Warwickshire Avon - Carnage and Carboxyhemoglobinopathy

I arrived at the fabled 'Piccadilly Circus' with the gear still in the car and the rod and landing net on the roof for another after work session before curfew. Now I’ll be honest, it isn’t my favourite place to dangle a pellet, but when you’ve got limited time and a dangerous addiction to catching things with whiskers, convenience trumps romance every time. Besides, it would’ve been downright rude not to have a quick smash-and-grab session while the gear was already in the motor.

As I pulled into the car-park another vehicle rolled in behind me and out stepped the youngish match lad who’d popped down previously for a nosey. After the usual angling pleasantries —“Any luck yesterday?” and the traditional fisherman’s translation of the truth I admitted I’d had “only a couple of chub, but a nice one.” That’s angler-speak for “I’m still dining out on it three days later.” He asked where I was heading and I told him I fancied a peg a hundred yards upstream from where I was before, mainly because I like the idea of walking just far enough to look committed.

During this tactical discussion we noticed a van had driven straight into the field and parked right by the gate like it had been abandoned by someone who’d mistaken fishing for a drive-through service. Now parking on the field is only allowed on match days, and this definitely wasn’t one of those unless the match was called “Laziest Parking of the Year.” Naturally we assumed there was either a rogue poacher about or someone whose sat-nav simply gave up.

The match lad went ahead on a reconnaissance bailiff mission while I sorted my tackle out at the pace of a man who knows he’ll forget something important if he rushes. Once I’d lugged everything riverside and dumped it in the peg I’d chosen, I wandered over to join them. It turned out the mystery van belonged to a club member a friendly enough chap who had just casually dropped the bombshell that he’d caught a double-figure barbel from the exact swim I’d earmarked.

He even showed us the photo, which revealed the poor fish had clearly had a run-in with an otter because half its tail looked like it had been trimmed by a very angry hedge trimmer. The fish had been returned safely and the angler had decided he’d done enough from that spot and was now roaming about like a wandering monk of the riverbank.

Despite this revelation I stubbornly stuck to my guns. If someone has just pulled a double from a swim, common sense says you should probably fish there immediately before the barbel realise what’s happened and move house. The match lad stayed for a quick natter while I baited up and then headed back to his car, leaving me alone with the river, my rod, and a suspiciously optimistic feeling.

Ten minutes later the rod nearly launched itself into the county next door.

After a few teasing plucks on a chunky 15mm robin red pellet wrapped in paste, the rod tip slammed round so hard I briefly wondered if I’d hooked a passing submarine. 

The Korum bolt rig with a 2.5oz lead did its job perfectly the fish had basically hooked itself and was now extremely cross about it. Moments later I was playing a barbel from the exact swim the double had come from.

It fought like a caffeinated torpedo despite not being enormous. Smaller barbel seem to think they’re auditioning for the Olympics, whereas the big ones just sulk like grumpy old landlords. 

Still, after a cracking scrap I slipped it into the net, admired it briefly, took a quick trophy shot and slipped it back into the slightly green water where it swam off no doubt muttering about lawsuits.

Then the carnage began.

And when I say carnage, I mean the sort of fishing madness where you start to suspect someone upstream is tipping buckets of fish into the river when you’re not looking. 

I could barely keep a bait in the water because the chub had clearly held an emergency meeting and decided to launch a full-scale assault.

Five chub later I realised they were practically hooking themselves out of sheer enthusiasm. Each time I recast I pinged a few pellets into the shallow water after returning the netted fish downstream, which apparently acted like a dinner bell for every greedy chub within postcode range.

Every bite was ridiculous. With the bolt rig set properly and the 2.5oz lead doing the anchoring, the rod tip would twitch about three feet like it had been electrocuted. No delicate taps, no subtle indications — just full-blown “HELLO I AM A FISH AND I’VE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE” lunges.

The chub ranged from a couple of pounds up to well over four, all of them clearly determined to audition for the role of “Most Reckless Fish in the River.” It was one of those sessions where you start laughing out loud on your own because it’s so absurdly busy.

Sadly curfew arrived far too quickly, as it always does when the fish are behaving like lunatics. I packed up reluctantly, convinced that if I’d had another hour I might have needed a second landing net and possibly counselling.

On the walk back the other angler had already climbed into his van and was heading off, so I never found out if he’d added anything else to his tally. But honestly, after the chaos I’d just experienced, I half expected him to say he’d caught a carp, a salmon and a confused duck.

All in all it was one of those sessions you remember for ages the kind where you only nip out for a quick hour and end up witnessing absolute aquatic bedlam. Proof, if it were ever needed, that sometimes the humble smash-and-grab trip turns into something far dafter and far more entertaining than you ever planned. Anyway get on the Robin Red, it just works !!