The River Arrow - Detectorism and DiscursiveMeanderingness

I woke with that familiar, half-formed optimism that only an angler can truly appreciate: the belief that today might be the day, despite all evidence to the contrary gathered over decades of personal experience. A bite was required. Not desired, not hoped for required, like tea, oxygen, or a mild complaint about the weather.

The first act of the morning ritual was enacted with the solemnity of a pagan ceremony: checking the local river levels. The Arrow, that most contrary of rivers, looked fishable. Not ideal, mind. Still a little higher than I’d like, a little browner than I’d planned for in my imagination, but close enough to justify lying to myself.

Anyway, it’s only fifteen minutes by car to the stretch I’ve been fishing recently. Fifteen minutes is nothing in angling terms. You can waste fifteen minutes just tying a hooklength you’ll immediately cut off again because it “doesn’t feel right”. So off I went, threading my way along country lanes clearly designed in medieval times to accommodate one horse, a sack of turnips, and the occasional chicken with a death wish. And then, just as I hit the main road into town, there it was: the Line. A vast, unbroken conga of parked cars stretching into the distance like a metallic spawning run.

Now I don’t mind company, but my angling brain instantly did what it always does: Match fishing. I could see them in my mind’s eye already keepnets like submarine pens, stopwatches, men shouting numbers at one another with the intensity of air-traffic controllers. My fishing time, I feared, was about to be curtailed to something resembling a polite paddle.

I parked before the combination-locked gate, checked the club book (as one does, because rules are important and because it allows us to feel morally superior), and… nothing. No match. No warning. No ominous footnote saying “Abandon all hope ye who seek solitude.” Perhaps it was on Facebook. But I don’t use Facebook. I have enough ways of being confused and irritated without adding that particular circus to the repertoire.

Oh well. Get fishing anyway.

I headed straight to the banker swim under the bridge – a spot that has rescued many a blank and restored many a wounded ego. Five minutes in, I missed a couple of bites. Proper bites too. The sort that make your heart do that ridiculous little leap before immediately kicking you in the shins. Third time lucky though, and a fish was on. 

The water was a milky brown, perhaps six inches of visibility at best, but I was fishing visible white bread – a bait so bright it practically files a flight plan. The fish turned out to be a chub of about two pounds. Nothing to write to the record books about, but as every angler knows: a fish is a fish is a fish, and each one counts double if you’ve already begun mentally drafting a blog post about blanking.

As I landed it, an elderly gentleman appeared on the bridge, peering down like a benevolent gargoyle. Conversation followed, as it always does near bridges.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Just to warn you,” he said, in the tone of a man announcing incoming weather or invading armies, “you’re about to be joined by a load of people.”

Ah. So it was a match then.

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Dirt fishermen. Metal detectorists. About sixty of us.”

Sixty.

Now I’m not one to judge. Fishing, after all, is basically just staring at water while holding a stick. Metal detecting is staring at fields while listening to beeps. Cousins, really. Still, the mental image of sixty headphone-wearing relic hunters descending upon my previously empty stretch of river was… unexpected.

He assured me they wouldn’t bother me, and to be fair they didn’t. Soon the banks were populated by an extraordinary parade of attire: full tactical commando outfits, as if expecting enemy fire from the reeds; carp-lifer chic (beanies, muted colours, expressions of permanent mild suffering); and then the outliers blazing red jackets visible from space, presumably to aid satellite navigation or alien contact. Mostly elderly men, but also kids and women, all united by the hopeful beep of buried history and the unshakeable belief that this next signal might be the big one.

I was full expecting to see Jeff Hatt from https://digregardless.blogspot.com/ but he didn't' appear. 

I roved on. The river was still high, but the slacks were doing their thing. A shallow back eddy produced a savage bite, followed by the inevitable snag-finding manoeuvre performed by all self-respecting chub. The next cast, however, resulted in redemption. Another fish on. And another later. And another. By the time the session wound down I’d landed six chub, the best nudging three pounds  not monsters, but honest fish, caught in honest conditions, while surrounded by a mobile museum of people earnestly failing to find anything.

Did they find treasure? From the snippets of conversation I overheard: no. Certainly not another Brownhills Hoard, that legendary £3 million stash discovered by Terry Herbert in a field belonging to Fred Johnson the sort of story that keeps detectorists detecting and anglers angling, both convinced that today might be the day everything changes.

As I packed up, the detectorists drifted away, pockets no heavier, spirits undimmed. I reflected that the river, the fish, and the strange pageant of humanity had combined into one of those sessions you couldn’t plan if you tried. Slightly surreal. Mildly ridiculous. Entirely memorable.

And that, really, is fishing.

Warwickshire Stour - Osmiferousbreaminality AND Turbiditationalism

There are times on the Warwickshire Stour when you feel less like an angler and more like an unpaid extra in a low-budget natural history documentary entitled Men Who Persist Despite All Available Evidence. This winter has been one of those times. 

The Warks Stour Power WhatsApp group normally a place of mild exaggeration, heroic selfies, and suspiciously well-timed PBs has recently taken on the tone of a grief counselling session chaired by a damp keepnet. Three men. One river. And a collective inability to get anything resembling consistency out of it.

The trio in question are, of course, myself (the roaming optimist), Nic of Avon Angling fame (who knows this river better than the fish themselves), and George “I Don’t Blog Any More” Burton, who despite the name has begun the New Year obsessed with the idea of a big Stour roach an obsession that places him somewhere between dedicated specimen hunter and man waiting for a bus that may never come.

Now the Stour has been patchy. Not “a bit hit and miss” patchy, but Jekyll and Hyde with a landing net patchy. Hit it right and you’re into chub as if they’ve formed a queue. Miss it by a matter of hours and you could spend the entire session communing with gudgeon that nibble like Victorian pickpockets. Only a short while ago I had seven chub in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it session, each one convincing me I’d cracked the code. The very next day? Naff all most likely. Not even a courtesy knock.

Nic, being a man of science (or at least a man who sounds scientific when holding a glass of water), reckons it’s all down to water colour. And I suspect he’s onto something. He’d fished it when the river was still charging through, but the colour oh the colour was that unmistakable Stour green. Not a pleasant mossy green. Not a healthy aquatic green. More like the colour the Hulk might produce after a heavy night involving lime slush puppies and a Midori Sour chaser. Visibility somewhere between “murky” and “why bother wearing polarised glasses at all.”

When the Stour’s in proper flood, chocolate brown and angry, it can actually fish well. Those canals in spitting distance turbidity, the fish lose their paranoia, and those old, streetwise roach the ones with PhDs in hook avoidance suddenly fancy a wander. They know the drill. Brown water means fewer fins brushing their flanks and fewer beady-eyed anglers staring into their souls. Confidence, it turns out, is a murky thing.

So off I went, roving like a man with optimism but no plan, alternating between half a lobworm and bread, with liquidised bread laced with geranium essential oil squeezed lovingly into the feeder. Yes, geranium. Don’t ask. I read it somewhere once, probably at midnight, probably written by a man who owns more tweed than sense.

The conditions were, frankly, abysmal. A cold wind gusting like it had a personal vendetta against my quivertip. Bites were less “tap tap” and more “was that the wind or my imagination?” Not exactly textbook stuff, but then needs must when the river calls and the canals are still sulking in the background.

And then because fishing is nothing if not a cruel performance artist within ten minutes I had rattly bites on the one-ounce tip in the very swim that produced my PB river roach. I struck. 

The rod hooped. And for approximately three seconds I was connected to destiny. Roach? Chublet? I’ll never know. It felt right. It felt silvery. And then it was gone, leaving only a slack line and that hollow feeling anglers carry far longer than any fish.

After that, swim after swim delivered nothing but nibbles. Tiny fish with ambition vastly exceeding mouth capacity. Strikes that connected with nothing but hope. 

 At one point I deployed the “get out of jail card” those woody swims that usually cough up at least something but even they merely offered more pecking and more disappointment. Even the chub didn't show after switching to an all out bread feeder attack. 

Four hours later I was staring down the barrel of a blank. A proper one. The sort that seeps into your bones and makes you question past life choices. Meanwhile, downstream, George was into bream. And not just bream good’uns. Slabs. 

The sort of fish that arrive uninvited and leave your landing net smelling like a trawler’s sock drawer. It just goes to show what can turn up in this river as it winds through open farmland, quietly ignoring our theories and plans. 

On the plus side, my landing net remained blissfully free of bream slime, my garage was spared, and domestic harmony was preserved. Small victories matter.

Still, I’m fed up with floodwater now. Properly fed up. The romance has worn thin. The Stour will do what it wants, when it wants, and explain nothing. I’m not quite ready to retreat to the canals just yet but the thought is there, hovering, like a backup plan written in pencil.

Until then, we’ll keep going. Because sometimes the blank is part of the story. And sometimes, just sometimes, the river gives you three seconds of magic enough to keep you coming back for the next chapter

Warwickshire Avon - Reverberations and Ruminations

There are moments, usually around three in the morning when the tinnitus starts doing its own ambient remix, that I find myself wondering whether life might have panned out differently had I known, back in the early nineties, that the barbel stocks in Warwickshire resembled something closer to the biblical plague proportions of the mighty Trent. 

Had this knowledge been imparted to me perhaps by a benevolent angling oracle wearing a bucket hat I might have stepped down from those speaker arrays, stopped using my inner ear as a bass port, and invested instead in a decent pair of waders and some tins of spam.

Of course, this would have required foresight, and foresight was in tragically short supply when one was twenty-something, chemically optimistic, and convinced that the meaning of life could be found somewhere between a strobe light and a white label pressing from Detroit.

 Standing on speakers was not just encouraged, it was practically a civic duty. 

If the bass didn’t rearrange your internal organs, you weren’t really listening. The fact that I now hear a constant high-pitched whine is simply my brain nostalgically replaying the encore.

Then came the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act of 1994, a piece of legislation so poetically absurd that it managed to define music by its repetitiveness. 

A “succession of repetitive beats,” they said, as though that wasn’t also an accurate description of both angling conversation and the average heart rate of a tench. 

The police were handed the power to shut down joy itself, prompting electronic musicians to respond in the only reasonable way: by writing deliberately non-repetitive music purely out of spite. Somewhere in this period, I realised that nothing bonds people quite like being told they’re not allowed to enjoy themselves rhythmically.

Fast-forward three decades and here I am, fifty-three years old, with three gigs booked and a spine that sounds like gravel being stirred with a bank stick. Sasha and my DJ mate Steve Parry in his hometown Liverpool. Deep Dish at the legendary Sub Club in Glasgow. And, looming gloriously on the horizon, 808 State in Brum, those heroic knob-twizzlers who proved that a Roland TB-303 could sound like an alien frog trapped in a biscuit tin. I and the ageing likeminded will attend all of them with the unshakeable belief that age is merely a suggestion.

My wife, bless her, continues to find it baffling that the same man who seeks enlightenment and solitude beside a river at dawn can willingly stand in a dark room being physically assaulted by subwoofers. She sees contradiction. I see balance. One moment you’re feeling the subtle pluck of a barbel three feet under the surface; the next you’re feeling bass frequencies rearranging your kidneys. Both, in their own way, are deeply spiritual experiences though only one of them requires glow sticks.

And so I continue, oscillating happily between riverbank and rave floor, ignoring the ache in my knees and the faint whistling in my ears. Because once a raver, always a raver. It gets into the system, much like that groundbait smell in a fleece you’ve washed seven times and still can’t wear to Tesco. You don’t fight it. You accept it. You crack on. And if, one day, I’m found peacefully expired in a bivvy while a phantom 4/4 beat plays in my head, I’ll consider that a life very well lived.

With tackle already in the car there are few phrases sweeter to the angler’s ear than “midday finish.” It has the same magical properties as “free pint,” “go on then,” and “that’ll do nicely.” Forty-three hours neatly ticked off in the design studio, brain switched to standby mode, and before the boss could even finish saying “see you Monday,” The smaller rivers and streams were, sadly, still behaving like they’d just watched an action film and fancied a go themselves bank-high, angry, and intent on carrying away anything foolish enough to stand near them. 

So Plan A, B and most of C were abandoned. Enter the Warwickshire Avon: still full of herself, mind, but calming down just enough to look fishable rather than murderous. A rare and beautiful compromise. Roving tactics were the order of the day. No seat box, no bivvy, no unnecessary items such as comfort or dignity. Just a loaf of bread, a lump of cheesepaste with the aroma of a French dairy gone rogue, and the quiet optimism that only an angler can muster after a working week.

The river had that look about it, the sort of look that suggests common sense should prevail and the flask lid should remain firmly screwed shut. It was up and banging through, shoulders hunched against its own momentum, dragging winter detritus along as if in a foul mood and in no hurry to apologise for it. I’d expected the stretch to be mine, entirely and indulgently so, but there was already evidence that another soul had questioned their own judgement as severely as I was questioning mine. Who, after all, is stupid enough to fish in these conditions? Apparently, at least two of us. Thankfully the other was a wildfowler on reccy. 

Still, I know this piece of water rather well. Intimately, in fact. Like an ex-girlfriend whose habits you never quite forget, even when you wish you could. For all the river’s bluster and chest-beating there are little places where it softens, pauses, takes a breath. Slacks that sit there quietly, pretending they aren’t exactly where a chub would want to be when everything else is in a bad temper. That knowledge alone was enough to keep me honest as I set up, despite the wind that had teeth and the sort of rain that never really commits but somehow always leaves you damp and faintly miserable.

I settled into what I consider the best slack on the stretch, the sort of swim you’d happily defend in court. Cheesepaste went on the hook, cheesy garlic bread crammed dutifully into the feeder, and I convinced myself that patience was going to be rewarded. Half an hour passed. Nothing. Not a tremor, not a suggestion, not even the courtesy of a false alarm. The tip might as well have been painted on. Eventually realism won out over optimism, and it was time to shoulder the gear and start roving.

Swim after swim told the same story. I lingered longer than usual, partly out of stubbornness and partly because conditions like these don’t lend themselves to quick fixes. If a chub was at home, it was going to take its time answering the door. But the tip remained obstinately lifeless, and with each move the wind seemed to find a new angle from which to make its presence felt. You begin to question your bait, your rig, your sanity, and eventually your entire angling philosophy.

Down towards the end of the stretch there’s a likely little slack, close in, easy to overlook when the river’s quieter but worth a dabble when it’s throwing its weight around. By now the sun was slipping away, low and unhelpful, shining directly into my eyes with all the sympathy of a pub landlord at closing time. Ten minutes in, just as I was considering another move, the tip gave two sharp, unmistakable pulls. Instinct took over. I struck, lifted into a solid fish, and for a brief, ridiculous moment allowed myself to believe.

Reality, as it often does, arrived promptly. I knew almost immediately it wasn’t the fish I wanted. A chub, yes, but a little rascal rather than the bar-of-soap six-pounder I’d been daydreaming about. Still, a fish is a fish is a fish, and the blank was avoided. There’s always comfort in that, even if it’s a slightly hollow one.

With time running out, optimism made one last appearance and suggested a return to the best slack. It had, after all, been primed for a good hour and looked as good as it ever would. Sadly, if there was a decent chub in residence, it was clearly on holiday. A final move to a hard, snag-ridden swim followed the sort you fish knowing full well it might end badly, but unable to resist the “what if”.

Fifteen minutes later, without so much as a bite, I lifted the rod and felt that horrible, unmistakable dead weight. The feeder and the entire rig were well and truly stuck, embraced by a snag with no intention of letting go. A few cautious tugs became firmer ones, and eventually there was nothing for it but to pull for a break. Lost the lot. Bugger.

So that was that. Cold, damp, slightly irritated, but not blanked. No gold at the end of the rainbow this time, just the quiet satisfaction of having read the water as best I could and had it answer back, if only briefly. And somehow, despite everything, already thinking about when I might next go back and have another go.

Anyway if you want a fishing podcast to listen too and don't fancy fishing in these crap conditons give fellow blogger Gale Light the Essex Scribbler podcasts a listen !!. Better not tell The Chubmeister General on this one, that I've been using pastry in my cheespaste he won't be happy !!.

The River Arrow (and Alne) - Mudsoakedness and Meanderings

The forecast, that modern oracle of disappointment, had confidently predicted rain, and for once it was bang on the money. Not the pleasant, poetic drizzle beloved of gardeners and romantics, but proper cold rain, the sort that sneaks down your collar and makes you question every decision you’ve ever made, including but not limited to buying fishing tackle and learning to read. I stood at the window, mug of tea in hand, staring out like a condemned man granted a final view, weighing up whether fishing in freezing rain was a noble act of dedication or simply another example of my complete lack of common sense.

Cold rain when fishing, as we all know, is not exactly enjoyable. In fact, it ranks just below dental surgery performed by a badger and just above standing on a plug in the dark. Still, the Arrow / Alne had been checked, cross-checked, and then checked again on the local gauges, and while it was still up, it had dropped a little since Friday. This, in angling logic, is known as “promising,” which translates roughly to “it will probably be awful, but you’ll go anyway.”

After negotiating the muddy field a task that involved less walking and more interpretive slipping I parked up and immediately wondered why I was bothering. You see, the river was chocolate brown, the kind of brown that suggests it has recently consumed a small village upstream and is still digesting it. None of the colour had dropped out at all. It was opaque, angry, and looked like it would happily sweep away anything lighter than a Land Rover. Bites, I knew, would be hard to come by. Possibly imaginary.

However, this time I had maggots with me. This fact alone filled me with a sense of preparedness entirely disproportionate to their actual effectiveness. Some gonks proper ones, not half-hearted had appeared in one of the swims in similar conditions recently, so I had that nugget of optimism rattling around in my head like a loose nut in a biscuit tin. Armed with this fragile hope, I headed up to the so-called banker swim.

The banker swim, for those unfamiliar, is a swim that reliably produces fish provided the river is at the correct height, colour, temperature, mood, and planetary alignment. On this occasion it was still pretty unfishable. In fact, it resembled a washing machine set to “obliterate.” I gave it fifteen minutes out of politeness, but the back eddy went from stationary to something resembling the River Ganges in monsoon season. I half expected to see a cow float past.

So, on the rove I went, which sounds romantic until you realise it involves trudging along soggy banks with all your worldly possessions hanging off you like a mobile jumble sale. It was a good walk too, though thankfully rewarded when I found a nice slack underneath a bridge. The liquidised bread feeder hit hard bottom with that reassuring “donk” that instantly improves your mood, and the large, vulgar piece of visible bread flake was hovering enticingly within five minutes.

Then it happened. A couple of tentative plucks. The quiver tip nodded, paused, and then went into full meltdown. Absolute carnage. The kind of bite that makes you forget the rain, the cold, and the fact you’re standing ankle-deep in something that smells like regret. “A fish! A fish! A fish!” I announced to no one in particular, like a man who has finally found water in the desert.

The fish, clearly offended at being disturbed, tried all the tricks in the book. Scraping, lunging, sulking, and generally behaving like a creature that had not consented to this interaction. Still, it was in the net soon enough, a proper little chub, and absolutely worth the trip out on its own. I admired it briefly, offered a sincere apology, and slipped it back to continue whatever important chub business it had been attending to.

More swims were roved. Some looked good. Some looked terrible. Some looked good but lied. I even switched to maggots at one point, largely out of boredom, but was rewarded only with minnow rattles those irritating, confidence-destroying trembles that make you strike at shadows and feel foolish for doing so.

Eventually, I headed back down to the end of the stretch, where I found a nice slack at the end of a reed bed and managed a 2lb chub. A proper fish, that one, and very welcome. 

The next swim produced two unmissable bites, both missed, which is an impressive achievement in itself. After that, it went completely dead, as rivers often do, like they’ve decided you’ve had enough joy for one day.

One last swim upstream, next to a tree, offered some slack water and another small chub, clearly a bread muncher of refined tastes. And that was that. Three chub in atrocious conditions, which in angling terms counts as a roaring success and will be recounted for years as “one of those days.” Back home, there was no rest for the wicked. The beef brisket needed to be prepped before getting in the shower, thankfully filling the house with smells far more pleasant than wet riverbank. 

Cold, damp, slightly battered, but quietly smug, I reflected that it had been an enjoyable morning after all despite the rubbish weather, the mud, the brown river, and the nagging suspicion that I might do exactly the same thing again next week.

After all, this is fishing. And if it made sense, we’d have given it up years ago.

The Tiny River Alne - Heronology & Happenstance

Friday couldn’t come soon enough. By about 11:29am I was sat at my desk vibrating like a fridge with a dodgy motor, convinced that the precise moment I clicked Shutdown on the work laptop, angels would descend, harps would play, and my fishing gear would levitate itself into the boot. That’s the fantasy version, obviously.

Reality? Reality looked me square in the eye, spat on the floor, and said, “Sit down, sunshine.”

Because while the canals were just about fishable and by “just about” I mean “you might get a bite if you fish with optimism and a small miracle” every river within twenty miles had turned into a foaming, angry broth you’d expect to see in a documentary titled Rivers Having a Meltdown.

Thursday’s rain didn’t just fall. Oh no. It auditioned. It strutted onto the stage like it wanted a BAFTA for “Most Dramatic Downpour,” and proceeded to drown the Midlands one biblical gobful at a time. The River Alne, that spatey little diva, was my only hope twitchy, unpredictable, and prone to mood swings that would make a Regency debutante look emotionally stable.

One minute it looked fishable.
Next minute I was expecting a Viking longship to glide past, complete with a bloke in a horned hat shouting something about pillaging Alcester.

Still… “just about fishable” in winter translates to:

RIGHT, GET YOUR BOOTS ON, WE’RE GOING.

On the subject of personal triumphs  last weekend on the Stour I delivered an absolute masterclass in the ancient art of “How Not To Cast.”

I swung the feeder out with all the grace of a cormorant on roller skates… and watched it sail majestically off course, like a drunken pigeon navigating by vibes alone, before lovingly embracing an overhanging branch.

Two tugs didn’t shift it.
The third tug, however, was executed with the subtle finesse of someone trying to start a lawnmower made of concrete. The result? The feeder launched back at me with such ballistic enthusiasm it snapped the line and took the quiver tip with it, presumably as a hostage.

One second I was fishing.
The next I was stood on the bank looking like a man who’d just been mugged by his own tackle.I sulked, obviously. Packed up. Went home. Replayed the event in my head like the world’s most depressing slow-motion replay.

Then Monday rolls around.

Phone pings. I assume it’s a meeting request or a reminder to renew my fishing licence.

Nope it’s Nic from Avon Angling.

He’d fished the same peg and found my missing quiver tip just lying on the bank like Excalibur waiting for the rightful idiot to reclaim it.

“Is this yours?”

Is. This. Yours.

I nearly wept. 😂

Not only was it mine, it was a custom-sanded, precision-fitted masterpiece a quiver tip tailored more lovingly than a Savile Row suit. Down to the thou, the THOU I tell you !!

Suddenly I was happier than a chub wedged under a raft of sticks that would kill a lesser species.

There IS a God, I thought.
He works in mysterious ways.
Occasionally via dudes named Nic.

Then I remembered March 2024, when that same God clearly clocked off for his tea break.

I’d just returned a chub nice fish, smugly pleased with myself leaned forward, and watched my phone tumble out of my pocket with all the slow-motion inevitability of a Greek tragedy.

Plop.
Straight into the drink.

Not just the phone, though.
No no. It decided to take £40 with it money earmarked for a curry later in the week.

Somewhere downstream a pike was probably using it to order a vindaloo from JustEat. So yes they say fishing heals the soul.

Does it?

DOES IT REALLY?

Sometimes all it heals is the illusion that you’re a competent adult. Most of the time it just steals your gear, drowns your electronics, and laughs at you in a Brummie accent from behind a bush.

But then someone finds your quiver tip hands it back  and for a fleeting, shimmering moment the universe aligns.

Everything feels right again.

…well, except the rivers are still in flood…
and the phone is somewhere in a gravel bar near Stratford…and the curry money is presumably buying itself naan bread…

…but apart from that?

Absolutely perfect.

I arrived at the river to find myself immediately judged by sheep, which is never a good start to any fishing trip. They stood there in that semi-circular way sheep have, as if convening an emergency parish meeting to discuss the sudden appearance of an angler where only drizzle and disappointment normally roam. 

Thankfully, my surname isn’t Gwyndaf, so they quickly relaxed, reassured that I wasn’t there to engage in a white fleece rumble, I made my way to the river, whereupon I was struck by the familiar and sinking feeling that I could have saved myself a walk, a sandwich, and several optimistic life choices by simply staring into a mug of coffee at home.

The Alne, in full post-rain tantrum mode, was charging through the fields like it had somewhere very important to be and absolutely no intention of stopping to speak to anglers. It was brown not the nice peaty brown that suggests mystery and promise but full-on chocolate soup, the sort that would make Willy Wonka cancel the factory tour. 

Still, experience has taught me that visibility of approximately one inch doesn’t necessarily rule out success on the Alne. Over the years I’ve dangled into water this colour and been rewarded with bites aplenty, usually when least expected and always when my guard was down. The trouble is that the Alne is moody. Not mildly temperamental properly moody, like a teenager who has discovered existential philosophy and refuses to come down for tea.

I came prepared, of course, armed with worms, bread, and cheesepaste the holy trinity of last-ditch optimism but logic (always a dubious companion) suggested worms were the order of the day. I roved from swim to swim, flicking out hopeful casts into places that looked fishy in that vague, desperate way anglers convince themselves of things. Each swim was fished thoroughly, thoughtfully, and ultimately pointlessly. Not a knock, not a tremor, not even the courtesy of a false alarm. I even defected briefly to the Arrow, as if changing rivers might somehow trick the fish into thinking I was someone else.

By the end, it was clear that the fish of both rivers had entered into some sort of non-aggression pact with one another and me. Still, there are worse ways to spend a day than wandering riverbanks, stretching the legs, and being politely ignored by nature. I trudged back to the car with damp boots, intact pride (just), and the comforting lie that it’ll be perfect on Sunday and that surely, surely, a chub or two will have lowered their guard by then.

Warwickshire Stour - Misadventurousness & Melancholiosity

There are days in an angler’s calendar that promise greatness. Days where the mist hangs mysteriously over the fields like a scene from a low-budget fantasy film, days where you wake with purpose, spring out of bed, and most importantly don’t feel like death warmed up because you haven’t been bathing your liver in Merlot the night before. 

This, dear reader, was one of those days. I leapt out of bed as fresh as a Mountain Dew advert, ready to take on the world, or at least ready to lob bread at fish with unrealistic optimism. Dry January, despite YouTube’s well-timed attempts to derail me via targeted ads featuring cheerful sociopaths telling me I deserve a drink, was going strong. My willpower rare, delicate, and about as dependable as a politician’s promise was still intact.

The plan was straightforward: hit the Arrow like a caffeinated otter, strike into a chub or two, and revel in that smug satisfaction that only a successful winter session can deliver. I’d even sorted the tackle the night before, which is practically unheard of. 

Usually, I’m rummaging in the back of the car like a raccoon in a skip, finding month-old pork pies and floats I’d assumed were lost to the ages. I even woke up after one of those sleeps where you open your eyes and think, “So this is what it feels like to not consume a distilled vineyard before bed.” Simply marvellous.

But fate fickle, cruel, and clearly a fan of slapstick comedy had other ideas. I decided to check to see if there wasn’t a match on. And of course, there was. Thirty-odd organised individuals most likely lined up like an angling firing squad, each armed with poles long enough to vault the Severn. Plans, as they say, utterly and spectacularly scuppered.

So off to the Warwickshire Stour I went, muttering to myself like a man who’d just realised he’d left his wallet in a taxi. The Stour, bless it, can be brilliant after a flood. Huge roach sometimes appear like shimmering aquatic miracles, drawn to colour and flow like a drunk to a kebab shop. I was brimming with optimism. That is, until I laid eyes on the river.

Now, I’m not exaggerating when I say it was green. Not nice countryside green. Not gentle minty green. No, we are talking glowing, radioactive, phosphorescent, mutant-slime green. 

A green so intense it could probably power a small village if you hooked it up to a turbine. A green that made me ponder whether the Ninja Turtles were about to emerge asking for pizza recommendations. I had expected weak tea. I got neon mushy peas.

Still, the chub can’t resist bread in a small cage feeder when the river’s tanking through, and I came prepared. 

Size 12 hook, thumbnail-sized flake of Warburtons, and chub-scaled gear that whispers confidence even if the angler using it is mostly running on blind faith and caffeine.

The first swim was the banker. The Almighty Banker. The swim where, nine times out of ten, you’d expect at least a tentative pluck or the tell-tale movement of something that isn’t submerged shopping trolleys. 

It’s sheltered by trees and a nice high bank that blocks the worst of the wind though the wind was still lively enough to blow the moustache off a walrus. I cast in, sat back, and tried to look like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Twenty minutes passed. Not a twitch. Not a tremble. Nothing. If the quivertip had shown any less movement, I’d have assumed I’d accidentally superglued it to the rest of the rod. So on I trudged, swim to swim like a wandering prophet with a bait bucket. Each spot looked fishy seductive even but each gave me absolutely nothing. 

I could’ve been fishing in a chlorinated swimming pool for all the interest I got. By swim number five (banker number two), I finally saw the quivertip give the slightest tremor. A nibble! Or possibly wind vibration. Or maybe the river sneezing. Hard to say. But I reeled in to find the bread gone. Something had happened, and that was enough to inflate my optimism like a punctured football being blown up with a foot pump.

Refreshed, inspired, and with the grace of a man who definitely knows how to cast, I filled the feeder again, stuck on a perfect piece of bread, took aim at the sweet spot… and immediately launched it straight into an overhanging branch like an absolute clown. I stared at it in disbelief as the feeder swung gently, taunting me like some kind of annoying river-side wind chime.

I pulled. I tugged. I even gave it the classic “wiggle and swear” technique, which has a success rate of approximately 0.0047%. Nothing. So I yanked with a bit more conviction, fully expecting the rig to drop back into the swim.

Instead, the line snapped, the feeder swung back, and my quivertip decided it fancied a career as a submarine. Off it plopped into the river, vanishing into the murky green depths like Leonardo DiCaprio at the end of Titanic (apparently I've not seen it). Goodbye, old friend.

Session over. Abruptly. Dramatically. Stupidly.

Spot the piece of bread in the tree - Where's Wally ? !!

Now, unlike Nic from Avon Angling, whose car boot resembles a fully stocked tackle megastore with more spare rods than a medieval armoury, the back of my car contains only the essentials: half a sandwich, mismatched gloves, vague hope, and definitely no spare quivertips.

Tail firmly between my legs, I admitted defeat, climbed into the car, and grumbled all the way home. Sometimes fishing teaches you patience. Sometimes it teaches you humility. And sometimes it just smacks you round the face with a radioactive river and flings your quivertip into oblivion.

But fear not. There’s always tomorrow (or most likely next Friday). And besides, at least I didn’t break Dry January. Small mercies.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.47

There comes a moment on a frost-nipped January evening when a man must weigh the consequences of his actions against the potential for an absolute screamer of a dream. This is not a decision taken lightly. History is littered with men who made the wrong call men who reached for a banana instead of a Stilton and paid for it with eight hours of beige unconsciousness. 

For those not versed in the darker disciplines of Gorgonzolaphantasmagoria and Gyrationalisms, it is common knowledge in these parts that the British Cheese Board’s 2005 study is less of a myth and more of a field guide. While the scientists prattle on about tryptophan and tyramine those delightful amino acids that supposedly stabilise sleep while simultaneously kicking open the saloon doors of the brain’s “wacky” department I prefer to think of cheese as aviation fuel for the subconscious.

Cheddar gives you a gentle biplane ride over your childhood. Brie offers a mildly confusing ferry crossing involving a former PE teacher. But blue cheese? past its best Blue cheese, hands you a parachute, shoves you out of a balloon at 30,000 feet, and shouts “Good luck!”

I opened the fridge with the reverence of a monk unveiling a relic. There it sat: the leftover Christmas Gorgonzola. Veined like a topographic map of a river I’ve yet to fish, sweating faintly, smelling strongly of ambition, old socks, and unresolved arguments. This was not a cheese to be trifled with. This was a cheese that had opinions. 

I weighed out exactly 20 grams the scientifically prescribed dose for a psychedelic passport to the subconscious. Any more and you risk waking up fluent in Esperanto. Any less and you just dream about missing the bus. Down it went, chased with a sip of water and the vague sense that I had just signed a contract without reading the small print.

Sleep came quickly. Alarmingly quickly since starting Dry January, which is highly unusual for me.

My slumber was instantly invaded by a dream of startling, retina-polishing clarity. I was back on the bank, but the Avon had transformed into a vast, slow-moving sea of liquid marmalade. 

Not the cheap stuff either proper, chunky, artisanal marmalade with bits in. The current glugged ominously.

I wasn’t alone.

A troop of vegetarian crocodiles wearing monocles were rowing a Victorian bathtub across the crease. They were dressed in tweed waistcoats and arguing heatedly about the ethics of organic kale, whether chickpeas had ruined modern cuisine, and if a size 6 hook was “a bit mainstream, darling.” One of them had a clipboard. That felt significant.

Behind me, a kingfisher in a hi-vis jacket blew a whistle and told me my rod licence was out of date.

In the middle of this madness, a fifteen-pound barbel a real Barbara of a fish, broad across the shoulders and radiating quiet authority surfaced, cleared its throat politely, and asked me for a light. I patted my pockets, apologised, and explained I’d given up smoking in 2009. It nodded, disappointed but understanding.

💩

Then the bite came.

I struck like a man possessed, only to realise I was holding a stick of celery for a rod and using a piece of Red Leicester as a float. The reel was a hamster. The hamster was furious. Line peeled off, the crocodiles applauded, and someone began playing a harpsichord version of the Match of the Day theme.

There was no nightmare to be found no sense of dread, no sweaty panic just a profound, almost philosophical whimsy. The kind that leaves you wondering whether you’ve unlocked hidden layers of the human psyche or accidentally inhaled an entire volume of Lewis Carroll.

I awoke to the shriek of the alarm, my head fuzzy but my resolve ironclad. The ceiling looked disappointingly solid. No marmalade. No crocodiles. Just the lingering aroma of Gorgonzola and destiny. The cheese had delivered on every front: a night of vivid, lucid madness that far surpassed what I expected, no acid to be seen here. My spirit had been lightly tenderised. Somewhere, deep in the folds of my brain, a monocled crocodile was still judging my groundbait choice.

If you fancy your own odyssey, I recommend a pilgrimage to Cobbs Farm for their Gorgonzola (the best lucid dreams I've ever had on cheese), or at the very least a daring late-night raid on the fridge. Measure carefully. Respect the cheese. And whatever you do, if a barbel asks you for a light be polite.

They remember these things....!!!

Anyway to the fishing !! Storm Goretti promised a blockbuster showing, but here in Bard’s country it barely made the trailers. 

The snow that blasted in late evening looked promising enough, but by morning the so-called red warning, up-to-six-inches drama had fizzled out into something resembling a melted white slush puppy. 

Sam had built a snowman around 8.00pm when it was coming down heavy for a while, but that was all but gone when I drove him to the bus stop in the morning where mild overnight temperatures had quite an affect.  

I’d half-hoped for a proper winter curtain of white perfect conditions for a snow-chub mission but instead it looked like someone had dusted icing sugar over a damp sponge.

Working from home Friday meant I kept one eye on the laptop and the other on river levels, and by mid-morning the Warwickshire Avon was looking surprisingly fishable. 

The Stour, Alne and Arrow had rushed up as expected proper chocolate-brown torrents after the pre-snow rain I'd imagine but the Avon held just enough composure to tempt me out. 

Only snag: Ben’s school was closed, and the Wife was off doing lunchtime cover elsewhere, so any fishing would have to wait until reinforcements returned. I also had a small recovery mission to tick off. I’d left a pair of gloves on the syndicate stretch from the weekend, and syndicate member Dave had kindly retrieved them and perched them on a post like a lost-property scarecrow.  

Seeing as I needed to pick them up anyway, I figured it would be rude not to bring a rod and see if any chub were in a cooperative mood. The plan was simple: a quick smash-and-grab session. Bait a handful of likely swims, give each twenty minutes, and if nothing materialised, call it a day.  No faffing, no lingering, no overthinking just in, out, and home before anyone realised I’d snuck off. Cheesepaste on the hook and pungent garlic and cheese flavoured bread.

The river was doing its best impression of a Costa drive-thru special—turd-brown, frothy, and absolutely not what any sane fish would choose to live in. Unless of course the fish have developed a taste for angry cappuccino water, which knowing chub, wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.

Still, armed with cheesepaste potent enough to fumigate a small barn, I bravely lobbed it into the only two slacks available both of which looked marginally less violent than the main flow but still had that “don’t bother, mate” vibe. And bother I did. Twice. Result? Not so much as a tremble on the tip. Even the resident minnows must’ve been on strike.

Packed up with cold fingers, a blank, and the comforting knowledge that at least the river got to enjoy my cheesepaste even if the chub didn’t. They’re probably still laughing about it under a fallen tree somewhere.