Now you’ve heard the whispers. The legends....
....the half-remembered pub ramblings from men with weathered hands, glazed eyes, and that particular confidence that only comes from being wrong most of the time.
“Aye, Grayling round ‘ere once,” they’ll say, leaning in like they’re about to reveal the location of buried treasure. “Saw one back in ‘92. Or maybe it was ‘94. Looked funny. Probably just a Roach.”
And that, dear reader, is how myths are born.
Because according to most sensible folk, Warwickshire Grayling are about as real as honest tackle weights or a quick five-minute trip into a fishing shop. Eight anglers will laugh outright. One will choke on his pint. The last will insist he once saw one, but admit after further questioning that it might’ve been a leaf, a bar of silver paper, or a spiritual experience brought on by mild hypothermia.
Chinese whispers? No.
More like Chinese takeaway: comforting at the time, deeply questionable afterwards, and leaving you wondering what possessed you to believe any of it.
And yet…
Grayling do live here. Rare, sneaky, aristocratic little blighters. The sort of fish that make you question your life choices, your footwear, and whether that hat makes you look like a man who should be trusted near water. They favour rivers that look like they’ve been groomed by angels. Clean. Clear. Fast-flowing. Gravelly riffles and silky glides. Not the muddy, reed-choked puddles I usually frequent the ones that smell faintly of despair and discarded lager cans.
Prime territory? Certain stretches of the River Avon and a handful of tributaries whose names are spoken only in hushed tones. Ask for directions and you’ll be met with blank stares, nervous laughter, or vague instructions involving “third gate after the wonky oak, but not that oak.”
You see…
There is he who peddles the maggots.
You know the type. The tackle-shop oracle. The man who’s forgotten more about fishing than most of us will ever know, and who delivers information with the casual confidence of someone who absolutely will not be held responsible if it all goes horribly wrong.
When he sidled over the counter and muttered exact coordinates delivered in something that sounded suspiciously like a three-word-address format — ///no.f’ing.chance — I naturally assumed two things:
He had finally lost the plot
I was about to be led into the territory of a territorial badger with unresolved anger issues
But no.
The man spoke truth.
The first time I clapped eyes on this river back in 2019 Operation Brazzers Breach - The Reccy
I swear I heard a faint, angelic “AAAAAAHHHH” echoing through the valley. Either that or my brain had finally snapped hard to say. It was textbook. Absolute perfection. The kind of water where, if you didn’t catch a Grayling, the river itself would politely apologise and offer you a voucher for next time.
Compared to my usual haunts rivers that look like they’ve recently survived a small explosion this stretch was a supermodel. Clear gravel runs, shallow riffles, neat little holding pools… a place that looked fishy in the way only proper rivers do.
Tactics were simplicity itself.
A pint of maggots (transported like unexploded ordnance to avoid spillage in the car), a small Dave Harrell Speci Stick float, and a heightened sense of paranoia.
Eyes in the back of my head fully engaged tracking dog walkers, suspicious rustling, and anything that might fancy nibbling my collar while I was trotting a line.
You don’t survive many solo fishing missions without developing mild combat awareness.
I’ve had a few from this magical little stretch of river, including that rather lovely 1lb 7oz specimen that still flicks its tail through my dreams like some silvery temptress. The sort of fish that makes you smile randomly at work and consider explaining yourself to HR. I’ve promised myself I’ll keep slipping back here. Quietly. Respectfully. Like a man revisiting an old flame just to see if any bigger, wiser, more sarcastically inclined Grayling are lurking beneath those riffles.
I arrived at dawn like some half-cut heron with a rucksack, a flask, and wildly optimistic expectations. The great unwashed were still drooling into their pillows while I was drip-feeding maggots with the solemn dedication of a monk illuminating a manuscript. Tea was poured, steam rose, and the river lay there pretending innocence. It looked prime which in angling terms means “this will either be brilliant or an absolute insult to my existence.” Clearer than expected, yes, but with just enough green tinge to convince me the grayling hadn’t all emigrated overnight.
The swim, however, was shallower than a politician’s apology. I’d have liked another 10–20cm of water, but no, instead I was trotting a float through what felt like ankle-deep disappointment. The float was set at a couple of feet, the little in-line olivette neatly sandwiched between grippa stops, and yet in places it was still dragging bottom like it was looking for loose change. To add to the circus, there was a branch from a tree on my left which meant I had to crouch like a badly designed garden gnome just to see the float at the end of the run. Dignity was abandoned early doors.
Thankfully, the fish hadn’t read the memo about making things difficult. After about fifteen minutes just enough time to convince myself I was a genius the float plunged. Plunged, mind you, not drifted or dithered. I struck and immediately knew it was a grayling: that unmistakable fluttery, indignant, “how very dare you” fight. Heart in mouth, knees wobbling, I guided it into the net like a man defusing a bomb with a size 16 hook and two maggots holding firm. Yes! Another Warwickshire grayling to add to the ever-growing but still mysteriously unimpressive tally.
Then, as is tradition, it all went a bit pear-shaped. I lost one right at the end of the trot that came to the surface, flashed like a silver insult, and popped off after five seconds just long enough to hurt. I bumped another two off for good measure and began explaining to myself, out loud, why this was definitely the hook’s fault. Cue the change from a Guru MWG to a lighter wire QM1, because nothing restores confidence like fiddling with terminal tackle while muttering darkly at the river.
A few trots later, after missing what I’ll be telling people was a “sure-fire bite,” the float buried again. Whammm. I struck and I was in. Fantastic. Not the stamp of fish I was dreaming about, but Warwickshire grayling are shrouded in mystery mainly the mystery of where the bigger ones are and why they reside here. Still, fish on the bank is fish on the bank, and I was feeling rather smug until, naturally, the swim died. Not just quiet proper dead. Like a pub after last orders and a fire alarm.
So I stomped fifty yards upstream in a sulk, drip-fed bronze and red maggots like a man bribing invisible gods, and second trot down the float buried again. Strike.
Another grayling. Then another soon after. At this point I was riding that dangerous wave of optimism where you start planning future visits, imaginary captures, and how you’ll casually mention all this to someone who didn’t ask. After another biteless half hour, I decided to quit while ahead mainly because I had beef to marinate.
Because nothing says “serious angler” like leaving the river early to prep for Newey’s Curry Night. The Hairy Bikers’ Beef and Coconut Curry was on the menu, a guaranteed hit where everyone brings a pot of curry and roughly three times more booze than is strictly legal to transport. I’ll be back, though. I want a big-un. Next time I’ll wait for more colour in the water, a bit more height maybe a finger and thumb stretched apart and, ideally, fewer branches trying to humiliate me. Objective met, a happy angler.
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