Well, if the Met Office are to be believed, Stratford-upon-Avon could be nudging 40 degrees this week. Forty! That's not weather for Warwickshire; that's weather for lizards, tourists with regrettable sunburn, and blokes who insist on wearing socks with sandals. I spent most of the morning wondering whether to fill the bird bath or simply climb into it myself.
The talk everywhere seems to be air-conditioning. A few years ago, buying an air-conditioning unit in Britain felt about as necessary as owning a snowplough in the Sahara. Now I'm finding myself browsing appliance websites with the same urgency normally reserved for bait orders and discounted fishing tackle. The nation's gone from discussing drizzle to comparing BTU ratings in the space of a fortnight.
As for the fishing, common sense may have to prevail. When the river feels more like the warm shallow seas of Ayia Napa than a flowing watercourse, it's hard to justify chasing barbel around. They fight like demons at the best of times, and in these conditions with lower oxygen levels you can't help but wonder who's really enjoying the experience. Probably not the fish. Probably not the angler either once he's melted into a puddle on the riverbank.
So, for now, the rods may remain in the garage after this session while I seek refuge in the shade, clutching a cold drink and keeping one eye on the thermometer. If this carries on much longer, Shakespeare's birthplace will need palm trees, and I'll need that air-conditioning unit after all.
Now ordinarily, I’m a man of absolute peace. Give me a lukewarm flask of tea, a pack of maggots that are crawling suspiciously faster than they should, and a quiet swim on the Warwickshire Avon, and I am content. But during a recent heatwave session on a sneaky stretch of the canal, I wasn’t just doing battle with the local zander. I was the primary target for a merciless, bloodthirsty squadron of Warwickshire mosquitoes.
I’m talking about the kind of airborne pests that laugh at insect repellent. After stopping counting at about 35 bites, I sat on my chair, scratching like a dog with fleas, and thought: there has to be a mechanical solution to this biological warfare. Enter an engineer mate of mine. Engineers don’t look at bugs the way normal people do. They don’t see an annoyance; they see a ballistics deficit.
“Mick,” he said, eyes gleaming with the manic energy of a man who spends his lunch breaks analysing stress-strain curves. “You need a laser guided Bug-A-Salt 3.0. It leverages compressed spring kinetics to atomise standard sodium chloride crystals. It’s pure mechanical genius.” Naturally, I was sceptical. As an angler, I’m used to precision mechanics the buttery click of a high-end centrepin reel, the perfect taper of a carbon Avon rod.
But watching an engineer examine this plastic fly-swatter alternative is a different sort of entertainment altogether.
When it turned up a few days later I was practically drooling over the tolerances of the pump-action mechanism and the fluid dynamics of the salt hopper.
“Look at the safety cross-bolt engagement,! Look at the elevation on the Patridge sight!”
Then a massive horsefly landed squarely on my bait box, eyeing up my red maggots like a hungry Brummie at a kebab van.
I racked the pump a satisfying clack-clack that felt like closing the breech on an expensive piece of kit sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.
Pfft!
No toxic spray. No chemical stink to ruin my hookbaits. Just a tiny puff of table salt and one very neutralised horsefly dropped onto the towpath without a single splatter.
Clean execution.
If I can’t bait-boat my way out of a mosquito frenzy, at least I can anti-air weapon my way through it. It leaves a pinch of salt on the grass, but frankly, if a few grains land in the water, I’ll just call it pre-baiting for the next incoming shoal. I might even try loading it with fine garlic salt next time give the canal roach a bit of seasoning before they even see the hook.
Tight lines, and keep your hopper dry.
Anyway over a week now into the river season and, as is traditional, I found myself undertaking what sounded far grander than it actually was: a reconnaissance mission. In reality this involved driving around Warwickshire in a Suzuki Jimny looking for somewhere nice to sit and occasionally throw bits of fish food into a river.
This new venue (to me) in question came recommended by a blog reader whom I've bumped into on a couple of occasions. Hi Baz !!
This is hardly surprising as we both seem to suffer from the same affliction: an overwhelming desire to avoid other anglers.
If there were a syndicate called "The Society for the Preservation of Peace, Quiet and Not Being Bothered" we'd probably both be committee members.
The stretch itself ticked all the important boxes. It was less than nine miles away, fifteen minutes from home and involved a route consisting mainly of country lanes narrow enough to make you question whether modern vehicles were a mistake and be thankful the Jimny is unconventional .
Most importantly, it offered that rare combination of solitude, wildlife and the realistic possibility of not hearing somebody else's bite alarm rendition of a submarine emergency.
What had really piqued my interest though was the untapped zander potential. The thought of improving my personal best had lodged itself firmly in my mind. This is dangerous because anglers are remarkably skilled at convincing themselves that fish they've never seen definitely exist and are probably enormous.
Google Maps only tells you so much, but what I could see looked promising. Better still, the entire 600-metre stretch was accessible by vehicle. The little Jimny would be in its natural habitat. Some people buy four-wheel drives to conquer mountain ranges. Mine spends most of its time transporting pellets, flasks and unrealistic expectations, but unlike many 4x4 users these days, it often does what it is designed to do.
Being able to park virtually on top of the swim is a massive advantage for short sessions. The older I get, the more I appreciate a fishing venue where the walk from car to river doesn't require expedition supplies, sherpas and a farewell letter to loved ones.
Eventually I settled on a swim that looked suitably fishy. I can't adequately define what "fish" means but experienced anglers will understand. It's a bit like house hunting. You walk in, look around and immediately decide whether you'd live there despite having absolutely no logical basis for the conclusion. Well, ok I confess I had a few swims to try from Baz.
Tactics were kept pleasingly simple. A concentrated patch of bait delivered via a PVA bag, some homemade paste making its appearance again and, on the hair, an ever-reliable Robin Red pellet. It had served me faithfully last season and I see no reason to abandon a successful partnership. Unlike several football managers, the pellet has never let me down.
To get things started I introduced a bait dropper full of hemp and small pellets before allowing the swim to rest. This sounds wonderfully tactical and scientific. In truth it mainly gave me an excuse to sit down, drink cold water and stare at the river whilst pretending important things were happening beneath the surface.
The jungle drums on the WBAS WhatsApp group had been beating loudly since the start of the season. Rumours suggested the barbel were preoccupied with spawning activities when the drawbridge came up on the 16th and therefore maybe less interested in my carefully prepared offerings. They may well have more pressing matters on their minds than helping me improve my catch reports, but to be honest with the water temp as it is, they can wait for a while.
It's difficult to compete with romance.
Still, I remained optimistic. If sure the barbel still could well be engaged in their annual bout of bukkake despite waiting over a week since they had been spotted on various rivers, that or chilling in the weirs because of the heat, perhaps a bream might wander past or a nice bream, Chub are wonderfully accommodating creatures. While barbel often behave like celebrities surrounded by security staff, chub are more akin to that bloke in the pub who'll happily stop for a chat with anyone.
Anyway as the evening settled and the shadows lengthened, I sat quietly beside a stretch of river I'd never fished before. Not that much traffic noise. No crowds. No distractions. Just birdsong, flowing water and the comforting knowledge that somewhere beneath the surface there might be a specimen fish, absolutely nothing whatsoever.
Which, when you think about it, is one of the many reasons fishing remains such a splendidly ridiculous pastime.
With the heat of the day finally ebbing away, it was surprising just how quickly the water temperature dropped. Over a couple of hours it shed more than two degrees, helped no doubt by the steady rain that accompanied the first part of the session. Despite looking promising, very little happened early on and the river remained stubbornly quiet.
Things livened up when the bats emerged. For the best part of half an hour they seemed intent on colliding with the line, rattling the rod tip often enough to keep me guessing. More than once the tip flicked round in a way that would have convinced anyone a fish was attached. Eventually dusk deepened and the bats moved elsewhere, leaving the river to settle once more.
Not long after came a proper whack on the rod. The tip sprang into life with a series of sharp knocks, though nothing really committed itself. A strike connected with something, but the culprit proved to be a tiny chublet whose ambition far outweighed its size. It was quickly swung to hand and admired before being returned.
Another fifteen minutes passed without further action, so that was that. Even so, the stretch looks full of promise, particularly for predators, and I'm keen to spend more time exploring it when conditions improve. For now, with the heatwave set to tighten its grip again, it's a case of sitting it out and looking ahead to a cooler weekend.
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