I woke up at a time usually reserved for milkmen, burglars, and people who claim they’re “just popping out for a paper” and are never seen again. My body clock, once a reliable Swiss affair, is now more like a novelty sundial purchased at a garden centre in 1994. The daily grind has seen to that. Wide awake. Brain fizzing. Outside: pitch black, the sort of black that makes you think the sun has formally resigned. Middle of summer, I’d have been gone like a ferret down a trouser leg, rod under arm, optimistic to the point of delusion. But this is winter, and winter does not negotiate.
So there I lay, tossing, turning, and mentally fishing rivers I wasn’t yet allowed to see. The Alne made a brief appearance, as did the Arrow, the Leam, and the Stour, all filing past my half-asleep conscience like contestants on some damp, provincial version of MasterChef. Nice rivers, all of them. Worthy rivers. But then the Warwickshire Avon cleared its throat, shuffled forward, and quietly won without having to say a word. The Avon does that. Top trumps. Or at least it usually does.
I want a decent chub, I've not caught one in a while !!
By the time I arrived, daylight had grudgingly switched itself on, like a teenager being dragged out of bed. The river was coming down nicely, having recently visited every field in the county and taken notes. It looked alive, purposeful, and as it turned out suspiciously foamy. Not the cheerful, champagne fizz of healthy water, but the sort of foam that looks like it knows things. Brown things. Things you’d rather not think about while holding a loaf of bread and a lump of cheesepaste.
Now as I stood there, watching turd-coloured accumulations hugging the margins like guilty secrets, the phrase “River Trumps” took on an altogether more literal meaning. I’m no scientist, but when a river starts looking like a badly poured pint of stout that’s been left out overnight, one’s confidence takes a knock. Still, this stretch is dear to my heart. I know every nook, cranny, crease, lie, slack, and treacherous ankle-twister. If there was a fish willing to ignore whatever Severn Trent had been up to, surely it would be here.
It wasn’t.
I roved. I persisted. I alternated between bread and cheesepaste like a man conducting a scientific trial with a control group of zero. The river was still well up, but those slacks the good slacks, the ones that have whispered sweet promises in the past were utterly mute. Not a pluck. Not a pull. Not even a half-hearted nibble that lets you pretend something is happening. Nothing. The rod tip may as well have been attached to a fence post.
Eventually, I did what all anglers do when optimism finally packs its bags: I moved. Off to the syndicate stretch, where at least the scenery is familiar enough to disappoint you politely.
Here, at last, the rod tip twitched. A pluck. Then another. Small fish, almost certainly, doing that infuriating thing where they mouth the bait with the delicacy of a tea sommelier.
Nothing strikable. Nothing you could put a name to. Just enough activity to stop you leaving immediately, which is the river’s cruellest trick.
And then because anglers are nothing if not hopeful idiots I moved again.
On route to another stretch, I passed that swim. You know the one. The sort of place that stops you mid-stride, where fast water is checked by a fallen tree and spills into a crease of slower, darker water downstream. It looked criminal. It looked illegal. It looked like it should come with a warning label. So naturally, I stopped.
Five minutes later five actual, honest minutes the bite came. Not a question. Not a suggestion. An unmissable, arm-wrenching, full-blooded bite. And I missed it.
Blog readers I missed it so comprehensively that I briefly considered whether I’d imagined the entire thing.
The fish felt the prick of the size 6 hook and, quite reasonably, decided it had better things to do with its life. I stood there, replaying the moment in forensic detail, wondering if it had been one of the big chub that used to live here. Many of them died, or were moved, during the pollution incident two and a half years ago an event still spoken of in hushed tones and expletives.
I roved on. Three more swims that looked perfect. Textbook. The sort of swims you photograph and bore non-anglers with. Nothing. Not even a courtesy knock. Eventually, I returned to the scene of the crime. The swim where I’d had the bite. It stared back at me with complete indifference, like a pub that has barred you for life.
And that was that.
No fish. Plenty of steps. Cold fingers. A head full of questions, most of them beginning with “Why” and ending with “again”. But still and this is important it was better than being stuck behind a computer screen. Better than emails. Better than meetings. Better than pretending to care about things that don’t live in rivers
As I trudged back, it struck me that I hadn’t seen another angler all morning. Not one. Which leads me, inevitably, to Severn Trent. So go on then, lads. Fess up. Have you been opening the poop floodgates again?
Because the river looked like it had been through something. And while the fish may forgive, forget, or simply leave, the rest of us are left wondering why a perfectly good morning on a beloved river has to feel like casting into a plumbing experiment gone wrong.
Still… there’s always tomorrow. And anglers, like fools and poets, never really learn. 🎣
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