Warwickshire Avon - Chubberificity and Conspiratorialism

Now here are few things in angling more baffling than a shoal of chub in full feeding frenzy. One moment they are charging about like shoppers on the first day of a closing-down sale, hoovering up every crust of bread that lands on the water. The next, they have collectively decided that bread is a dangerous conspiracy and should be avoided at all costs.

I have often suspected that chub hold emergency committee meetings beneath overhanging willow trees. One fish takes a bite, disappears skyward in a shower of spray and panic, and suddenly the remaining members of the shoal gather to discuss health and safety concerns. The motion is carried unanimously. Bread is banned until further notice.

Their eyesight certainly does not help the angler's cause. Chub seem capable of spotting a fisherman blink from three counties away. They can detect the shadow of a cap, the movement of a sleeve, or the careless crunch of a boot on gravel. To approach a good chub swim often requires the stealth of a burglar and the dignity of a man crawling through nettles on all fours.

Then comes the famous "once bitten" problem. Most creatures, when presented with free food, simply eat it. Chub, however, appear to conduct a full risk assessment. If two of their friends vanish after eating floating bread, the remainder become deeply suspicious of anything white, buoyant, or remotely bread-shaped.

The frustrating thing is that they rarely leave. That would be far too convenient. Instead, under the polarised sunglasses they remain tucked beneath a snag, staring at every piece of bread drifting over their heads. You can see them. They can see you. The bread can see both of you. Yet nobody is willing to make the first move.

The situation is made worse by their remarkable ability to become full. An angler, in a moment of generosity, may scatter enough bread to feed a small village. The chub accept this offering with gratitude before promptly losing interest in every hookbait presented thereafter. It is rather like serving someone a three-course meal and then wondering why they decline dessert.

For this reason, the successful chub angler must become a nomad. Catch one or two fish and move on. When the swim goes quiet, resist the urge to stare accusingly at the water. The chub have not left the river. They are simply sitting under a branch somewhere, discussing recent events and waiting for you to make another mistake.

A freelined piece of bread often remains the most convincing presentation. No float. No lead. No complicated arrangement resembling a small maritime engineering project. Just bread drifting naturally downstream as though it has accidentally fallen from a careless picnicker's lunch basket.

Polarised sunglasses are another valuable aid. They allow the angler to peer through the surface glare and discover chub hiding in places that appear entirely unsuitable for fish. You will frequently find them tucked beneath roots, branches, shadows, and other locations apparently chosen specifically to frustrate anglers.

Most important of all is the art of remaining unseen. Chub do not appreciate dramatic entrances. They prefer fishermen to arrive quietly, stay low, and behave as though they are attempting to infiltrate enemy territory. The less attention you draw to yourself, the more likely the chub are to forget that humans were ever invented.

Of course, there comes a point when the battle is lost. The bread drifts untouched. The fish remain motionless. The committee has spoken. Once a shoal of chub has switched off, they do so with a level of determination normally associated with government paperwork and railway replacement bus services.

At this stage there is only one sensible course of action. Pack away the rod, accept defeat with good grace, and head for the local pub. A pint in comfortable surroundings is infinitely more rewarding than spending another hour trying to outwit a fish that has already outwitted you.

The chub can remain beneath their willow tree conducting investigations into suspicious floating objects and drafting new feeding regulations. Meanwhile, you can sit with a well-earned pint and reflect on the simple truth that chub are not merely fish. They are mischievous little riverbank philosophers whose favourite pastime is making anglers question their own intelligence.

Anyway back to it the opening day of the season found me unable to resist a cheeky return post work visit in pursuit of a few chub. It would have been rude not to, after all. Arriving at the official car park, I was surprised to find not another angler in sight. At first I wondered if everyone knew something I didn't. Then I looked at the river. Gin clear. The fish could probably see my smile.

With the place operating under a strict curfew, there wasn't much point waiting for darkness proper, so I set about creeping between three swims. The chub, obligingly, had not read the rule book and five found their way to the net in little more than an hour. As expected, once they spotted me stomping about like an escaped farmhand, they grew suspicious. Fortunately, a switch to sinking bread or the old trick of a floating crust a foot above the sinking hookbait restored relations.

Five chub mostly over 3 and a 4lber, a pleasant evening, and not a soul to witness either my success or the alarming state of my casting. A fine start to the season. Next stop is a new stretch where, with any luck, I'll be able to fish into dusk and give the chub a sporting chance of avoiding me.