The River Arrow - Bovinae and Bovarism

Now there are days when you wake up and know that a spot of fishing is exactly what you need, and then there are days when your body is telling you to stay in bed, drink something warm and stop behaving like a complete idiot. 

Unfortunately, when there's a river involved, I have a remarkable ability to ignore the latter, so despite having a cold and a trip to Glasgow looming the following morning, I decided that a bit of sunshine and fresh air would do me the world of good.

After all, what could possibly go wrong? A few hours roving the Arrow, a loaf of bread, a couple of obliging chub and home in time for a nice cup of tea, surely. 

Mind you, I've been fishing long enough to know that whenever you start making sensible predictions about how a session will unfold, the fishing gods are already preparing something to make you look like a complete berk.

The Arrow, like many of the local rivers, was looking extremely low and clear, which is lovely if you're a kingfisher or a water vole but rather less appealing if you're hoping to deceive a suspicious chub. 

In conditions like these, the fish can see everything, including your carefully concealed approach, your expensive tackle and possibly the sandwich you had for lunch three hours earlier.

Still, I set off with optimism in my heart and a nose that appeared to have developed a plumbing fault. The countryside was looking glorious, the sun was shining, and for a little while I forgot that I felt like I'd been dragged backwards through a hedge by a particularly aggressive badger.

Then I spotted the cattle.

Now, I have nothing against cows, provided they remain in their designated areas and don't interfere with my fishing. Unfortunately, amongst the cows and calves was what looked suspiciously like a bull, and I found myself conducting a rather serious assessment of the situation.

I like fishing, but I'm not sufficiently committed to the cause to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a large bovine gentleman, particularly when my immune system appears to have gone on strike. I could just imagine explaining to a paramedic that I'd been flattened by a bull while trying to catch a two-pound chub, and I suspect even the paramedic might struggle to maintain a professional expression.

So, with a tactical withdrawal worthy of a military commander who has just discovered the enemy has considerably more firepower, I moved away from the bovine bother and continued my roving adventure elsewhere.

The fishing wasn't easy, though, and the clear water meant that stealth was essential. I crept along the bank, peering into each swim and trying to move quietly, although sneaking about with a cold is a bit like trying to rob a bank while carrying a tambourine and shouting about your latest symptoms.

Then, quite by chance, I came across a group of chub feeding off the surface.

Well, now we were talking!

There is something wonderfully exciting about finding fish feeding confidently, especially when you've spent the previous hour wondering whether the only thing likely to take your bait is a passing leaf. I watched them carefully, presented the bread and waited for the magic to happen.

And happen it did.

The bait was taken, the rod bent beautifully and suddenly I was attached to a chub. For a few glorious seconds, I forgot about my cold, my impending journey to Glasgow and the fact that I'd nearly had a close encounter with a bull.

Then the hook pulled.

Oh, for goodness' sake!

One minute I was playing a fish, and the next I was standing there holding a rod that had become about as useful as a chocolate teapot. 

The fish had gone, my confidence had taken a considerable dent, and I was left wondering whether the chub had escaped or simply decided that I wasn't worth the trouble.

Naturally, I replayed the whole incident in my head about seventeen times, each replay producing a slightly larger fish and a slightly more tragic account of my misfortune. 

By the time I'd finished, the lost chub was probably approaching record proportions, despite the fact that I'd barely seen it.

Never mind, I told myself. There would be other fish.

This is one of the great lies of angling, along with “I'll only have another cast” and “I don't need any more tackle.” Nevertheless, I moved on, determined to make the most of the afternoon.

The next swim looked promising, but one of the chub had clearly spotted me. I presented the bait, hoping that the fish might overlook my presence, only for it to swim upstream without a care in the world.

And I'm convinced it stuck two fins up at me as it went.

Honestly, the cheek of it! Here I was, a poorly bloke making an enormous effort to present a respectable piece of bread, and this aquatic hooligan couldn't even pretend to be interested. It simply disappeared upstream, presumably to tell its mates about the strange creature on the bank who looked as though he needed a week in bed.

“Oh, so you're cagey, are you?” I muttered. “Too good for my bread, are you? Well, don't come crying to me when the river freezes over!”

The fish, naturally, remained completely unmoved by my little speech. I suspect it had heard considerably worse from anglers over the years.

There was still one deeper swim worth trying, though, and I wasn't about to give up just yet. I settled in, introduced some bread and watched carefully as it drifted through the swim.

A few minutes passed before I noticed a little movement.

Pluck, pluck.

Now, those two little indications are enough to make even the most experienced angler sit up straight. The imagination immediately gets to work, transforming a tentative nibble into a monster chub that will require a specially reinforced landing net and possibly the assistance of the fire brigade.

Then the line tightened, the rod bent and I was into another fish!

At last, something was going according to plan.

I played the chub carefully, determined not to repeat the earlier mistake, and soon enough it was safely in the net. It wasn't a monster, but then this was a small section of river, not some mythical waterway populated exclusively by six-pound chub with personal trainers.

It was a lovely little fish, and more importantly, the blank had been avoided.

There is something deeply satisfying about catching a fish when conditions are difficult, particularly on a small river where stealth, observation and a little patience can make all the difference. You might not catch a monster, but you've earned that fish, and sometimes that's worth considerably more than the size of the scales.

 I returned the chub safely and immediately began thinking about catching another one, because apparently one fish is never enough for an angler. We could land a perfectly respectable catch, have a wonderful afternoon and still convince ourselves that the next swim holds the fish of a lifetime.

It's a terrible affliction, and I'm not sure there's a cure.

I persevered for a little longer, but my cold was beginning to remind me that I wasn't exactly in peak physical condition. My nose was running like a burst water main, my head was throbbing, and I was starting to wonder whether another chub was really worth the possibility of arriving in Glasgow looking like a Victorian ghost.

I decided to leave a voice message for Nic from Avon Angling, who had been catching some Warwickshire Avon barbel on the float. His fishing sounded rather more exciting than my own battle against low water, suspicious chub and agricultural wildlife.

Nic got back to me, and after a brief chat he delivered a rather sensible observation.

“Yeah, you do sound rough, Mick. I'd get off for some rest if I was you.”

Well, that told me!

I'd spent the afternoon convincing myself that fresh air was doing me good, only to discover that I apparently sounded like a rusty tractor attempting to start in the middle of winter. The worst part was that Nic was absolutely right.

I could have ignored him, carried on fishing and tried to squeeze another fish out of the river, but sometimes even the most stubborn angler has to accept defeat. Besides, I had a journey to Glasgow ahead of me, and the prospect of spending the weekend coughing like a bloke who'd swallowed a bag of gravel wasn't especially appealing.

So I packed away and called it a day.

All things considered, it had been a rather enjoyable little adventure. I'd escaped the bull, found some feeding chub, lost one fish in spectacularly annoying fashion, been given the aquatic equivalent of two fingers by another and finally managed to land one before common sense intervened.

Not a bad result, really.

The Arrow had provided a lovely few hours in the sunshine, and although the conditions were tough, there is always something satisfying about roving a small river and trying to work out where the fish are holding. You never quite know what the next swim might produce, and that uncertainty is a big part of the attraction.

As for Glasgow, the gig is on Sunday, so I'm hoping that a little rest, some good food and perhaps a couple of medicinal drams will get me back into reasonable working order. I'm not claiming the drams are medically approved, naturally, but I'm willing to conduct a little informal research into their restorative properties.

For now, the tackle is away, the chub can relax, and the bull can continue running his little riverside empire without any interference from me. Next time, I'll hopefully be feeling considerably better, the river might have a touch more colour, and perhaps the chub will be slightly less inclined to take the mickey. Although, knowing my luck, I'll probably turn up to find the bull waiting for me with a fishing rod of his own.

On to the next one, which looks like being well into next week.

Tight lines, folks!

Warwickshire Avon - Twinosaurs and Twincompatibility

Now there are few things in life more reassuring than meeting up with your identical twin brother, Chris, because you know you’re in the company of someone who shares your genes, your facial features and, presumably, the same questionable manufacturing process. 

We are, quite literally, two peas from the same pod, although one of us has clearly been stored in a slightly more questionable environment than the other.

Chris escaped Coventry some eight years ago and established himself in North Devon, where he has built a life for himself as a single dad, provider, chauffeur, cook, counsellor and general-purpose domestic appliance. 

He’s one of those unsung heroes who quietly gets on with things, despite life occasionally chucking a paving slab in his direction, and in 2026 I suspect we belong to a forgotten breed of men who simply crack on regardless.

Not that we sit around discussing the decline of Western civilisation over a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit, you understand. 

We’re identical twins, after all, and there are only so many times you can stare into a slightly older-looking version of your own face before the conversation turns to fishing, food or when was it that the hairline finally surrendered.

Chris was stopping at our mum’s for the night because, apparently, the modern world still requires human beings to physically attend an office occasionally, just to prove they haven’t been replaced by a particularly convincing screensaver. 

As an IT specialist who has spent much of the post-COVID era working from home, he’d been summoned to show his face for a couple of days to appease a new client, presumably to demonstrate that the bloke fixing their computer problems wasn’t actually a well-trained Labrador.

 We managed a pint in the local hotel before heading for a curry, which was a pleasant enough evening until the restaurant demonstrated its own unique interpretation of quality control. They’d managed to provide us with an extra main course, which meant I found myself eating a substantial portion of curry for lunch the following day at work, attracting the sort of raised eyebrows normally reserved for people who bring a full Sunday roast into the office.

Still, there are worse things in life than unexpected curry, and I certainly wasn’t about to complain. My colleagues may have wondered whether I was experiencing a midweek breakdown, but if a man can’t enjoy a free curry at lunchtime in this economy, then frankly the country is finished.

Chris was on call, so our evening had a curfew imposed by the technological gods, but it was good to catch up properly. We’re heading back down to Devon during the half-term holiday, where he’s promised to show me some of his fishing spots, and I’m particularly looking forward to that because I’ve managed to get him back into fishing again.

He’s already been catching bass and smoothhound, the lucky so-and-so, and I’ve yet to catch a smoothhound myself. I’m hoping this will be rectified, although knowing my luck I’ll travel all the way to North Devon, spend a fortune on bait, and end up photographing a crab that looks disappointed in me.

Anyway, Chris asked how my own fishing had been going, and I had to admit that things weren’t actually too bad, all things considered. The conditions on the Warwickshire Avon have been absolutely pants, though, with water levels so low and clarity so ridiculous that I half expected to see a barbel reading the writing on my hooklength before swimming away to report me to the Environment Agency.

Consequently, my fishing has become a series of short, sharp, smash-and-grab missions, squeezed into the available gaps between work, domestic responsibilities and the general business of trying to remain a functioning member of society. There’s little time for leisurely sessions involving three courses, a comfortable chair and a philosophical discussion with a passing swan; this is angling by appointment, with a strict return-to-base policy.

On the journey home from work, after another day that had been about as stimulating as watching paint dry in a darkened shed, the Skullcandy Crushers had once again been earning their keep. They’re excellent headphones, capable of delivering enough bass to make your ears question their life choices, and without them I suspect I’d have started communicating with the photocopier just to feel something.

Then I remembered the surplus curry sitting comfortably in my stomach and thought there was really only one sensible thing to do. Rather than head straight home like a responsible adult, I decided to squeeze in another smash-and-grab session on the Avon, because apparently what my body needed after a full day at work and another Indian meal was an hour or two sat beside a dying river hoping a fish would make a mistake.

The river really is on its knees at the moment, and we desperately need some rain. 

The Warwickshire Avon is looking less like a productive barbel river and more like an enormous, slightly murky garden ornament, although I remain convinced that somewhere beneath the streamer weed there are fish wondering why the hell everyone keeps turning up with fishing rods.

I headed for a stretch where I’d already managed to catch a few barbel and chub this season, but decided to try something different. Not a completely different swim, you understand, because that would involve too much walking and potentially a dangerous amount of optimism; 

I simply chose the right-hand side of the same peg, leaving the deeper section to the left where I’d been fishing upstream. The new swim looked promising, with a little more cover, a narrowing channel and shallower water around the streamer weed. It had that lovely, fishy look about it, the sort of place that makes an angler think he’s finally discovered something clever, when in reality he’s probably just found somewhere a fish occasionally goes to have a quiet afternoon. I introduced a helping of scalded pellet and a little groundbait, then left the swim to settle for half an hour. 

This is the sort of tactical patience that separates the serious angler from the impatient idiot, although the distinction becomes considerably less clear when you’re sitting there watching the clock and wondering whether you could have got away with fishing ten minutes earlier.

With dusk still about forty minutes away, I reckoned the fading light would offer the best chance of a bite. 

The water was so clear that I was half expecting the fish to have already inspected the swim, checked my credentials and circulated a WhatsApp message warning the others that some bloke with a barbel rod was operating in the area.

The rig finally went out, the bait settled on the bottom, and within a minute the rod tip gave a sharp pull. Another followed shortly afterwards, and I was suddenly alert in the manner of a man who has spent the previous eight hours being paid to look at a screen and has finally encountered something interesting that doesn’t require a password.

Whatever was responsible had clearly taken a liking to my paste-wrapped 10mm Robin Red pellet, and the indications were encouraging enough to get the old ticker working. I was immediately entertaining visions of a barbel, a bend in the rod and a triumphant photograph, which was rather premature given that I’d barely had time to digest the last mouthful of curry.

The culprit soon revealed itself as a chub, which was hardly a disappointment, although it did mean my grand plans for a heroic barbel encounter would have to be shelved. It was a decent fish, too, and put up a respectable scrap, but against the barbel rod it was a little like challenging a shopping trolley to a tug-of-war with a tractor. Still, a fish is a fish, and I was grateful not to have blanked. The chub had done its bit for the evening, taken a liking to the bait and provided some welcome entertainment, whereas the river had so far contributed little beyond scenery and an overwhelming sense of impending hydrological doom.

I slipped the fish back and put the bait out again, expecting that the swim might have come alive. Almost immediately there were more sharp pulls and little plucks on the rod tip, the sort of activity that gets an angler excited while simultaneously making him question whether the fish are actually feeding or simply taking the mickey.

I sat there watching the tip, willing it to pull round properly, but the promised action never materialised. Whatever was nibbling seemed perfectly happy to sample the menu without committing to a main course, rather like someone at an all-you-can-eat buffet who spends three hours eating the free poppadoms before announcing that they’re not particularly hungry.

The light gradually faded, the temperature dipped and my allotted fishing time began to evaporate. My strict curfew was fast approaching, and although I considered the possibility of ignoring it in pursuit of a barbel, I decided that explaining to the family why I’d disappeared into the night chasing a fish that might not even exist was unlikely to improve domestic harmony.

Eventually, I called time with one decent chub to show for my efforts and absolutely no barbel. It wasn’t the result I’d hoped for, but it was a perfectly enjoyable little session, and on a river looking as poorly as the Avon does at present, I was hardly going to complain about catching a fish.

Besides, barbel are supposed to be difficult, aren’t they? If they simply leapt out of the water, seized the hookbait and politely posed for a photograph, there would be considerably less mystery to the whole business, and an awful lot fewer men sitting in muddy fields looking like they’d misplaced their car keys.

So, another smash-and-grab session completed, another chub in the book, and another evening spent trying to outwit fish that probably possess a better understanding of the situation than I do. The Avon desperately needs rain, the barbel remain elusive, and I still have a smoothhound to catch in Devon, which means there’s plenty to look forward to.

At least Chris and I can agree on one thing: fishing is a wonderful pastime, even when the fish refuse to cooperate, the rivers resemble overfilled puddles and your identical twin is catching more interesting things several hundred miles away. There’s always another session around the corner, another swim to explore and another opportunity to spend good money proving that fish are perfectly capable of surviving without our assistance.

And if the next session produces nothing, I can always console myself with another curry. Although, given my recent lunchtime performance, I suspect the office might be more concerned about my fishing results than my digestive system. Tight lines, and may the rain gods finally take pity on the Warwickshire Avon before we’re all reduced to fishing with a teaspoon and a length of dental floss.

Warwickshire Avon - Gravers and Grandiloquence's

Well, chaps, the news has finally filtered down to the bankside, and it’s fair to say it’s left a bitter taste in the mouth. Sharper than any hop, that's for sure. They’re shutting down Marston's. The historic cathedral of brewing in Burton-upon-Trent is to be boarded up by the summer of '27. Out with the Union sets, in with the corporate spreadsheet.

Now, you might be sitting there, scratching your head, wondering what a boardroom decision by Carlsberg has to do with a bloke sitting on a damp basket at 5:00 AM waiting for a quivertip to slam round. Everything. Absolutely everything.

You see, my quest for that elusive, mythical monster barbel—that double-figure whiskers I’ve been chasing through weedbeds and gravel runs for longer than my lower back cares to remember—isn't just about the fish. It’s about the ritual.

 Fishing, in its truest, most Piscatorial sense, is an ecosystem of tradition. You pack the rods, you obsess over the river levels, you freeze your fingers off threading line through iced-up guides, and you do it all knowing there is a specific reward waiting at the end of the line. 

For decades, that reward was a pint of Burton’s finest. Pedigree, or on those truly special, frost-bitten winter evenings, a sneaky bottle of Owd Rodger (god rest its soul, since they took that away from us prematurely I've stashed a few bottles away).

There’s a spiritual tie between the River Trent and the water that brewed those beers. It’s the same land. The same subterranean alchemy. When you sit on the Trent, targeting a specimen barbel, you are fishing in the shadow of giants—both piscatorial and industrial.
So how does the closure affect the quest?

Logistically, it doesn't change the weight of the fish. A 14-pounder doesn't care if the local brewery is open or closed. It still wants its halibut pellets. It still wants to play keep-away in the snags.
But emotionally? Philosophically? It changes the whole damn landscape. Stripping Marston's out of the Trent valley is like stripping the gravel out of a barbel's favourite feeding shelf. It leaves the whole thing feeling a bit hollow. 

A bit sanitized. If we lose the heritage surrounding our rivers the pubs, the local brews, the history then we’re just men pulling digital scales out of plastic bags in a world that’s forgotten how to appreciate the finer things.

They say they are looking for "independent custodians" to save Pedigree. I bloody hope they find them despite bugger all help from the government as expected. 

Because if I finally net that history-making, net-filling, whiskers-trailing beast of a Trent barbel sometime (Nic we need to sort a date out), and I can't toast it with a proper pint of Burton ale... well, it’ll still be a magnificent fish, but the victory will feel just a little bit flatter.

Keep your lines tight, and your glasses full while you still can.

Anyway another week, another series of dawns witnessed not from the tranquil, reed-fringed margins of the Warwickshire Avon, but through the smeary glass of the commuter bus while clutching a lukewarm travel mug. 

Don’t get me wrong the walk into the office has been surprisingly civilised of late. Sunrise over the office puts on a lovely little vista a fleeting bit of golden-hour drama before the curtain comes down and the day’s drudgery proper begins. 

But as the calendar ticks on and the light shortens, I can’t help noticing a grim piece of arithmetic: the days are pulling in, and my window for slipping away on a proper fishing trip is shrinking by the week.

After thirty-seven solid years in full-time employment thirty-seven years of memos, redundancies, mild peril, and staring blankly at CAD terminals and clay models while pretending to care about cars and vans I'd never buy,

I think we can all agree there are vastly superior ways for an aging chap to spend his finite time on this earth. Which brings me to the grand, glorious nonsense of angling.

It isn't just about fish, is it? It’s the entire coping mechanism. It’s sitting at your desk on a Monday morning, completely numb to a four-way email debate about unfeasible passenger airbag positions, cup holder dimensions and the latest NCAP protocols , while silently planning the next stealth offensive. 

Which stretch of the river? Is the flow right? Do I target those craftily cynical chub under the far-bank willow, or go full optimist for a proper Avon barbel? Then comes the real therapeutic magic: justifying the next vital equipment purchase. You convince yourself that a new centerpin reel, or that delightfully obscure tub of flavoured paste, isn't just a gadget it’s a certified, non-negotiable mental health booster. 

A prescription for the soul, wrapped in bubble wrap and delivered to the front door before the Wife notices.

The older I get, the more this little dose of bankside madness feels less like a hobby and more like a mandatory survival strategy in a world that’s gone completely off its rocker and only Lucy's or Microdots could be the temporary solution for some escapism . 

So, I’ll suffer the day's drudgery for another quadrennium (fingers crossed). But in my head, I’m already bankside, smelling the damp silt, watching a float bob gently in the crease, and letting the madness of the modern world just float right on down to Tewkesbury.

Anyway enough of the waffle !! to the fishing, this stretch of river has been dear to my heart over the years, specifically the swim known in my own personal, highly scientific lexicon as the Tragus. 

You see, the river in plan view has a funny way of mimicking the human body, or maybe it’s just that a lifetime on the banks of the Warwickshire Avon makes you see ears, noses, and questionable anatomical features in every passing ripple. 

If you find a stretch where the bank pinches in a sharp bend, a deliberate flap of clay and reed projecting right out into the flow like the tragus of an ear you don’t walk past it. 

You stop, you drop the heavily laden ruckbag with a thud that dislodges three vertebrae, and you watch. On the Avon, a feature shaped like that is an absolute goldmine for proper, whisker-twirling big barbel. The Tragus Swim is home to my best barbel from the river caught on a huge piece of spam, so it would be downright rude not to give it a go, especially considering I’ve been doing quite well on the barbel front lately.

Now, this spot is located well away from the young’uns, the gatecrashers, and the late-night party people who think a riverbank is a grand place for a Bluetooth speaker and lemon-flavored cider. Back in the day, this very bank was prime territory for the Gravers and yes, I proudly count myself as one of them, with my next rave scheduled for this weekend up in Glasgow alongside progressive house legends Nick Warren and Hernán Cattáneo, an event for which my knees are already filing a formal written complaint in advance. 

Looking at the silent, mysterious water today, I couldn't help but wonder whether the old Gravers were still in residence around here, or if they were all currently at home strapped to heat pads, nursing bad backs, and sipping chamomile tea while debating the merits of orthopaedic insoles. 

Only one way to find out, I suppose: cast a rig right into the crease, collapse heavily onto the unhooking mat, and turn the water quality up to eleven.

I settled into the bankside grass, adjusted my layers, and prayed for the tip to wrap around before the strict curfew called me home to the chaos. 

 It’s a delightfully mental game, angling one minute you're analysing hydrodynamic eddies with the laser precision of a hydraulic engineer, and the next you're practicing your 1992 rave moves in full camo waterproofs just to keep your toes from dropping off while a rogue chub nibbles your boilie blind. 

I better prepare itself for the Glasgow onslaught this weekend, but for now, the deep rhythmic bassline of the river was more than enough, and the wait was officially on.

Now, what I certainly didn’t expect, having barely settled my aching carcass onto the bank and flipped open a lukewarm flask of questionable tea, was a whacking, rod-rest-rattling chub bite within five short minutes of the bait touching down. 

"Here we go," I muttered to the startled reeds, puffing my chest out like a triumphant kingfisher. "I am indubitably on for a fish here."

Alas, the angling gods are cruel, mocking creatures who delight in inflating a man’s hopes only to pop them with a rusty hook.

Despite the swim looking absolutely prime for a bite nestled comfortably along the deep, mysterious outside bend where monsters surely lurked—those promising initial minutes ticked away into absolute, crushing silence. 

Dusk arrived with unseemly haste, creeping across the water like a wet blanket, closely followed by the suffocating gloom of my self-imposed curfew. Before I knew it, I was packing away slinking back to the motor with nothing to show for my misplaced optimism but a blank notebook and cold toes.

I shall return, of course. A glutton for punishment, I’ve already scouted a couple of alternative swims in my endless, quixotic quest to track down that elusive, mythical big barbel. The real snag, as ever with this magnificent stretch of river, is that there is simply too much glorious water to go at and in the convoluted mind of an obsessive angler, having too many good options is the greatest catastrophe of all.

Warwickshire Avon - Caneys and Carnivores

Now every serious predator angler knows that the eve of a big pike expedition requires rigorous preparation. You must check your trace wire, sharpen your treble hooks, oil your multipliers, and, most importantly, line your stomach with enough heavy-duty carbohydrate to survive a December gale.

Which is precisely why the rabble and I found ourselves at Caney’s Cider in Studley less than twenty-four hours before we were due on the water. A recommendation from blog reader and ex blogger Baz I'd been meaning to give it a go, and boy what a place with 20 ciders on offer. We were made to feel instantly comfortable right from the off which was nice and we'll be back because of that. Even the kids didn't seem to mind it and thankfully well behaved including Ben who can be noisy sometimes. 

Apparently they turn out roughly 7,000 litres of nectar a year from local Warwickshire apples, and stepping into their taproom at Victoria Works is like entering a sanctuary for weary bankside wanderers. 

We pulled up four stools and ordered a couple of pints alongside crusty ham and cheese rolls the kind of robust, jaw-straining bakery art that could double as a decent ledger weight if you ran out of lead.

As I managed a crusty Ham roll, the others chewed our their way through cheddar thick enough to draft a house upon, we discussed tactics for the next morning.

[ Crusty Roll ] + 
[ 2 Pints of Caney's ]
 = [ Complete Tactical Readiness ]

Two pints in, the mood was optimistic. The pike didn't stand a chance. The river was clear, the water temperature was dropping, and our confidence was hovering somewhere near orbit. 

Naturally, we couldn’t leave empty-handed. I left with a container filled with four pints of Redstreak—a 7.4% brew that smells like a sun-drenched autumn orchard and hits you with the torque of a twenty-pound crocodilian predator grabbing a deadbait.

"Just a nightcap to settle the pre-trip nerves," as I stowed the liquid gold by my feet in the passenger footwell of the Wife's car.

Whether we actually manage to haul a specimen pike onto the unhooking mat tomorrow morning remains to be seen. But sitting there in Studley, crusty roll crumbs on my t-shirt and four pints of 7.4% Redstreak resting in the kitchen, I reckon the trip is already a resounding triumph.

Anyway to the fishing, well it was hardly the lightning-fast, crack-of-dawn amphibious assault on the riverbank we had meticulously planned over our crusty ham and cheese rolls the afternoon before. The residual, lingering fumes of Caney’s 7.4% Redstreak cider had dictated a considerably more leisurely start to the morning, leaving us thoroughly pickled in autumn air and apple fuel

Yet, by some unholy miracle of the angling gods, Sam and I stumbled down the slippery mud-bank to find the entire sacred stretch glorious, dead quiet, and utterly devoid of competing souls.

The local grapevine had been positively buzzing with whispers that the native Esox lucius population was making frequent, tackle-busting appearances for matches and pleasure anglers alike. Naturally, steeped as we are in the ancient art of bankside paranoia, we both knew in our water-logged bones that every self-respecting pike within a five-mile radius had likely caught wind of our approach and buggered off three miles upstream to hide in the weeds.

Sam led our tactical vanguard, wielding a newly acquired topwater Ali Express Whopper Plopper—bought, I must proudly and emphatically stress, with his very own hard-earned pocket money rather than my rapidly crumbling wallet. The thing chugged through the murky currents with a hypnotic bloop-bloop-bloop like a frantic, confused water-rat, while I fished a juicy deadbait roach underneath an overdepth float into the dark, slacks just off the main channel.

We were only two swims into the campaign when the tranquil morning quiet was shattered by a sharp, urgent whisper from the peg just above me: "Daddy... an otter!" Sure enough, a whiskered river-demon glided right past the tips of our wellies without a single care in the world, casually going about his aquatic business and totally oblivious to the fact that we were supposed to be the undisputed apex predators of the venue.

Before we could recover from the wild beast's intrusion, we were joined by another brave father-and-son duo who were also out hunting freshwater crocodiles in the chill autumn air. They immediately confirmed our darkest tactical fears: the stretch had been insanely fickle of late, swinging violently between epic, legendary hauling sessions and soul-destroying, bone-chilling blanks where even the minnows went into hiding.

With the clock ticking down and despair creeping in like the river fog, Sam wisely scaled down his rig to drag out a solitary, brave little perch to save the family name from total dishonour. But a three-ounce perch does not satisfy a man who has drunk 7.4% cider, so Sam began frantically swapping out lures like a manic machine, testing soft baits, hard baits, and metal spinners to no avail to try and get a nice fish for a blog post for his Dad.

Then came the moment of supreme tactical madness the deployment of the nuclear option. Sam unclipped his gear and snapped on the single largest artificial bait in human history, an absolute behemoth of a soft-plastic monstrosity measuring well over thirty centimetres long that looked less like a lure and more like a submarine with treble hooks attached.

On the third cast, the river didn't just ripple it positively tore itself open as a terrifying, double-figure monster of a pike with a belly like a beer barrel surged out from the abyss. The creature struck the mammoth lure with the blinding speed and raw fury of a freight train, sending water erupting into the air, but somehow by some tragic twist of fate completely missed the steel hooks by a fraction of an inch before plunging back into the black depths.

Both of our hearts violently slammed against our ribs, and I am fairly certain I jumped three feet into the air as the sheer adrenaline surged through our veins. The final half-hour ticked away in a daze of trembling hands and quiet, reverent awe, with the river suddenly falling dead silent as if the monster had dragged the very atmosphere down into its lair.

We didn't land the leviathan, nor did we go home with wet unhooking mats, but as we packed up our rods in the fading afternoon light, none of it mattered in the slightest. With a wild otter passing at arm’s length, a heart-stopping surface explosion, and proper father-and-son time on the bank, it was a legendary outing and we will be back for revenge the moment the river conditions are a little better.

Warwickshire Avon - Bouillabaisse and Bouncebackability

Keiran had won the match the other day, which, as far as I could make out, had immediately elevated him to the position of Professor of River Fishing, with a specialism in telling other people how to catch fish. He'd drawn this particular peg and apparently given the fish such a memorable feeding experience that they'd practically been climbing over one another to get at his maggots, which was all very encouraging, although I couldn't help wondering whether he'd actually caught them or merely exaggerated their enthusiasm over a pint afterwards.

Still, a match win is a match win, and I was prepared to listen carefully to his advice, especially as it involved a peg I'd never fished in anger and fish that, according to Keiran, had practically been eating out of his hand. His instructions were beautifully uncomplicated: feed, feed, and more feed, until the fish arrived in sufficient numbers to make the place resemble a particularly badly organised school dinner queue. I was all for it, although experience has taught me that the moment somebody tells you a swim is full of fish, you can usually expect to catch a rusty bicycle and a shopping trolley.

The peg itself required a little commitment, as fishing it properly meant getting into the river and donning the waders. Now, I have always enjoyed getting intimate with a river, particularly when trotting a float, although I generally prefer the intimacy to be consensual and the water to remain on the outside of my clothing. Nevertheless, there was fish to be caught, apparently, and if that meant standing in cold water like a man who'd lost his trousers in a particularly unfortunate boating accident, then so be it.

There is something wonderfully appealing about wading into a river with a fishing rod, provided you ignore the temperature, the current, the possibility of finding a hole deeper than expected, and the fact that everybody on the bank is perfectly comfortable while you're slowly losing the feeling in your lower extremities. The fish, naturally, have no appreciation of these sacrifices, being far too busy deciding whether the maggot you've carefully presented is worth eating or whether they'd prefer to leave it there until you begin questioning your entire existence. It's all part of the sport, apparently, although I suspect that if fish had to stand waist-deep in freezing water to catch their dinner, they'd have evolved a more sensible arrangement.

My tackle for the occasion was a fifteen-foot Daiwa trotting rod, a stick float, and a couple of maggots on the crude size 16 hook. Nothing extravagant, nothing complicated, and certainly nothing that required a second mortgage, although the amount of money anglers spend on equipment in pursuit of fish that can be caught with a worm and a bent pin remains a subject best avoided at family gatherings. The Daiwa was ready, the float was attached, the hook was baited, and I was prepared to put Kieran's masterclass into practice.

Feed, trot, feed, trot, and then feed some more.

That was the prescription, and I intended to follow it with all the discipline of a man who'd been promised a decent day's fishing and had already mentally spent the proceeds. Keiran reckoned he'd drawn the fish right up to his feet through persistent feeding, so I began imagining shoals of hungry fish gathering around my boots, jostling for position like shoppers outside a supermarket on Christmas Eve. It was a pleasant picture, although I suspected the reality might involve one suicidal gudgeon and a roach with commitment issues.

The important thing, apparently, was not to be tight with the feed. This was excellent news, because I've always thought that if you're going to spend your hard-earned money on maggots, you might as well throw them into the river with the enthusiasm of a man scattering confetti at a wedding, particularly if there's a chance that some of the guests might be edible. Of course, there is a small drawback to this philosophy: if the fish don't arrive, you can end up feeding the entire aquatic population of the county without receiving so much as a thank-you card.

The swim, I have to admit, wasn't much to look at. Had I been strolling along the riverbank in search of somewhere to fish, I might well have passed it by without a second glance, perhaps stopping a little further along where the water looked more promising and the bank offered somewhere comfortable to sit. But then I've walked past plenty of good swims in my time, usually in favour of somewhere that looked absolutely magnificent and subsequently produced nothing except a numb backside and a profound sense of disappointment.

Match anglers, however, have memories like elephants when it comes to pegs that have produced a decent weight. They might struggle to remember where they've left the car keys, their wedding anniversary, or what their wife asked them to pick up from the shops, but mention a peg that produced twenty pounds of roach three seasons ago and suddenly they're quoting the exact date, the river level, the wind direction, and what the winning angler had for breakfast. At the weigh-in, these otherwise ordinary stretches of water become the subject of intense scrutiny, with matchmen mentally filing away every detail for future reference.

It's rather like property investment, except instead of studying house prices and calculating rental yields, you're watching another chap weigh in a net of fish and thinking, I'll have a bit of that next time. The peg acquires a reputation, the reputation becomes folklore, and before long there are anglers prepared to sell a kidney for the chance to stand in a patch of river that, to the untrained eye, looks about as promising as a puddle behind a bus shelter. Naturally, the fish are under no obligation to honour this reputation, but that has never stopped an angler developing a theory.

I slipped into position with the waders on, checked the float, pinched a couple of maggots onto the hook, and prepared to begin the process of feeding the fish until they either arrived in numbers or applied for a change of address.

The first feed went in, followed by the first trot, and for a few glorious moments everything looked wonderfully promising. The float travelled down the swim with all the confidence of an express train, although it failed to stop at any fish stations, and I retrieved it ready to go again, reminding myself that even the best anglers must occasionally endure a little patience.

Feed, trot, feed, trot.

I settled into the rhythm, sending the float down the current and introducing another helping of maggots as it returned. Somewhere beneath the surface, I imagined the fish gathering for their banquet, spreading the word through the local roach community that the catering was excellent and the portions unlimited, although I did wonder why nobody had thought to invite the two idiots standing in the river who were paying for it all.

Keiran had caught them by feeding heavily, and there was no reason to suppose that the fish had suddenly developed a dislike of maggots or a newfound appreciation for fasting. 

On the other hand, they might have been there yesterday, gorged themselves silly, and spent today lying on the riverbed with their fins behind their heads, regretting their excesses and promising never to eat another maggot again. Fish, I've discovered, can be remarkably inconsiderate when it comes to following a perfectly reasonable plan.

Still, there is a great deal to be said for a day spent trotting a float, even when the fish aren't playing ball. 

The rod is a pleasure to use, the current does most of the work, and there is something hypnotic about watching that little float travel downstream, provided you can resist the urge to interpret every tiny wobble as a bite from a specimen roach that will eventually require its own photograph in the local newspaper. It's a wonderful way to spend a morning, and considerably cheaper than therapy, unless you count the tackle purchases required to recover from a blank.

If the fish arrived, splendid; if they didn't, I could at least console oneself with the knowledge that we'd given the local maggot population a thorough workout. Sadly I had a curfew though, but around 2.5/3 hours fishing we were hoping for a few bites. And that, of course, is the trouble with fishing. You can receive the best advice from a match winner, choose a proven peg, use the right tackle, feed like there's a national shortage coming, and still find yourself wondering whether the fish have all moved to another river. Keiran had worked his magic here, but whether the spell would survive a change of angler remained to be seen.

For now, the float continued its journey downstream, the maggots continued their journey into the river, and I continued our determined efforts to justify the whole ridiculous business. Somewhere out there were fish that had apparently been queuing around Keiran's feet, and I was increasingly keen to have a word with them about their customer service.

After all, we'd come prepared to feed, feed, and feed some more.

The least they could do was turn up for dinner, ?

Well, they certainly did, although only for the first couple of hours till the sun buggered it, when the river decided that the best way to entertain me was to provide a bite a chuck. And when I say a bite a chuck, I mean a proper, no-nonsense, barely-had-time-to-put-the-kettle-on sort of bite a chuck. The chublets were particularly keen to get involved, those little head nodding hooligans that seem to possess an appetite entirely disproportionate to their size, with the odd decent chub putting in an appearance just to remind me that there were, in fact, some grown-ups in the river. 

There were also gudgeon, small dace, perch and a few roach, so the swim was beginning to resemble a village fete, with every species in attendance and all of them apparently expecting a free lunch. I had barely time to contemplate the mysteries of the universe, or indeed whether I had remembered to put the car keys somewhere sensible, before the float was disappearing again.

The real stars of the show, however, were two barbel that arrived with all the subtlety of a pair of hungry accountants discovering an expense account. I had been feeding maggots rather generously, regularly depositing an entire pouch into the swim, which is an astonishing quantity of little wriggling creatures when you stop to think about it. Most anglers might have considered this excessive, but the fish clearly regarded it as a perfectly reasonable breakfast provision. 

One of the barbel weighed in at a very respectable 5lb 8oz, and it was obvious that the maggot banquet had attracted the attention of something considerably more substantial than the chublets that had been mugging my hookbait all morning. The fish were hovering around in the feed, hoovering up maggots with the enthusiasm of a vacuum cleaner at a biscuit convention, and I could hardly blame them. If somebody had been throwing entire pouches of breakfast into my front garden, I suspect I would have been inclined to investigate myself.

Naturally, I had arrived at dawn, because that is what a dedicated angler does. He rises at an hour when normal, sensible people are still enjoying the warm embrace of their duvets, stumbles around in the half-light, loads the car with enough tackle to supply a small military expedition, and heads off to secure a swim as though the entire angling population of the county is poised to descend upon it. Except, of course, on this occasion, when I arrived to discover that the riverbank was deserted. Not another soul in sight. 

I could have stayed in bed, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and still wandered down later with plenty of room to choose from. But then I would have missed the pleasure of getting up in the dark for absolutely no reason whatsoever, which is an important part of the angling experience and something that non-anglers will never understand. We do not merely go fishing; we sacrifice sleep, comfort and occasionally our sanity in pursuit of fish that have absolutely no appreciation of our efforts.

For the first two hours or so, though, it was all thoroughly worthwhile. The float was rarely still, the maggots were disappearing at an alarming rate, and the fish seemed determined to make the most of my generosity. The chublets kept coming, punctuated by the occasional better chub, with the smaller species adding variety to the proceedings. 

Then, just as I was beginning to wonder whether I had stumbled upon some previously undiscovered piscatorial feeding station, the two barbel appeared and elevated the session from a pleasant morning's fishing to something rather more memorable. There is something deeply satisfying about watching a swim come alive when you get the feeding right, even if you do begin to wonder whether you should have taken out a second mortgage to pay for the maggots.

And then, as suddenly as it had all begun, the river switched off. The bites stopped, the float settled into an almost suspiciously peaceful existence, and the swim that had been behaving like a fishmonger's shop on Christmas Eve became as lively as a churchyard at midnight. I gave it a little time, naturally, because anglers are an optimistic breed and we are always convinced that the next bite will be the one that makes the entire session worthwhile. 

But the river had apparently decided that it had served its allotted quota of entertainment and that I had enjoyed quite enough excitement for one morning. There was little point in arguing with it. Rivers, like cats, are perfectly capable of making their feelings known, and neither is especially inclined to explain itself.

All told, I managed over 20lb of fish in around two and a half hours before the swim finally went dead, which was a thoroughly enjoyable result by anybody's standards. There had been a constant procession of chublets, a supporting cast of gudgeon, dace, perch and roach, and two barbel, including one of 5lb 8oz, which provided the sort of memorable interlude that makes all those early starts seem vaguely sensible. The maggots had been dispensed with the generosity of a lottery winner, the fish had responded magnificently, and I had enjoyed a cracking session without another angler in sight.

So, was getting up at dawn necessary? Absolutely not. Could I have stayed in bed? Almost certainly. Would I do it all again? 

Without the slightest hesitation. Because that is the peculiar magic of fishing. You can spend half the night preparing, rise at an ungodly hour, carry enough tackle to sink a barge, feed half a river with maggots and then discover that the fish have gone home for their afternoon nap. Yet somehow, you return to the car smiling, already thinking about the next session. And if the river happens to provide a bite a chuck, a couple of barbel and over 20lb of fish in a morning, well, that is merely the icing on the cake.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a maggot bill to recover from and a bed to apologise to.

Warwickshire Avon - Methods and Methylenedioxymethamphetamine

The clocks going back is one of those annual events that looks perfectly innocent on the calendar but is, in reality, a coordinated attack on the mental health of the river angler. One minute you’re wandering around in glorious evening sunshine pretending you know what you’re doing, and the next you’re commuting to work in pitch black, returning home in pitch black and beginning to suspect that you’ve been sentenced to a life underground with the moles.

This is when the old SAD disorder kicks in, although I prefer to call it Seasonal Angling Deprivation because, frankly, I know what the cure is and it certainly isn't a mindfulness app. What I require is a river, a barbel, several hours of daylight and preferably some form of waterproof clothing that doesn't make me look like a man who's escaped from a recycling facility.

 There is something thoroughly soul-destroying about leaving the house in darkness, spending the entire day in a building under artificial lighting and then driving home in darkness, wondering if the sun still exists or whether it has finally given up and emigrated to Spain. 

You start to question the whole concept of employment when you realise you could have spent the same number of hours beside a river achieving absolutely nothing and at least had the decency to be outside.

Consequently, I have been hitting the Warwickshire Avon like a maniac, desperately trying to hoover up every remaining scrap of daylight before winter slams the door in my face and nails it shut. 

I know what's coming because I've seen it before: swollen rivers, freezing temperatures, flooded meadows and rod rings that require the services of a small plumber before the line will pass through them.

The last two winters have hardly inspired confidence either, with the Avon seemingly unable to decide whether it wants to be a river, a reservoir or a minor tributary of the North Sea. 

In a few weeks I’ll be reduced to looking out of the office window at a grey sky at four o’clock in the afternoon, wondering whether sticking a rod into the photocopier would constitute a fishing session.

So I’ve been getting out whenever I can, trying to squeeze in a few more proper barbel sessions before the annual great extinction of enjoyable midweek fishing. This particular outing saw me heading back to the poaching swim, which thankfully had received the blessing of the land frequenter from the opposite bank.

It is always reassuring to have permission, particularly when your alternative strategy involves pretending you have accidentally wandered onto private land while carrying two rods, a landing net, a bait bucket and enough pellets to feed a small herd of cattle. I was therefore particularly grateful for the green light and set off feeling like a legitimate member of society rather than a suspicious bloke trespassing with fishing tackle.

First stop was Nic's place at Avon Angling, where I collected the bait bucket I had abandoned at the parking spot on the previous visit. Nothing says professional angler quite like arriving at someone's house to retrieve equipment you've forgotten in a field, especially when your previous visit had ended with a blank.

Nic wished me tight lines as I headed off, which was kind of him. I needed all the assistance I could get because the previous trip had produced precisely nothing, unless you count fresh air, a slightly damp landing net and the gradual deterioration of my emotional stability, oh and suspected Pike that picked up the luncheon meat. This time, however, I had a plan.

An old-school Drennan method feeder was going to be the weapon of choice, loaded with scalded Severn Valley Ambush pellet and accompanied by a short hooklink with a banded Ambush cushion tucked tightly beside the hook. The thinking was to create a concentrated little parcel of temptation rather than the more traditional approach, because the water was clear and I wanted the fish to encounter something resembling a five-star takeaway rather than a motorway service station.

The Avon was up slightly, carrying more flow and looking absolutely bang on. You know those moments when a river looks so perfect that you immediately become convinced you're about to catch something enormous, despite absolutely no evidence whatsoever to support the theory?

This was one of those moments.

The feeder went in and almost immediately there were little signs of interest. Not exactly the sort of interest that makes you reach for the landing net, but enough to keep me staring at the rod tip with the intense concentration normally associated with bomb disposal.

Time slipped away and dusk began creeping across the valley. The light was disappearing at an alarming rate, and I was rapidly approaching that horrible period of an evening session where every minute of daylight becomes more valuable than a winning lottery ticket.

I was staring at the LED on the rod tip when I spotted a head torch approaching across the field. There are few things more exciting to an angler than seeing another human being approaching after dark, because you immediately assume they have either come to talk about your fishing, arrest you, or tell you that you've accidentally pitched up in their garden.

I'd already had to negotiate the cows on the way in, so I was hoping the approaching figure wasn't some sort of livestock-related vigilante.

It turned out to be a dog walker.

He stopped and, after looking at the glowing rod tip, announced, “Oh! An angler, did think what that light was.”

And then the rod went absolutely mental.

Not a polite little pull. Not a couple of nods followed by a contemplative pause. No, this thing went into full-scale meltdown, the rod arcing over as if somebody had attached a tow rope to it and driven a tractor into the river.

The timing was impeccable. There I was, standing in darkness having just been identified by a member of the public as an angler, and within approximately three seconds I was wrestling with a barbel while attempting to operate a head torch, rod, reel and my rapidly deteriorating nervous system.

I knew immediately what it was. The initial surge was pure barbel, heading straight for the cover with the sort of enthusiasm normally displayed by a teenager who has just been told there's a party at the other end of the village.

Thankfully the tackle held and I managed to turn it. For a brief moment I thought I had everything under control, which was obviously the cue for the fish to make another run.

It battled brilliantly, and just when I thought I was getting it anywhere near the net, it saw the landing net and apparently interpreted it as an invitation to begin the fight again. Two additional runs followed, accompanied by me making noises that probably sounded considerably more panicked than I would have liked in front of the dog walker.

Eventually the barbel slid over the net.

There are few better sights in fishing than a proper Avon barbel lying in the folds of a landing net, especially when five minutes earlier you'd been convinced you were going home with nothing more than a cold backside and an unhealthy hatred of British winter.

The dog walker wanted a good look at it and seemed genuinely amazed. I was equally amazed, although for entirely different reasons, chiefly that I'd managed to land the thing without falling in, breaking something or accidentally shining the head torch directly into my own eyes.

After a short chat and a decent rest for the fish, I took the trophy shot and slipped it back. The barbel swam away strongly, leaving me standing there with that ridiculous grin that makes non-anglers wonder whether we've all suffered some form of head injury.

There was still around twenty minutes left, so naturally I set everything up again.

Because apparently catching a barbel wasn't enough.

The feeder went back out into the darkness and I settled in for the final few minutes, feeling like a man who had just won a battle and was now hanging around the battlefield to see if anyone else fancied a go. The swim was now properly dark, although there was still a trace of light in the sky, which was just enough to convince me that packing up would be cowardice.

The next fish was a decent bream.

Naturally.

After all that excitement, the Avon had decided to send me a large, slimy envelope containing a bream as a thank-you note. It had obviously heard about the Ambush cushion and decided that if the barbel were going to get involved, it wasn't going to miss out on the buffet.

And that, as they say, was that.

Curfew arrived, darkness had completely swallowed the swim and common sense finally returned sufficiently for me to pack up. The cows were thankfully further up the field this time, meaning I could make my escape without having to negotiate a bovine security checkpoint while carrying several kilos of fishing tackle and looking suspiciously pleased with myself.

So there it was: one lovely 7–8lb Warwickshire Avon barbel from the poaching peg, a decent bream and another small victory against the rapidly approaching forces of winter. Quest completed, box ticked and sanity restored, at least temporarily. The poaching peg isn't very pleasant to fish as the cows use it to access the river for drinking and the banks are steep, so thankfully a barbel has been caught. 

The drive home was pitch black, naturally, but it somehow didn't seem quite as depressing. I'd spent the evening beside a river, watched a barbel try to dismantle my tackle in front of a dog walker and successfully survived another encounter with the Warwickshire wildlife.

For a few precious hours, the winter blues had been beaten back.

The sun might have gone to bed at four o'clock, the cows might be plotting their next ambush and the river might soon resemble the Amazon after a biblical rainstorm, but for now I had a barbel in the memory bank.

And that, frankly, was enough to keep the lights on in my head for another week.