Warwickshire Avon - Glow-Nopes and Glockenspiels

Yet another smash-and-grab after-work session, which these days seems to be my preferred method of angling. Why spend an entire day beside a river when you can spend and hour and a half an hour getting there through rush-hour traffic, arrive with approximately seventeen minutes of usable daylight, and then spend most of that time wondering whether there are actually any fish in the river? It’s all part of the experience. 

After navigating the worst of the traffic due to the drudgery of HS2, I eventually found myself safely on the banks of the Warwickshire Avon, greeted by the sight every angler loves to see an empty car park. Quite why an empty car park produces such a feeling of relief I don't know, but there’s something reassuring about knowing you haven't just driven across half the county to find someone already sitting in your swim.

I’d earmarked this particular swim on my last visit, but someone had beaten me to it, which was mildly inconvenient at the time and apparently worth remembering. This time, however, fortune was on my side and I had the place to myself. It’s a swim I’ve caught some cracking chub and barbel from over the years, and there’s a very good reason for that. It’s absolutely rammed with character. Upstream there’s fast, shallow, oxygenated water which opens out into a big sweeping bend, with plenty of cover both near and far and, over on the opposite side, a proper deep trough. Basically, if you were a barbel looking for somewhere to spend the evening, you’d have a job explaining why you weren't there.

As usual, there was no great rush to get the rod out. I balled some scalded pellet into the swim and allowed things to settle while I slowly got myself organised. This is generally the point where I like to convince myself that I’m being patient and methodical, when in reality I’m probably just faffing about. Still, the fish don't know that. The main problem with this swim is the sun. 

It gets absolutely blasted all afternoon, and the barbel seem to have better things to do while it's still light. Once the sun drops behind the trees and dusk starts creeping in, the whiskers tend to get considerably more interested. The chub, thankfully, are normally a little less fussy and are usually happy to provide some entertainment.

Except this time they clearly hadn't read the script.

For over an hour I didn't get so much as a chub pull. Nothing. Not a knock, pluck, tremor or suspicious twitch. The sort of inactivity that has you staring at your rod tip wondering whether it has actually been attached to the rod all along. Dusk was getting closer though and the light levels were dropping nicely, so I stuck with it. There was still time for something to happen, and besides, I'd already driven through rush hour traffic to get there. I wasn't about to let common sense interfere now.

Just before official dusk, with the skies still reasonably clear, I noticed something happening over on the far bank. Someone appeared to have a head torch on. Perhaps they were walking a dog, perhaps they were looking for something, or perhaps they were attempting to communicate with passing aircraft. 

The beam was being waved around in pretty much every conceivable direction, presumably on the principle that if you point a torch everywhere eventually one of those directions will be useful. It reminded me of those scenes in films where someone desperately needs a torch, only to discover that the batteries have been replaced with two particularly optimistic lemons.

Anyway, after spending far too much time wondering what the bloke on the opposite bank was doing, I looked back at my rod.

WHAM!

The rod hooped over and was river bound and suddenly I was attached to something with considerably more enthusiasm than anything I'd experienced during the previous hour and a bit. 

Now given the complete absence of chub activity, I knew almost immediately what I'd connected with. Barbel. And not one that had apparently read the section of the manual about politely swimming downstream into open water.

I was fishing reasonably close to some cover, so there wasn't much time for pleasantries. I gave it some proper stick and managed to keep it away from the snags, which was rather important because losing a barbel five seconds into the fight would have been a fairly predictable ending to the evening. 

Eventually it came right out in front of me, where it proceeded to demonstrate that barbel don't consider the fight finished merely because the angler has decided it would be convenient if it was.

A few more powerful runs followed, including one particularly committed effort just as I was about to get the net underneath it. Eventually, though, the barbel decided that enough was enough and found itself safely contained in the landing net. 

Result. A lovely fish and, more importantly, proof that there actually were fish in the swim after all. For a while I'd been beginning to suspect I'd been chucking pellets into a particularly well-presented stretch of water inhabited exclusively by aquatic ghosts.

I still had a little time before curfew, but rather than pushing my luck I rested the fish properly, took the obligatory trophy shot and then gave it another good rest while I packed everything away. It was then carefully returned, disappearing back into the Avon with considerably more enthusiasm than I had displayed when getting into the car after work.

Last season, during a flood, I'd had a nice double from here, but the barbel I've caught this season have generally been in the 6, 7, 8 lb bracket. I'm certainly not complaining. There are bigger fish around, without doubt, and I'll just have to keep looking for them. That's one of the joys of barbel fishing you can catch a perfectly respectable fish and immediately start wondering what else might be lurking somewhere slightly further downstream, slightly deeper, or in that bit of cover you can't quite reach without performing open-heart surgery on yourself with a pair of waders.

These quick-fire smash-and-grab sessions actually suit me down to the ground. A short drive after work, a couple of hours beside a river, hopefully a decent fish, and then home at a reasonable time for some proper family time. It ticks all the boxes. I get my fishing fix, the family gets to see me before bedtime, and nobody has to explain why Dad has spent fourteen hours sitting behind a motionless rod while claiming he was having a relaxing day.

So, another evening session, another Avon barbel, and another reminder that you don't necessarily need to spend all day beside the river to scratch the angling itch. Sometimes all you need is an empty car park, a good swim, a handful of pellets, a bit of patience and, apparently, a bloke on the opposite bank waving a head torch around like he's directing aircraft into Heathrow.