Warwickshire Avon - Kiertravesties and Kakorrhaphiophobia

Fishing, I’ve decided, is essentially a long-running experiment in optimism versus common sense. Last Friday was a fine example of this delicate balance. The Warwickshire Avon had been rising steadily all week, carrying just enough pace and colour to get the imagination working overtime. In my head, hefty chub or barbel (potentially) were queuing up behind every crease, nudging each other out of the way to get at my hookbait.

I seized a late afternoon opportunity with all the enthusiasm of a man who had already pictured the trophy shot. The rods were in the boot, bait prepped, waterproofs reluctantly packed. I even made it to the club car park, which is normally the point of no return. 

Unfortunately, stepping out of the car revealed two degrees of icy reality and rain that felt personally vindictive. The river was charging through like it had somewhere urgent to be, and I quickly concluded that bravery is overrated. The pub, on the other hand with the Wife, was warm and serving decent ale.

By Saturday morning the rivers had risen to such an extent that Noah was probably pricing up timber. There was nowhere remotely fishable unless I fancied freelining from a tree branch. 

Typical then that the weather improved, just to rub it in. So I opted for a lie-in, followed by a family excursion to witness the legendary Flying Scotsman steaming through Henley-in-Arden. The kids had never seen it, and I took it upon myself to deliver a full historical briefing, complete with dramatic hand gestures and references to 100 mph heroics.

We positioned ourselves strategically, which is to say within comfortable range of the station pub. Three pints later, anticipation was high. A distant plume of steam appeared and the unmistakable rhythm of a steam locomotive grew louder. 

This was it British engineering glory in motion. And then it thundered past at speed… towing backwards 🙈. We barely had time to register its existence before it vanished down the line like an embarrassed celebrity avoiding eye contact. Sam looked up at me and asked, “Is that it?” I had no satisfactory answer.

Sunday dissolved into rain and mild regret. I toyed with the idea of attacking the canal for a zander, just to salvage some angling credibility, but the sofa mounted a persuasive counterattack involving wine, and films. 

It was relaxing, certainly, but there’s always that underlying guilt when you suspect the fish might be feeding while you’re horizontal. Anglers are cursed with this peculiar paranoia. The evening meant a good wine, good rum, a movie and a roaring fire, a time to chill in other ways.

No Sunday roast dinner this time (rare), as the night’s culinary virtue signalling began, as it so often does, with the noble intention of “eating well” and ended in a skillet of Pad kaphrao featuring pork belly so crisp it could’ve applied for planning permission, crowned with an egg fried to the structural integrity of a Victorian mill roof arteries aghast, tastebuds euphoric.

One tells oneself this is balance, especially with a forthcoming Glasgow sabbatical looming Sunday into Monday: a wholesome pilgrimage of food, drink, and the sort of enthusiastic excess that requires an elasticated waistband and plausible deniability.

There will be “just a couple” of pints, no doubt escalating into a symposium on fermentation via the Bon Accord and the Inn Deep, before tinnitus with Deep Dish at famous Sub Club reminds my knees that they are no longer undergraduate. Still, one must nourish the soul as well as the cholesterol count; life is short, the pork is crispy, and repentance like the dancefloor will be over far quicker than it began.

Anyway enough of that, this week, however, the Avon began dropping nicely. Not raging, not unfishable just that lovely steady fall that suggests things might be happening beneath the surface. I managed to carve out an hour and a half after work and headed for the Secret Swim, the one where bites are almost suspiciously reliable. Simple tactics were deployed: small lead, large piece of flake sprayed with garlic oil and underarm cast in to the coloured water, minimal fuss. It’s a swim that rewards confidence and punishes overthinking.

Last time out it had produced a 4lb 10oz chub that fought like it owned the postcode. Naturally, I wondered if something larger had moved in during the floods. The first cast settled perfectly into the slack and within minutes the rod tip gave that firm, purposeful nod that every chub angler recognises. No dithering, no tapping, then just a proper pull round that nearly took the rod in !!.

An unmissable bite !!!, that obviously I missed 😆

Still 10 minutes later I had a second chance !!, this time the strike met solid resistance. The fish bored downstream towards the snag with steady authority, not frantic but powerful, head thumping away as if mildly offended by the interruption. Then a broad bronze flank rolled in the current, a fish a fish !!

Not monstrous, not record-breaking, a 3lber or so. But a proper Avon chub, all muscle and disdain. In that instant, the sodden Friday, the flooded rivers, and the backwards steam locomotive were completely forgiven. Fishing has a habit of doing that  hours of inconvenience rewarded by a single, satisfying moment.

The forecast now hints at a positively tropical fourteen degrees. next week, however a cold morning may have nipped the fingers, but the promise of milder air has the barbel anglers twitching. It’s not quite shorts-and-T-shirt weather, but it’s enough to stir hope again. I’ll be watching the levels closely, pretending to exercise restraint.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that next time — just maybe — it’ll be bigger.