The annual River Teme trip is creeping up on me at a rather uncomfortable pace and, if I’m honest, I’m nowhere near as organised as I should be. Every year I promise myself I’ll have everything sorted well in advance, neatly tied rigs, bait prepared, tackle checked and ready to go. And every year I find myself a few days before the trip rummaging through the garage like a man searching for buried treasure.
This year due to the lack of time I even went as far as buying maggots from Willy Worms, which is something I rarely bother with. To be fair they arrived well packaged and were a decent size, proper healthy looking specimens. The only problem was they needed riddling big time, which meant I had to dig out the maggot riddle for the first time in what must be at least fifteen years.
I’m fairly certain the last time I riddled maggots was sometime around 2010. The riddle itself was buried in the garage under a layer of dust and various bits of tackle that I don’t even remember owning. Once located, it felt less like fishing preparation and more like an archaeological dig. Still, after a bit of shaking and a small carpet of wriggling escapees, I eventually ended up with a respectable tub of clean maggots. Which, in my world, probably counts as being very well prepared indeed for a trip to the Teme.
Anyway there is a very particular type of fishing trip that exists somewhere between “carefully planned angling expedition” and “accidental loitering with fishing equipment.” This particular outing firmly belonged to the second category. The plan, if we can use such an ambitious word, was simple: finish work, drive to the river, chuck a bait in, and attempt to extract a fish before the curfew descended like an overenthusiastic nightclub bouncer who’s had three red bulls and a clipboard.
Now in a perfect world I’d arrive hours earlier, stroll along the riverbanks like some contemplative Victorian naturalist, and select my swim based on watercraft, fish movement, and subtle features in the flow. In reality I arrived like a man late for a dentist appointment, slammed the car door, grabbed the rucksack, and waddled down the path while trying to remember whether I’d actually packed any hooks. This is what I call “efficient angling.” Some might call it chaos. I prefer efficiency.The river itself still carries the faint air of a soap opera following the infamous oxygen crash incident a couple of years ago. Prior to that event the place was positively brimming with barbel (15 years ago), chub, and the sort of fish that made you walk back to the car grinning like you’d just discovered a forgotten tenner in an old coat pocket. Afterwards things became a bit… contemplative. Fish catches dropped, anglers scratched their heads, and the local tackle shop owner developed the haunted expression of a man watching his regulars buy fewer pellets.
To be fair, rivers are resilient things. Fish move about like aquatic commuters, stocking has occurred, and every now and then someone lands a fish that reminds you the river hasn’t completely packed up and moved to France. A few proper barbel have appeared during floods, some cracking chub have shown themselves, and every angler within fifty miles immediately starts muttering, “Ah yes… they’re coming back now,” while secretly hoping to be the next person holding one.
On this particular evening I had roughly sixty minutes to fish, which in modern life is actually quite luxurious. Sixty minutes without emails, traffic lights, or someone asking if you’ve “seen the latest update on the group chat.”
Just a rod, a river, and the faint hope that something with fins and questionable judgement might take an interest in a pellet wrapped in paste.
Travelling light was the order of the day. One rod, one net, a few pellets, and the vague confidence that if I forgot anything important I could simply pretend it was part of the strategy.
Anglers are very good at this. Forget the landing net? You’re now “practicing hand-landing techniques.” Forgot the scales? You’re “not fussed about weights these days.” Forgot the rod entirely? You’re birdwatching.
The rig itself was simplicity incarnate: a 2oz lead, a long hair rig, and a 15mm Robin Red pellet wrapped in matching paste like a delicious spicy dumpling for fish with refined culinary tastes.
Alongside it went a small PVA bag of freebies, which I like to imagine drifts down to the riverbed like a tiny underwater care package accompanied by a polite note reading, “Dear Fish, Please Consider Eating This.”
I flicked the rig out into the flow, settled down, and prepared myself for the traditional period of staring intensely at a rod tip while convincing myself that every tiny vibration is definitely a fish and not the river doing river things. The rod had barely stopped wobbling when the tip gave a little twitch.
Ten minutes.
Now bites that happen that quickly are rarely from large, wise, bearded fish with PhDs in avoiding anglers. More often they involve something small, enthusiastic, and possessing the decision-making skills of a Labrador confronted with a sandwich. Sure enough after a brief but energetic scuffle a small chub appeared in the margins looking like it had just completed the aquatic equivalent of a bar fight.
It wasn’t exactly going to make the headlines of the angling press, but it had performed the most sacred service a fish can offer an angler: preventing the dreaded blank. There is a special psychological relief that occurs when you avoid a blank. You instantly become a far better angler in your own mind. You stand taller. Your casting becomes smoother. You start nodding knowingly at the river as if you and it have some kind of professional arrangement. The chub was slipped back with thanks for its cooperation, the hookbait was refreshed, and another PVA bag was attached. Back out it went into the current like a tiny edible missile aimed at the dinner table of some unsuspecting river resident.
Then came the waiting, which is the bit of fishing where the mind begins to wander into increasingly strange territories. Some anglers use this time for quiet reflection. I use it to mentally reorganise tackle boxes that are not currently present and to wonder whether otters ever look at anglers and think, “Honestly lads, you’re making this far more complicated than it needs to be.” The only drawback to this particular swim is that it’s about as peaceful as a bus station during a rail strike. Rather than open countryside and birdsong you’re treated to the gentle ambience of suburban life: dogs barking, distant televisions, and the occasional mysterious clattering noise that nobody ever investigates.
On this evening the entertainment arrived in the form of a father and daughter performing yoga on the roof of a garden room upstream. Now I’m not against yoga. It seems like a perfectly healthy activity. But when you’re trying to concentrate on rod tip movements, watching someone attempt a rooftop downward dog introduces an unexpected level of distraction. At one point the father attempted what I can only describe as a manoeuvre involving one leg, two arms, and a level of balance that suggested he had perhaps watched half a tutorial video and decided that was sufficient training. I briefly wondered whether I might end up landing both a chub and a falling yogi before the evening was out.
Eventually dusk began doing its magical thing where the river turns slightly mysterious and every shadow feels like it might contain a fish with serious intentions. The rod tip gave a few delicate taps the classic chub plucks that make you lean forward like a suspicious pigeon.
Pluck.
Pluck, pluck
Pause.
This is the moment where anglers stare so hard at the rod tip that it becomes a battle of wills. Somewhere down there a fish is inspecting the bait like a detective examining evidence. Meanwhile above the water a man is whispering encouragement at a piece of carbon fibre.
“Go on… have it… you know you want it…”
Then the rod absolutely slammed over.
Not a polite bite. Not a suggestion. This was the aquatic equivalent of someone grabbing the bait and legging it down the street with your wallet in San Antonio. My setup includes the Korum Bolt and Run system in bolt mode, which basically means the fish hooks itself against the lead. When it works it produces bites that resemble a small explosion at the rod tip. The rod lunged forward repeatedly and I grabbed it with the enthusiasm of someone trying to stop their phone falling into a canal.
The fish immediately started that unmistakable nodding fight that screams “chub.” Not the long, dogged plod of a barbel, but that punchy, darting, slightly argumentative battle where the fish behaves like it’s deeply offended by the whole situation. With the current still pushing through nicely the fish used the flow to its advantage, zig-zagging around like a drunk shopping trolley before eventually rolling in the margins. When the net slipped under it I could see straight away it was a proper chunky specimen the sort of fish that looks like it spends its spare time doing resistance training with gravel.
Out came the scales, which is always a slightly ceremonial moment accompanied by the silent hope that the needle swings just a tiny bit further than expected.
4lb 4oz.
Not a monster by any means, but a cracking chub and one of those solid river fish that looks like it’s been eating well and avoiding gym memberships because the river current provides all the exercise it needs. A quick photo later and the fish was slipped back into the water where it disappeared with the calm dignity of something that had just briefly humiliated a human being. By this point the curfew had arrived and there was no point pushing my luck with another cast. The rod was packed away, the rucksack zipped up, and I made my way back to the car feeling quietly satisfied.
Not bad for what was essentially a fishing drive-by.
And sometimes that’s the beauty of these short little sessions. No grand expedition, no elaborate plan, just a quick visit to the river, a couple of bites, and a reminder that even on a busy weekday evening the river is still quietly doing its thing.
Also, somewhere upstream, a man was probably still attempting yoga on a roof.
Which, if nothing else, proves that rivers aren’t the only places where balance can occasionally be lost.
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