Warwickshire Avon - Deep Dish and Depeculation

I had precisely two hours. One hundred and twenty fleeting, golden minutes of sanctioned freedom before domestic responsibility descended upon me like a bailiff with a clipboard and a moral compass. The Wife had a spa day. The Wife had a friend. The Wife had plans. I had children.

This, is how empires fall.

Now, before you picture me as some martyr of matrimony, let it be known that I was flying to Glasgow the following morning for what can only be described as cultural enrichment of the loud, bass-heavy, whisky-laced variety. So I was, in effect, a man temporarily unsupervised. A dog let off the leash. A Labrador pointed toward water.

And water there was.

The Warwickshire Avon was up. And when I say up, I mean it had ideas above its station. It was swollen, brooding, carrying that faint air of “don’t get clever, son.” The sort of river that looks at your carefully tied hooklength and says, “That’s adorable.” Still, chub live there. Big chub. Proper barrel-bodied, smug-faced, bread-munching thugs. And where there are chub, there is hope. Where there is hope, there is a man with a rod and deeply misplaced confidence.

The water temperature was cold enough to make a penguin consider knitwear, but chub are not governed by logic. They are governed by appetite and mischief. Or so I like to believe when justifying my presence at a river that sensible men have written off. It was to be a roving session. No barrow. No bivvy. Just me, a rod, a landing net, and four swims that have historically whispered sweet nothings into my catch report. Four swims. Four opportunities for piscatorial redemption.

Swim one looked promising. Slack water hugging the crease, a bit of cover, just the sort of spot where a chub might lurk, rubbing its fins together like a cartoon villain. I presented the bait beautifully. It drifted down like a Michelin-star canapé.

Nothing.

Not a tremor. Not a pluck. Not even the discourteous tap of a small fish investigating.

Swim two. Same story. The bait looked glorious. I looked hopeful. The river looked indifferent.

Swim three offered a little flicker of optimism. A slight dip of the tip. A heartbeat quickened. I tightened. Struck.

Leaves.

I had successfully hooked autumn.

Swim four, the banker, the one that had previously surrendered fish of such girth that I’d strutted back to the car like a returning gladiator… gave me precisely the same response as a disinterested cat.

Blank.

A rare off day, I told myself. A character-building exercise. A reminder that angling is not about fish; it’s about contemplation, humility, and occasionally questioning your life choices while staring at moving water. But time, that cruel accountant, was tapping his watch. I reeled in, packed up, and retreated home to assume the role of Responsible Adult.

Fast forward to 4:30am.

The Uber arrived. I shuffled in, a man powered by caffeine and questionable decisions. A 7:00am flight from Birmingham. Forty-five minutes in the air. Cheaper than a train ticket that would have me touring half of Britain and aging visibly in the process.

Up we went. Down we came. Glasgow.

Now Glasgow, on a good day, feels like a city that could outdrink you, outwalk you, and still hold the door open with impeccable manners. 

The weather, in a rare act of cooperation, was delightful. Sunshine. Blue skies. Not a horizontal raincloud in sight. I checked for signs of the apocalypse. Before the evening’s auditory assault, there was tourism to be done. 

The university, all gothic grandeur and academic gravitas, stood looking like it had opinions on Latin. I wandered about pretending I understood architecture.

Then the Necropolis. A Victorian cemetery perched grandly above the city. Monumental. Dramatic. The sort of place that makes you walk slower and consider your posture. 

Gravestones leaning at existential angles. Angels gazing mournfully over the Clyde. I half expected a raven to critique my footwear. 

A full Scottish breakfast followed. A plate so substantial it required strategic planning. Sausage, bacon, eggs, black pudding, tattie scones a carb symposium. I ate like a man preparing for battle. Or dancing. Or both.

The river Clyde shimmered obligingly as I stopped at a bar perched beside it. A civilised pint in civilised sunshine, watching the water drift by and thinking, traitorously, about chub. Then whisky. A proper whisky bar. Shelves lined with amber promises. 

I sampled responsibly, which is to say I nodded thoughtfully after each sip and said things like “complex” and “notes of…” without committing to specifics.

But the evening beckoned.

The Sub Club.

Dark. Proper dark. Not “dimly lit gastropub” dark. Not “romantic bistro” dark. This was subterranean, bass-laden, sensory recalibration dark. The sort of venue where the music doesn’t enter your ears so much as occupy your skeleton. The bass began as a suggestion and quickly became a constitutional amendment. You could feel it through your feet, up your spine, into your dental records. It was magnificent.

Deep, progressive beats rolled out, layered and hypnotic and Deep Dish. Familiar hooks surfaced like old friends at a reunion, only to dissolve into heavier, driving rhythms that nudged gleefully into techno territory. Arms went up. Heads nodded with solemn devotion. Somewhere in the gloom, I was dancing in a manner that would alarm my children.

Hours passed in a blur of rhythm and grins and that peculiar camaraderie that only exists in dark rooms where everyone agrees that this, this right here, is the moment. Earlier, I had sampled a tasting menu at Swadish, a restaurant with a Nordic lilt. Small plates. 

Intricate presentations. The sort of food that arrives with an explanation. I had initially feared starvation, but by course six I was questioning my elasticity. Small portions accumulate like interest.

By the end of the day, my watch informed me I had clocked 41,000 steps. Forty-one thousand. I had effectively walked to another county and back. No wonder I could still button my jeans .The following day maintained a curry theme. Mother India's Café promising authenticity delivered enthusiasm and salt in roughly equal measure. It pains me to report that it was underwhelming (Don't bother). The sort of meal that leaves you nostalgically thinking about last night’s whisky.

But Glasgow, as ever, surprised me. It has that knack. A city that wears its history with a shrug and its nightlife with pride. Grand buildings beside graffiti. Laughter spilling from doorways. 

People who’ll happily tell you where to go and then explain why it’s brilliant. And so, from blanking on a swollen river in Warwickshire to dancing beneath the earth in Scotland, the weekend arced beautifully.

No chub were harmed in the making of this story. My dignity, however, took several calculated risks.

Would I change anything?

Perhaps I’d have preferred one thumping great chub to bend the rod and justify my optimism. But then again, not every session yields a fish. 

Some yield perspective. Some yield whisky. Some yield 41,000 steps and calves like reinforced cable. And as I sat on the late flight home, pleasantly shattered, ears faintly ringing, legs mildly offended, I couldn’t help but smile.

Two hours on the river. Forty-eight hours in Glasgow. A blank. A bassline. A breakfast of heroic proportions.

All in all, a rather fine trade.