Fishing, I have long suspected, is a sport designed specifically to test the structural integrity of a man’s optimism. It lures you in with pastoral promises and then batters you about the head with wind, rain, rising water and the occasional two-ounce gudgeon that hooks itself in the nostril and looks at you as if to say, “Really? This is what you came for?” And yet we persist. We watch river levels like Victorian astronomers scanning the heavens, convinced that this time this precise alignment of rainfall, temperature and domestic scheduling will produce something magnificent.
The week in question had been one of those dreary, damp sagas where every river within sensible driving distance had decided to impersonate a minor ocean. The Arrow and the Alne were not merely up; they were exploring neighbouring counties. The only sliver of hope lay with the dear old Warwickshire Avon, which was high, yes, but not yet in the sort of mood where it tries to repossess your landing net. It was creeping upward, slow and ominous, like a cat preparing to leap onto a shelf full of heirlooms.
Now, I am not a man prone to gossip, but when Nic of Avon Angling was messaging me 24 hours before and he'd “bagged up” to the tune of 30lb of chub, including a brace of fives and a four, trotting maggots one listens. One leans in. One abandons all previous life plans and begins reorganising the boot of the car with the urgency of a Formula One pit crew. “Get out there,” he said. “It’s great conditions.” Which, translated from Tackle-Shop Optimism into English, means: “You might catch something memorable, provided you don’t drown.” I tend to fish maggots now rather than bread for chub as it's less messy for starters but it just works when the conditions are right.
As luck would have it, I finished work at midday on Friday. This is the sort of blessing that should be commemorated in stained glass. However, fishing time was to be rationed like wartime sugar because my wife had yoga at 5:30pm, meaning I needed to be home by 5:15pm to assume control of the household orchestra, conducted entirely in the key of chaos. Thus the window of opportunity was narrow more arrow slit than bay window.
Undeterred, I selected a stretch known for barbel, reasoning that the double-figure temperatures might have stirred them from their winter sulk. It was a 45-minute drive, which in angling mathematics leaves approximately 23 minutes of actual fishing once you factor in faffing, tea-pouring and the ceremonial staring at the river as though it might offer guidance. The upstream gauges were rising at a pace best described as “ambitious,” but hope is a stubborn weed in the angler’s garden.
Upon arrival, the car park resembled a modest trade fair for waterproof clothing. Vans lined up like damp pilgrims. Two of my favoured pegs were already occupied by men who clearly shared my hydrological obsession. I performed the customary wander hands in pockets, nodding sagely at nothing in particular before trudging downstream to a wider, steadier stretch. Here, the river flowed with a lovely, even pace. Upstream looked like it was auditioning for a disaster documentary; down here it was positively civilised.
Trotting it was, and then a go for the barbel at the end.
I fed maggots for a good fifteen minutes, sprinkling them with the reverence of a man sowing the seeds of destiny. A size 20 Guru hook nominally a 20 but in reality something closer to a 16 unless you’re measuring with electron microscopes adorned with two bronze maggots. First trot: nothing. Second trot: the float dipped with purpose and I lifted into a solid, reassuring thump.
A chub of about a pound and a half.
Reader, after a run of blanks that had me contemplating selling my rods and investing in a set of golf clubs (imagine the horror me discussing handicaps rather than hooklinks), this felt like redemption. Next cast: another. Then another.
The float buried with cheerful regularity, and soon I was in that rare state of angling bliss where you stop thinking about river gauges, domestic curfews and existential dread. In the first hour I landed six or seven chub of similar stamp solid, silvery, obliging creatures with faces that suggest mild disapproval.
And then, just as I was congratulating myself on my tactical brilliance, the float vanished in a manner that suggested something far more serious than another pound-and-a-half specimen had taken an interest. I struck into what can only be described as a moving sandbag. No rattling head shakes, no frantic darting just immense, implacable weight hugging the bottom.
“Barbel,” I whispered to myself, because hope is incurable.
I coaxed it upstream, rod hooped, heart thundering. Inch by inch it came, resisting with the quiet authority of something that has paid its council tax for decades. And then, in the olive-green water beneath the rod tip, it surfaced.
Good grief.
It was a chub. But not the sort one casually swings in while discussing the weather. This was a chub that had clearly made excellent life choices. Long, broad-backed, pale flanks gleaming in the muted light. When it saw me it bolted, as if suddenly remembering an urgent appointment elsewhere. I managed to turn it somewhere between panic and prayer and gradually it conceded. Into the net it slid, vast and magnificent, like a bronzed log with opinions.
On the bank it looked even bigger. The sort of fish that makes you glance around to ensure witnesses are present. Surely this would be a new personal best? The scales were produced with trembling hands. 6lb 1oz.
It didn’t beat my all-tackle PB. But it did nudge past my float-caught best by a 6 ounces. The narrowest of margins it didn't beat my overall PB, but in angling terms that’s the difference between “quite pleased” and “insufferable for at least a fortnight.” I admired it in the rain because of course it had begun raining properly now, the heavens choosing this moment to re-enact the Great Flood before slipping it back to sulk beneath some tree roots.
With the maggots becoming increasingly enthusiastic about escape and the swim beginning to resemble a developing wetland, I switched to the barbel gear. By now the river was rising with alarming enthusiasm. The margin crept closer. The bank grew softer. Each step made a noise like a sponge contemplating its life choices.
I persisted.
A two-pound chub took the barbel bait with surprising gusto, followed by a bream that bit like a steam train and fought like a resigned cushion.
I fished right up to curfew, glancing at my watch with the anxiety of a man who knows yoga ends promptly and children expect dinner with alarming regularity.
No barbel came to the net.
And yet, as I packed away in the drizzle, boots squelching, net dripping, I felt absurdly content.
Because fishing is not, in truth, about the relentless pursuit of whiskered leviathans. It is about moments. The float sliding under. The sudden, immovable weight. The sight of a truly exceptional chub materialising from coloured water like a myth made flesh.
The Warwickshire Avon will likely be over its banks tomorrow, strutting about the floodplain like it owns the place. I will no doubt be poring over gauges again, convincing myself that floodwater barbel are not just possible but practically inevitable.
I will probably get soaked. I may blank. I may once again threaten to take up golf.
But somewhere beneath that rising water swims a 6lb 1oz chub that, for one glorious Friday afternoon, made all the damp socks, frantic dashes home and hydrological obsessing entirely worthwhile.
And that, dear readers, is quite enough to keep a man gloriously, hopelessly hooked.
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