Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.43

Now there’s a very specific type of joy that hits a man square in the soul when he walks into the shared works loo and sees that deep celestial blue water staring back at him like the portal to a better dimension where people actually clean up after themselves; it’s a fleeting moment of hope before reality reminds you that somewhere in the building there lurks a grown adult who pees like a Jackson Pollock tribute act and flushes with the commitment of a man blowing out birthday candles.

As careful and courteous as I am hovering like a crane operator trying to land a pallet of Ming vases there are always those who treat the place like they still live with their mums, leaving behind the sort of aftermath that would have the UN sending in observers.

Anyway speaking of bodily evacuations, it put me in the mind to escape the office, syphon the python properly, and then head down to the syndicate stretch for an evening dabble to winkle out something with fins, dignity, and hopefully better house training.

I had a tub of lobworms from Willy Worms that had been glaring at me from the fridge like long, glistening noodles of guilt ever since the Teme trip, and frankly they needed a swim before they applied for asylum. Proper Canadian Night Crawlers, imported straight from the land of maple syrup, moose, and people who say “sorry” even when you walk into them.

I figured that whatever I’d been doing lately clearly wasn’t tickling the fancy of anything aquatic, so a change was in order: robin red groundbait, a handful of maggots in the feeder, and on the hook, a lobworm and a half as if presenting the fish with the worm equivalent of a king-size duvet.

Now, I’ve used lobworms successfully over the years, especially when dusk rolls in and everything takes on that magical, slightly spooky quiet that convinces you a personal best barbel is about to appearor a badger wearing a head torch. Something about a big juicy worm writhing in the current sends those subterranean Richter scales twitching.

Even Barbara the Barbel, who’s been playing hard to get ever since Sean blundered into her patch like a drunken wedding crasher, surely can’t resist a bait like that. Lobworms are basically the Almas caviar, Kobe beef, white truffles, and Matsutake mushrooms of the piscine world, except cheaper and stored next to the yoghurt in my fridge, much to the family’s ongoing disgust.

True, the river had been rising and falling like a drunk uncle on a pogo stick, and temperatures had dipped to the kind of level that make fish consider hibernation, religion, or migration, but as the old saying goes you can’t catch owt without something wet, smelly, and wriggling in the water.

 So off I toddled with hope in my heart, mud on my boots, and a bucket of Canadian immigrants who were about to discover that after a long cultural journey across the Atlantic, their final destination was a muddy Worcestershire riverbed where their job would be to impersonate luxury cuisine for creatures with the IQ of a bath sponge.

And honestly, as I trudged along the bank past the dead fox watching the river glisten under the last smudge of daylight, rod over my shoulder like some middle-aged angling Messiah.

Now I felt that wonderful, daft optimism only fishing can give you the belief that tonight might just be the night, that the stars would align, that Barbara (or other rod benders) would forgive me for past failures, that the worms would dance seductively enough, and that for once I might not sit there for three hours contemplating life, death, and why the bloke in cubicle three needs a full-time carer.

But that’s the magic of the river every cast is a tiny gamble, a silly little hope wrapped in groundbait and desperation, and as I lobbed that first wormy parcel into the nice slack, I grinned foolishly headed into the dusk, convinced that somewhere down there, some discerning fish in need of a late-night snack was already drifting over, sniffing like a Michelin inspector at a roadside burger van, ready to make my evening infinitely better than the state of the office toilets ever will.

The worms were getting a bit of attention straight away probably more than I ever get on a night out yet after a few hopeful plucks and half-hearted tugs, it took ages (and full-on darkness) before anything serious happened. Then bam! Out of nowhere the tip gives a sharp yank and then just keeps going like it’s late for an appointment.

I strike, I feel the classic head-nodding of a fish—finally!—and then… that’s where the joy ended. It popped off after a few seconds, Bugger !! I even let out the traditional angler’s cry of “OH COME ON!” to let the universe know I was displeased, then a full on grin and a chuckle to myself.

Thankfully, I’m pretty sure it was only a small chub, not one of the lurking monsters that swim here (I caught one 5lb 13oz back in October) and only bite when you’ve packed up and walked 20 yards away. And that was it. One bite. One lost fish. I carried on like an optimist with poor life choices and got absolutely nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. The fish had spoken, and they said, “Not today, mate.”

Thankfully after fishing it got a bit better, you see I love it when the wife says, “You can cook for yourself if you want when you get back,” because that’s basically my licence to unleash flavours she’d never willingly go near. After a fishless wander by the water, I fancied something with proper punch, so earlier at lunchtime I headed to the newly discovered oriental store near work an absolute Aladdin’s cave for anyone who likes chillies strong enough to remove wallpaper.

I grabbed a bag of prawns so big they looked like they’d once had gym memberships, plus a few mystery ingredients that smelled dangerously promising. Back home, I threw everything into a Panang curry that bubbled away like it was plotting something.

The result? A fiery, fragrant masterpiece that made my eyes water in the best possible way. The prawns were top notch too firm, sweet, and cheap enough that I briefly suspected smuggling. The wife poked her head in, sniffed, and said, “That’s… strong,” which is her polite code for “I’m not touching that, enjoy your self-inflicted suffering.”. Bliss. Oh and the water temp was 8.8 degrees BTW