Warwickshire Avon - Cormorants and Corrigenda

The Newey Curry Night, for the uninitiated (and for those who will remain so), was a roaring success. A house full, a table groaning, and several revelations that will be sealed behind the four walls like ancient scrolls. The first rule of Curry Night is indeed that you do not talk about Curry Night. The second rule is that someone will absolutely overdo the garlic naan. By the time the last fork hit the plate, I was full of curry, beer, and confidence the most dangerous cocktail known to man.

At a civilised hour I sloped off to bed, leaving the Wife on a one-woman crusade to erase all evidence that a small Bangladeshi banquet had ever taken place. She was fuelled by what she described as “just one more glass” of wine, which history tells us translates to “enough to deep-clean a crime scene”. I drifted off dreaming not of serenity or wellness, but of float tips dipping and a big Avon chub doing that slow, deliberate pull that makes your heart do a little jig.

Morning arrived with that familiar curry-and-beer-rum afterglow. The Wife, true to her word, had turned the kitchen into something out of a showroom brochure. Dishwasher emptied. Dishwasher filled. Dishwasher emptied again, just for sport. I liberated the maggots from the fridge, confirmed the car was already packed (a rare administrative win), and pointed myself towards a certain stretch of the Warwickshire Avon.

Eight o’clock. Angler free. Bliss. I hotfooted it to the chosen peg like a man late for his own wedding. The swim was textbook: main flow easing off into a slack, a lovely crease running like a promise. Chub love it there. I love it there. Everything loves it there. Or so I thought.

Forty minutes passed. Not a sniff. Then, like a scene from a low-budget horror film, a cormorant erupted from the depths at the tail of the swim. I waved my rod like a lunatic scarecrow, only for his two accomplices to surface as well. They’d been in the swim. Living there. Probably paying council tax. Great. Absolutely marvellous.

A quick look elsewhere revealed more cormorants circling like they’d booked the place for a conference. Blood pressure rising, muttering commenced. I upped sticks and headed for another old haunt. Five minutes in, anglers everywhere. Retrace steps. New plan. Closer to home, where the chub are often large, street-wise, and deeply disrespectful.

To my surprise I had the whole stretch to myself. I knew exactly which swim I wanted, despite its… character flaws. On the surface it’s a trotting dream. Underneath, it’s a legal advice seminar waiting to happen. Snags left, snags right, cover everywhere, and an escape network that chub have been using since the Middle Ages. This is where fish go to embarrass anglers.

Twenty minutes of maggot rain later, the float buried and immediately made a beeline for the far snag like it had a dinner reservation. 

Cue an epic tussle, rod bent, knees shaking, internal monologue becoming external. Then… ping. The size 20 Guru MWG pulled. The noise I made was not dignified.

Two more fish followed. Lost. Then the one. A fish so powerful it felt like I’d hooked a passing submarine. 

Hugging bottom, unmoved by persuasion, it powered straight into a tangle of tree roots to my right. I could feel it for a while, grinding the line like a cheese grater. Outcome? Predictable. Vocabulary expanded.

Nic from Avon Angling was on another stretch and, somehow, could feel my frustration through the ether. He was catching. I was not. 

After a full re-setup and a quiet word with myself, I finally nicked two smaller chub in quick succession. Relief. Sanity returning.

Then another hook pull. Change hooklength. Another fish this one proper. And in a twist worthy of a soap opera, it avoided every snag, behaved impeccably, and slid into the net mid-river without fuss. Redemption! Balance restored! The universe smiling!

Naturally, fishing being fishing, that was followed by another hook pull and then one that buried me in the far-side snags. Brief thoughts of taking up knitting surfaced, but we don’t want it that easy, do we?

With the swim dying and the float miraculously recovered from the timber graveyard, I gave it another half hour. Bites aplenty. Returns… average. 

But that’s chub fishing. These fish are born wearing straight jackets, knowing every exit route, every weak link, every way to make you look like you’ve never held a rod before.

So yes, ups and downs. Frustration, laughter, mild despair, and a some lovely fish to show for it despite not landing one of the monsters. The curry night had consequences. The river delivered lessons. And despite everything, I drove home already planning the next visit because if chub fishing teaches you anything, it’s that hope is indestructible, and masochism comes free with the licence.