Mill Cottage Eardiston - Teme Time and Therapy

Mill Cottage on the banks of the River Teme has become less a fishing destination and more a decompression chamber. You arrive carrying the invisible rucksack of life deadlines, expectations, minor irritations about supermarket self-checkouts and by the time the kettle’s boiled you’re discussing river levels as if they are matters of national importance. The door shuts, and with it shuts the world of diary makers and “just circling back” emails. Out there it’s all terribly urgent. In here it’s simply, “Yorkshire Tea or something stronger?”

Now this time it wasn’t young Sam bounding about with November optimism and frostbitten fingers. No, this was old Simon’s shift. Sixty this year, which seems frankly outrageous given that in my mind we are both still roughly thirty-five and indestructible. 

Simon is what I describe as a high flyer. Not the budget airline type, but the corporate variety. His phone usually vibrates with the urgency of global consequence. I still don’t truly understand what he does. He’s explained it. I’ve nodded. There were graphs mentioned. Possibly stakeholders. All I know is it commands a large salary, larger expectations and even larger tax bills. At Mill Cottage, however, his greatest responsibility was not dropping the bait tub lid into the margins.

We’d roll up late Friday afternoon at Mill Cottage on the banks of the River Teme, unload the mountain of “essential” tackle (half of which never sees daylight) and have a proper go for a barbel into dark. No messing about, rods out, eyes on the tips, that hopeful last-light feeling where every knock could be the one. Once fully convinced we’d given it our best tactical effort, we’d pack down and head into Tenbury Wells for a curry and a pub purely for recovery purposes, obviously before retreating to the cottage to put the world to rights over a nightcap or two.

Saturday would begin with Simon producing a full English of such substance it required a sit-down afterwards. Then a full day on the river, no distractions, just us, the flow, and whatever the Teme fancied offering up. Saturday evening? No plan whatsoever. That was the beauty of it. We’d see where the mood took us more fishing, more food in the town, or just more solving of global issues from the comfort of a cottage sofa.

Simon would head off sometime Sunday as he had other engagements important ones, no doubt involving words I don’t understand and I’d stay on, fishing as long as it felt right. If it was fishing well, I might linger into dusk. If not, I’d pack up and head home to gently disturb the wife and pretend I hadn’t enjoyed every minute of the escape.

Loose plans, basically. And like all loose plans on a fishing weekend, entirely subject to change over the course of it.

The river was fining down nicely, which for anglers is the equivalent of a chef announcing the oven is at exactly the right temperature. When Sam and I fished it back in November it had more colour than I prefer and the air temperature could have preserved meat it was baltic. This time it was milder, almost civilised, and I dared to hope for a bit more clarity in the water. You don’t ask for miracles on the Teme. You ask for half a foot of visibility and a fighting chance.

There was, of course, an outside chance of a barbel. There is always an outside chance of a barbel. It is that outside chance which justifies packing like you’re relocating permanently. So along with the barbel rod went the usual trotting gear because if the river invites you to run a float through a glide, you accept politely and the lighter feeder rod with the maggot feeder, purely on the sensible basis that catching something is preferable to catching nothing. I have reached an age where I appreciate pragmatism.

The joy of these trips isn’t measured in bites per hour. It’s measured in conversation per kettle boil. Simon and I have known each other for many years now, the sort of years that slip by at an alarming rate. We’ve both been busy in our own ways, him flying high in whatever stratosphere he inhabits, me navigating my own currents. These weekends are scarce. That scarcity makes them valuable. There is something medicinal about standing side by side, watching a river move at its own pace, neither of you needing to be anywhere else.

We talked about work, of course. You can’t entirely empty the rucksack without unpacking it a bit. But the Teme has a way of shrinking problems to a manageable size. A missed opportunity sounds less dramatic when you’re retying a hooklength. A looming meeting loses its menace when a robin is inspecting your bait tray. 

Simon, who normally operates at a tempo somewhere between brisk and frantic and is probably up there with the biggest carbon footprint, visibly slowed. 

His shoulders dropped. His sentences shortened. He began to comment on the light on the water rather than the volatility of markets.

The cottage itself played its part. Good food, better drink, and that pleasant tiredness that only fresh air can manufacture. 

There is a particular satisfaction in eating heartily after a day outside, even if the fish have not exactly queued up to meet you. 

We laughed about November’s baltic conditions, about numb fingers and the complex tasting notes of a 15 year old malt, and agreed that this milder spell felt like a generous concession from the weather gods.

We approached the river with quiet optimism. The barbel rod stood there like a promise. The trotting rod offered rhythm and involvement. The maggot feeder sat ready as the dependable option. Nothing extravagant. Nothing forced. Just two old friends doing what they have done for many a year: watching, waiting, occasionally striking, often reflecting.

There is a peculiar magic in temporarily stepping into that “other world.” No traffic noise. No relentless ping of notifications. Just the steady push of current against gravel and the occasional plop that may or may not mean anything at all. Time stretches differently by a river. An hour can feel like five minutes, or five minutes like an hour, depending entirely on whether your tip has twitched.

And as always happens on such trips, the scoreboard becomes secondary. The true haul is measured in laughter, in the shared silence of a long glide, in the understanding that although life grows busier and birthdays gather pace, you can still carve out a pocket of stillness if you try.

So we fished. We talked. We unwound. We let the river do what rivers have always done while we remembered, briefly, how to do the same.

Well, how did we do ?

There are weekends on the river when everything goes to plan, and then there are weekends on the Teme when the fish appear to have held a committee meeting and unanimously agreed to ignore you. This particular outing fell firmly into the latter category. 

The river was so clear you could probably have read the date on a coin at the bottom, which is wonderful for scenic photography but about as useful for catching fish as a chocolate teapot. Still, armed with blind optimism, a feeder full of groundbait and a lobworm that had clearly not signed up for this adventure, I lobbed out and waited like a man expecting miracles.

After a fair while of staring at the tip and contemplating life’s big questions — such as why fish seem to develop PhDs in angling avoidance the moment you arrive  the rod finally nodded. Lo and behold, a barbel! One single, glorious, probably slightly confused barbel that had clearly taken a wrong turn at Worcester and ended up eating my worm. I’d love to say it was pure skill, but in truth I suspect luck, divine intervention, or possibly a momentary lapse in judgement by the fish.

Simon, meanwhile, endured what can only be described as a character-building session. He managed the odd grayling, which fought gamely enough, but at one point hooked something considerably more interesting which promptly made its escape in a manner best described as “emotionally damaging.” There was a brief moment of silence, followed by the universal angler phrase: “That was a decent one that was.”

I had a little wander into a very nice looking swim on the BAA section and had a dabble with the maggot feeder. The swim looked perfect. The sort of swim you stare at and think, “Yes… fish definitely live here.” Unfortunately the fish seemed to have moved house, gone on holiday, or simply decided they had other commitments. Not even dusk  normally the grand opening ceremony of the evening feeding frenzy bothered to produce so much as a twitch.

In hindsight the gin-clear water probably didn’t help. The fish could see absolutely everything. Hooks, line, feeders, and quite possibly the mild desperation in my facial expression. Still, I did employ a cunning tactic by baiting the swim and leaving it to rest for a while, which either encouraged the barbel or simply gave it enough time to forget what a hook looks like.

Despite the fishing being what scientists would classify as “a bit tricky,” the weekend itself was a roaring success. There was excellent food, even better grog, and plenty of the sort of laughter that usually begins with someone saying “Do you remember when…” before descending into total nonsense.

Perhaps most impressively of all, Simon didn’t mention work once all weekend, which is roughly as rare as catching three barbel before breakfast on the Teme in low clear water. There were tunes playing, stories flowing, and the general feeling that even when the fish aren’t cooperating, being beside a river with good company is still a pretty fine way to spend a couple of days.

So yes, one barbel, a handful of grayling, a bonus dace, and a story about the one that got away. Not exactly the stuff of record books but certainly the sort of weekend that reminds you why anglers keep coming back for more punishment.