Warwickshire Avon - Ninnyhammer and Nonsense

Now fishing, if we’re being painfully honest with ourselves and the fish silently judging our life choices, is basically therapy for people who’d rather talk to a river than a licensed professional. It’s the only pastime where fully grown adults leap out of bed before dawn, march into the wilderness, and stare at water like confused philosophers waiting for enlightenment to swim past.

Winter just amplifies the chaos. The days get shorter, the cold gets personal, and suddenly we’re all wandering around our homes like neglected houseplants debating whether hibernation is a medically recognised option. SAD or Seasonal Affective Disorder murmurs, “Stay inside and wither,” but fishing shouts, “Nonsense! Put on every layer you own, go out into the frost, and dangle food at creatures with brains the size of peanuts!”

And somehow… it actually works.

The moment you reach the riverbank wrapped up like a resentful baked potato the world hushes itself. No notifications. No chores. Just the soft rumble of water and the occasional creative profanity when your line forms a knot that resembles a cursed Celtic symbol.

Then the mindfulness sneaks in. One minute you’re spiralling about bills and life decisions; the next you’re hypnotised by the flow of the river, the twitch of your quivertip, and the eternal mystery of why fish only bite the exact moment you glance away to sip your tea. the thoughts, what thoughts they disappear faster than those fair weather anglers. 

Try tying a hook with fingers that have all the flexibility of frozen chicken nuggets that’s meditation on hard mode. And when you finally get a bite, no matter how tiny, the universe leans down and whispers, “Yes, you magnificent chub-tempting gremlin, you still have purpose.”

Even catching nothing which we will absolutely never admit happens disturbingly often comes with its own triumph. You braved the cold. You made peace with mud. You didn’t fall in (probably). It counts.

Nature does her bit too: mist curling dramatically like it’s auditioning for a fantasy novel, birds judging your technique (the flying type), trees looming in their ancient “you’re small and silly” way. It’s humbling, grounding, and mildly insulting all at once.

And the best part? This ridiculous therapy works year-round. Spring brings optimistic muttering. Summer delivers smug sunburns. Autumn turns everything into a moody oil painting. Winter encourages you to drill a hole in ice and confidently announce, “Yes, this is normal adult behaviour.”

Fishing is a mental-health multivitamin disguised as a damp, muddy obsession one that offers stillness, laughter, purpose, questionable smells, and the occasional glorious fish.

Frankly, it’s the unruly, slightly soggy therapy every one of us deserves !!

Now enough of that, to the fishing !! if there’s one thing you can rely on after a day at work, it’s Warwick University’s (It's in Coventry btw, don't tell the potential students) traffic transforming itself into some sort of vehicular colander everything funnels in, nothing funnels out, and you just sit there wondering whether you should’ve brought a sleeping bag and a flask. 

There are road works everywhere, temporary lights, zombie students, it really is a nightmare. 

Anyway eventually, after negotiating the Coventry chaos like a contestant on Challenge Anneka, I rolled up at the river at 5:37pm, fully aware that daylight had already clocked off and gone to the pub. 

No matter an hour is plenty of time to tempt a chub, provided said chub is both suicidal and profoundly bored. 

It was only two degrees, crisp enough to make your nose hairs feel insured, but I, being seasoned (or simply stubborn), was layered up like a rogue duvet salesman. 

The river had that lovely winter colour somewhere between “weak gravy” and “builder’s tea left on the dashboard” so on went the world’s most offensively fragrant cheesepaste on the depth bomb, a substance that should by rights require a hazmat label.

Let me tell you, it pongs !! 

Underarm cast deployed, quiver tip illuminated, I settled in, ready for the inevitable tap-tap-tug of a gluttonous chub. 

Except of course nothing. Not a tremor. Not a pluck. Not even a courtesy nibble from something with low self-esteem. 

I tried the margins, the crease, the slack, and anything else resembling a fish’s hypothetical postcode, but nope: the river was about as lively as a ham sandwich at a vegan picnic. Still, I got my fix. And yes, people will say, “Mick, you’re mad,” but frankly I’d be madder if I’d stayed home. After all, blanking is temporary regret lasts longer than the smell of that cheesepaste. And trust me, that’s saying something.