Warwickshire Avon - Maggotry and Muddlecrust

Weekends, for those of us chained to desks like Victorian typists, are not a luxury but a biological necessity. Some people recharge by doing yoga or buying candles that smell like Scandinavian forests; I, however, achieve inner peace only through trotting a river with a pint of maggots and a level of obsession that would concern most medical professionals. 

So, armed with two pints from Martyn the Maggot Peddler a man whose entire personality could be accurately summarised as “smells faintly of ammonia” I was already riding high on the anticipation of bent rods and bruised knuckles. In my mind, it was a simple plan: go to river, unleash maggots, let destiny unfold. Destiny, as ever, had its own plans.

The river had apparently been threatened with a dramatic rise. A biblical surge. Possibly a cameo by Moses. Instead, when I arrived, it sat there completely unfazed, wearing a quiet olive hue as if to say, “Rise? Me? I don’t get out of bed for less than three feet, mate.” Nic from Avon Angling had been messaging me earlier with the feverish excitement of a man who had just discovered unlimited chub in the afterlife.

 “They’re having it BIG TIME!” he said. “Get down here NOW. Quit your job. Sell the house. Don’t worry about the dog (If I had one that is).” He even offered me his swim, which in angling terms is like offering someone your firstborn.

But fate intervened, and instead of dancing waders-first into a chub frenzy, I found myself trapped in a Virtual Reality meeting, guiding a collection of confused colleagues through a digital interior that looked like a cross between all manner of benchmarks and a parallel nightmare dimension. Nothing like listening to someone insist that “the floor keeps moving” while you try to concentrate on maggots waiting for you in the fridge.

Naturally, by the time I reached the river, the once-mythical chub gully Nic had raved about where he’d caught so many fish the previous day he could’ve opened a chub-only aquarium was now as clear as a freshly polished wine glass. I could practically see the riverbed sighing. 

Still, rain began drizzling in that persistent British way, the kind that nudges you gently but relentlessly like an overly chatty aunt at Christmas. So I set up, trotted the float downstream, hoped for the best, and tried to ignore the voice in my head whispering, “You could’ve stayed home and crumpets.”

Finally, after what felt like thirty-seven years, the float slid under. I struck with the enthusiasm of a man trying to swat away the entire month of February, and suddenly glory be there it was: a chub. And a pristine one too, the sort of fish that looks like it exfoliates regularly and moisturises with river minerals. 

My keepnet, which had not seen daylight since the Obama administration, was dusted off and ceremoniously deployed. I allowed myself a moment of pure, unfiltered optimism. “This is it,” I whispered. “This is where the session turns legendary.”

 It did not turn legendary.

Instead, it turned into a full hour of absolutely nothing. No bites, no taps, not even a rogue leaf hitting the line. It was like the river had decided that giving me one fish was enough charity for the day. 

So I did what any sensible angler does: I messaged Nic again, hoping for a dose of remote river guidance. He suggested moving downstream, like some sort of mystical chub whisperer. Off I trudged.

Two anglers were already stationed on the better swim, radiating the smugness of men who had arrived ten minutes earlier and therefore rightfully owned the universe. 

So I slipped into the next available spot and commenced what I like to think of as The Second Wave of Maggot Diplomacy. After another missed bite a good half and hour in, a theme of the day I finally connected again, right at the tail end of the trot where the water shallowed into a perfect ambush zone. 

A small chub rolled into the net. Then another. Then another. Then yet another. Four chub in quick succession! A burst of joy! A ripple of hope! A brief and fleeting sense that life had meaning!

And then the sun came out directly in front of me like an aggressive lighthouse, hitting my eyes at precisely the angle that would render me partially blind. 

As I squinted into the glare, the weather decided very helpfully to reintroduce rain into the equation, this time with more enthusiasm. 

Not drizzle. Not mist. No, this was sideways, face-slapping rain, the kind that seems personally offended by your presence. I was essentially being water-boarded by the sky while trying to watch a float I could no longer physically see.

At that point, the universe had made its position clear.

I packed up, damp, dazzled, smelling faintly of maggots and covered in dust, but still stubbornly pleased with myself. 

On the way back to the car, I wandered past an allotment and helped myself to some beetroot, because nothing says “true angler” like walking away from the river clutching stolen root vegetables like a Victorian vagabond.

Was it a brilliant session? No. Was it a perfect session? Absolutely not. Did I catch enough fish to justify the rain, the blindness, the existential monologue, and the maggot-related expenses? Honestly… probably? But that’s the thing about fishing: even the most middling day on the bank beats the best day anywhere else. Because every trot holds a spark of hope. Every submerged float makes your heart race. And every stolen beetroot tastes like victory.