had a good clear out recently with students donned in waders and then all of a sudden, a sign appeared next to and oddly a sign / poster / leaflet peddler on the university campus that wasn't seemingly designed to alienate a 52 year old grey white bloke. Things are looking up, some down, you see...
....the clocks have gone back again, that annual ritual of pretending we’re somehow saving daylight when in reality it’s just a polite way of admitting defeat to the encroaching darkness. The evenings now vanish faster than a free sausage roll at a car boot sale, and I find myself leaving work with that sinking feeling that by the time I reach the Avon, it’ll be less “golden hour” and more “pitch black panic.”
The idea of Daylight Saving might’ve made sense in 1916, when the aim was to save coal, but these days I’d settle for saving my sanity as I squint through the gloom trying to tie a hooklength by headtorch, looking like a miner who’s taken a wrong turn into a boggy field.
It’s a funny old time of year. The optimism that carried me through the long summer evenings those balmy sessions where the river hummed with life and hope has been replaced by the resigned acceptance that I’ll now be setting up, fishing, and packing away in the dark. It’s like the fishing gods are on a tea break until April. Still, I refuse to let the season bully me indoors, so I loaded up the car after work and pointed the bonnet toward the syndicate stretch. The beauty of that place is I can park practically on top of the peg ideal for the kind of half-hearted midweek dash that requires minimal effort and maximum illusion of intent.
I had one target in mind: a chub. The old river ghosts that have mocked me all too often. Out came the Sonubaits Oozing Cheese and Garlic jobbies the same baits that worked their smelly magic last time. I swear, if Eau de Decaying Dairy doesn’t pull them in, nothing will. The Avon looked textbook: steady flow, the odd leaf drifting lazily by, and that unmistakable hush that falls over the water just before dusk. You could almost sense the fish lining up, tails twitching, ready to oblige. Almost.
Bite time, in my experience, is as predictable as a tax bill. You can practically set your watch by it if you still had any daylight left to see the thing. But that evening, as the minutes ticked past and the light drained from the world, I got... absolutely nothing. No rattle, no pluck, no faint suggestion that life existed beneath that inky surface. Just the faint gurgle of the river and the distant hoot of an owl who, I’m sure, was laughing at me. After an hour past dusk, I had to accept the inevitable. Naff all. Nada. Not a jot. Another heroic blank for the logbook.
Still, there’s a perverse comfort in failure when you fish. It’s almost part of the ritual now. You sit there convincing yourself that next time will be different, that the moon phase, the air pressure, or the alignment of Mars will somehow work in your favour. Then you trudge back to the car, hands numb, muttering something about needing a “proper session” this weekend, as though that will make the fish more cooperative.
As I packed away, I did briefly wonder if it’s time to swap the Avon for something a little warmer and drier. Maybe the PlayStation 5 has the answer. There’s a fishing game out there, apparently, that promises “realistic angling physics” and “dynamic weather.” I don’t know about you, but I’ve already got more than enough dynamic weather in real life, thanks. Still, the thought of sitting in the warmth, rod in virtual hand, and actually catching something is strangely appealing. No frostbitten fingers, no forgotten banksticks, no cheese paste stuck to the car seat. Just me, a sofa, and a digital chub that bites when it’s told.
But would it scratch the itch? I doubt it. Because as miserable as I sound, there’s still something about the real thing the smell of damp earth, the whisper of the current, the moment the float trembles and your heart skips. You can’t code that. You can’t patch it in. It’s in the blood. So yes, the clocks may have stolen my evenings, the chub may have given me the cold shoulder, and the Avon may have mocked my every cast but come next week, I’ll be back, headtorch ready, muttering into the darkness. Because that’s what we do. We fish, we freeze, we fail, and then we come back for more.
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