Warwickshire Avon - Balti-Bamboozlement and Bedlam

There’s a moment always the same one when I’m halfway through a curry at Castle Balti in Warwick, sweating gently from the eyebrows and contemplating whether ordering extra green chillies was bravery or simple masochism, when life feels perfectly aligned. 

The naan is fluffy, the garlic is abundant enough to frighten the local vampire community, and the pints from The Craftsman are settling in like old friends telling questionable stories. In that blessed state of warm-bellied euphoria, I do what I always do: make bold weekend fishing plans that Future Me inevitably regrets.

Enter Storm Claudia.

Now by Friday she’d turned the Midlands into a large rectangular puddle. Rain hammered down in sheets, the sort of meteorological enthusiasm that suggests the weather gods have had one too many. 

On Saturday it got worse. The fields didn’t even squelch they gurgled. Birds gave up trying to fly and simply floated past in resignation. Even the cows looked annoyed.

Still, I felt the familiar rumbling of Flawed Determination that subtle blend of optimism and idiocy that anglers mistake for “dedication.” I did have a nose at a local stretch where the pictures was taken but yeah, no hope sprang to mind especially when the river was still on the rise. 

So Sunday morning, despite every bone in my body whispering, “Stay home, you fool,” I grabbed my gear and headed out, fuelled by memories of curry-induced serotonin and a wildly unrealistic belief that a barbel might fancy a snack in the middle of a flood.

The river gauge, being a rude little device with no regard for human feelings, cheerfully informed me the river was “tanking through,” which is angler code for: Only go if you enjoy suffering, or owe money to someone and need to hide for a while. But I knew a stretch a secret-ish one where 

I’d winkled out a fish or two in the past. All it required was a twenty-minute walk through terrain best described as ‘custard with ambitions.’ and an even longer drive. 

By minute twelve of this heroic slog, one boot had attempted to exit my foot entirely, the strap of my ruckback had cut a groove into my shoulder deep enough to plant potatoes in, and I’d developed a gait reminiscent of a distressed crab. Still, onwards I trudged, congratulating myself on having the riverside entirely to myself, while conveniently ignoring the fact that absolutely nobody else was stupid enough to come out in this weather.

At the swim, the river was a lovely shade of cappuccino if the barista had thrown in a handful of mud and a sense of menace. Perfect barbel conditions, if you ask any angler who’s already committed to being there and doesn’t want to admit defeat.

The only possible approach was to fish heavy: feeder like a Victorian iron weight, line thick enough to tow a small car, and on the hook… the mighty spam. A cube so large it required its own post code. The sort of bait that makes match anglers whisper, “He’s lost his mind,” while clutching their maggots protectively.

Casting was easy enough. It was the next 15 minutes that proved challenging. Leaves swept down the river like nature’s own conveyor belt of inconvenience. Every recast brought back a harvest festival’s worth of foliage, elegantly arranged across my line like a sad autumn wreath.

Still, something was pecking at the meat tiny fish nibbling away, presumably wondering why someone had dropped a meat-based skyscraper into their living room. This, I convinced myself, was a positive sign. Better optimistic nonsense than no hope at all.

I’d just become entranced by a mysterious swirl mid-river probably a stick, possibly an otter, maybe the ghost of an angler who ignored flood warnings when out of the corner of my eye, the tip twitched. A drop-back. Hesitant. Shy.

Then came the real bite.

Not so much a tap as a declaration. The rod wrenched over as if the river itself had objected to my presence. I grabbed the handle and immediately found myself attached to something that had absolutely no intention of cooperating. What followed was pure, joyful carnage the kind that justifies every miserable trudge, every flooded field, every questionable decision involving curry and optimism. The barbel glued itself to the bottom like it was protesting eviction. 

My rod arched, my heart thumped, and I issued the sort of strangled noises that would get me thrown out of a polite restaurant.

Eventually after what felt like a small eternity and several moments where I considered updating my will — the fish surfaced and slid into my brand-new Angling Direct landing net. A christening! A proper one! None of that tiny chub nonsense that barely bends the mesh.

And there it was: thick across the back, deep in the belly, a magnificent brute clearly enjoying its winter weight-gain phase. I lifted it from the water and nearly exclaimed something poetic, but instead opted for the classic angler line: “Bloody hell, that’s bigger than I thought.”

Ten pounds, two ounces.

A double. In floodwater. With spam the size of a small brick.

For once, the universe had leaned in my favour.

I fished on, of course because hope is a disease but nothing else materialised. Didn’t matter. I marched back to the car with renewed vigour, boots squelching triumphantly, feeling ten feet tall and absolutely certain that I’d “cracked it,” despite all historical evidence to the contrary.

Next week a cold snap looms. The cheese paste is ready the notorious blend that could strip wallpaper at twenty paces. The river will chill, the barbel will sulk, and I will undoubtedly question why I continue this madness.

But for now?

One fish. A proper one. Enough to warm the soul better than any curry, though the curry certainly helped.