Back at the syndicate stretch again, embarking on that most noble of late-season quests: winkle out a half-respectable chub before the curtain comes down. I’d grand plans of sneaking into Piccadilly Circus for a cheeky afternoon-into-dusk session rod tips trembling with anticipation, the kettle working overtime, and me settling in like a man with absolutely nowhere else to be.
Alas, domestic life executed one of those last-minute pirouettes wives seem professionally trained in. Suddenly the dream of riverbank reverie evaporated and I was back on dad duties instead of watching the tip for that tell-tale knock.
To be fair, the Wife had endured what can only be described as a Vag Cam appointment 24 hours earlier (yes, exactly what it sounds like). Mercifully it hadn’t been too grim, and by Friday afternoon she’d decided she was perfectly fine to head off to yoga despite having a uterus reportedly filled with enough water to make even a grown man wince in sympathy.
So off she went, limbering up, while I stayed home performing my own form of advanced flexibility: bending my fishing plans around family logistics. Bugger.
The weather was doing its best impression of a wind swept and damp flannel and my knee was still staging a protest after that Glasgow jaunt. Over sixty thousand steps in two days what was I thinking? At my age that’s practically an ultramarathon.
The shin splints have migrated north and taken up residence on the inside of my right knee like an unwelcome squatter. Still, between ice packs and a liberal smear of Voltarol, I’m hobbling along well enough to pursue matters piscatorial.
Roving the swims was the plan, dodgy knee or not, because sometimes the chub don’t come to you, you have to go knocking on their door like an overly persistent Jehovah’s Witness with a landing net.
Daylight had produced nothing for him, mind you, and then the moment the light dipped… bang. Typical chub behaviour really: sulking all afternoon like teenagers and then suddenly deciding they’re ravenous once you can barely see your rod tip.
The river was rising, which I greeted with cautious optimism. A bit of extra colour can be a chub angler’s best mate like fishing behind frosted glass where the fish can’t quite see you fluffing the cast. Sadly, it wasn’t quite the rich, chocolatey broth I’d been hoping for. More of a piss weak tea job. Still, hope springs eternal when there’s cheespaste in the bag and time on the clock.
I ambled onto the stretch with all the confidence of a man who had absolutely no evidence to support it. George Burton and Dave Williams were already stationed along the bank like two thoughtful garden gnomes contemplating the mysteries of the universe or more accurately, why the river looked so perfect yet so completely unwilling to give up a fish.
After a brief riverside conference (which mostly consisted of scratching chins and saying “they’ve got to be here somewhere”), I decided to go on the rove, which in fishing terms means wandering about pretending you have a plan.
Off I went, creaking my way from swim to swim like an elderly heron that had done one yoga class too many in the 1980s and never quite recovered. The feeder plopped into crease lines, slid under suspicious looking bushes, and landed in those delightfully “chubby” swims where you just know a fish the size of a small sausage dog should be lurking with bad intentions. Each cast had that wonderful moment where the rod tip quivered ever so slightly and the imagination instantly leapt ahead to the weigh-in speech: “Well lads, I did say they were having it…”
Alas, the river had other plans. Swim after swim looked magnificent the sort of swims that appear in glossy magazines with captions like ‘Guaranteed Chub Holding Area’ yet contained absolutely nothing except water, mild disappointment, and the distant echo of my own optimism quietly deflating. I switched to bread at one point, which felt like a tactical masterstroke until several tiny fish arrived to nibble it like pensioners sampling free cheese at a supermarket. Encouraging, yes. Useful, no. Meanwhile, the chub whom I shall now refer to as “Me Chub” had clearly taken the day off.
Eventually curfew crept up the bank like a bailiff with a clipboard. I packed up and left George and Dave to it, wishing them luck in the sort of tone usually reserved for people about to assemble flat-pack furniture without the instructions. As it turned out, they fared exactly the same as me. Three anglers, a lovely river, decent rising river conditions… and not a single fish among us. A perfect blank. Still, tomorrow is another day the final day of the river season. Which of course means the chub will almost certainly decide to feed like piranhas five minutes after we’ve all packed up for the year. 🎣
0 comments:
Post a Comment