Now New Year’s Eve arrived in Bard’s country wearing hobnail boots and an icy grin, the sort of morning where Jack Frost doesn’t just visit, he moves in, rearranges the furniture, and helps himself to your milk. Overnight temperatures had plummeted to the point where even the dog (If I owned one that is) looked at the door, looked back at me, and silently agreed that this was not a day for unnecessary movement.
The bed, meanwhile, had developed a powerful gravitational pull, the kind normally associated with small moons or large regrets. But alas, a busy day loomed, the rabble was assembling, and F1 Arcade Birmingham beckoned with all the subtlety of a flashing neon sign and the promise of noise.
The train wasn’t until midday, which in angling terms is practically a lifetime, and when I glanced out of the window the river looked absolutely criminally perfect. Mist hung low, the kind of mist that makes everything feel hushed and important, like you’re about to witness something meaningful or at the very least lose a decent fish. There is something deeply wrong with people who don’t like fishing in freezing conditions. It strips the whole thing back to essentials: cold hands, warm tea, and the vague hope that something with fins hasn’t read the same weather forecast.
I had a plan, which immediately marked it out as something the river would ignore entirely. The plan was chub. A proper one. Bread on the hook, mash in the swim, stick float trotting through a crease that had “chub” written all over it in large, smug letters. This local stretch is known for them milling about like elderly men outside a post office usually present, occasionally obliging, and always ready to make you believe you’re better at this than you actually are.
As has become the norm of late, I had the place entirely to myself. No canoeists, no trespassing dog walkers, no bloke telling you “there used to be some right big ones in there.” Just me, the river, and the sound of frost cracking underfoot. I fed mash for fifteen minutes, which in winter feels like a leap of faith bordering on religion, poured a cup of tea, and watched steam rise from both mug and river like some kind of low-budget atmospheric effect.
Eventually I couldn’t put it off any longer and ran the stick float down the swim. It went through beautifully almost too beautifully which should always ring alarm bells. Fifteen minutes later, right at the tail of the run, the float hesitated. Just a tiny check. I told myself it was tripping bottom, because anglers are optimists by nature and liars by necessity. Then it dipped properly. I struck. The rod bent. A fish was on.
Briefly.
After the first satisfying curve of carbon, it dropped off, leaving me staring at the end tackle with the kind of wounded disbelief usually reserved for politicians and weather apps. “Damn it,” I muttered, because tradition demands it. Then, as if to really underline the point, the same thing happened again. This time the fish stayed on fractionally longer, just long enough to make sure I was emotionally invested before disappearing back into the ether. Two bites. Two losses. That’s not unlucky that’s personal.
Still, I told myself, the mash had done its job. The chub were out of cover, milling, nosing about, probably laughing. And then… nothing.
Trot after trot produced exactly the square root of sod all. After an hour of optimism slowly curdling into suspicion, I roved downstream to the second swim, a classic trotting glide that has, in the past, delivered some absolute clonkers.
The mash dispersed beautifully, the float behaved impeccably, and forty-five minutes passed without so much as a bobble. Not even a courtesy knock. The river had gone silent, like a pub when someone mentions CrossFit.
On to the third swim, which I never really got on with. Some swims are like that. You can’t explain it, but they feel awkward, uncooperative, and vaguely judgmental.
After a short, half-hearted attempt, it was back to the first swim, where surprise nothing further occurred. And yet, despite the blank, despite the cold, despite the increasingly numb fingers, it was utterly, gloriously worth it. Those conditions. That light. The sense that you were exactly where you were supposed to be, even if the fish hadn’t signed the same agreement.
The sun broke through briefly, as if to wave goodbye to 2025, and not a moment too soon. By early afternoon I was Birmingham-bound, a journey that increasingly feels like crossing into a different reality. I don’t venture into big cities much these days, and five minutes in confirmed why.Homelessness and beggars everywhere like many cities these days sadly, dodgy looking free hotel frequenters in groups, visible spice takers, and a masterclass in shoplifting witnessed twice in five minutes at a small Sainsbury’s where a panic button triggered a security response worthy of a bank heist movie. All very calm. Very normal apparently. Perfectly fine.
Salvation came in liquid form at The Colmore, my favourite Birmingham pub, where a couple of imperial stouts restored both warmth and faith in humanity. The DJ at F1 Arcade was, to my mild surprise, actually decent once or at least decent enough after stout number two. Engines roared, music thumped, and I found myself thinking fondly of stick floats and mist.
Thankfully, civilisation returned closer to home in Henley-in-Arden, where a lamb naga at the Curry Republic, courtesy of Raj and his excellent staff, provided the perfect full stop to the year. A few ales followed, because obviously they did, and 2025 quietly shuffled offstage.
No chub graced the net that morning. But the river had been beautiful, the tea hot, the cold honest, and the float had dipped twice. And sometimes, that’s enough. After all, if fishing was just about catching, most of us would have given up years ago and taken up something sensible. Like stamp collecting. Or lying.
