The clocks going back is one of those annual events that looks perfectly innocent on the calendar but is, in reality, a coordinated attack on the mental health of the river angler. One minute you’re wandering around in glorious evening sunshine pretending you know what you’re doing, and the next you’re commuting to work in pitch black, returning home in pitch black and beginning to suspect that you’ve been sentenced to a life underground with the moles.
This is when the old SAD disorder kicks in, although I prefer to call it Seasonal Angling Deprivation because, frankly, I know what the cure is and it certainly isn't a mindfulness app. What I require is a river, a barbel, several hours of daylight and preferably some form of waterproof clothing that doesn't make me look like a man who's escaped from a recycling facility.
There is something thoroughly soul-destroying about leaving the house in darkness, spending the entire day in a building under artificial lighting and then driving home in darkness, wondering if the sun still exists or whether it has finally given up and emigrated to Spain.
You start to question the whole concept of employment when you realise you could have spent the same number of hours beside a river achieving absolutely nothing and at least had the decency to be outside.
Consequently, I have been hitting the Warwickshire Avon like a maniac, desperately trying to hoover up every remaining scrap of daylight before winter slams the door in my face and nails it shut.
I know what's coming because I've seen it before: swollen rivers, freezing temperatures, flooded meadows and rod rings that require the services of a small plumber before the line will pass through them.
The last two winters have hardly inspired confidence either, with the Avon seemingly unable to decide whether it wants to be a river, a reservoir or a minor tributary of the North Sea.
In a few weeks I’ll be reduced to looking out of the office window at a grey sky at four o’clock in the afternoon, wondering whether sticking a rod into the photocopier would constitute a fishing session.
So I’ve been getting out whenever I can, trying to squeeze in a few more proper barbel sessions before the annual great extinction of enjoyable midweek fishing. This particular outing saw me heading back to the poaching swim, which thankfully had received the blessing of the land frequenter from the opposite bank.
It is always reassuring to have permission, particularly when your alternative strategy involves pretending you have accidentally wandered onto private land while carrying two rods, a landing net, a bait bucket and enough pellets to feed a small herd of cattle. I was therefore particularly grateful for the green light and set off feeling like a legitimate member of society rather than a suspicious bloke trespassing with fishing tackle.
First stop was Nic's place at Avon Angling, where I collected the bait bucket I had abandoned at the parking spot on the previous visit. Nothing says professional angler quite like arriving at someone's house to retrieve equipment you've forgotten in a field, especially when your previous visit had ended with a blank.
Nic wished me tight lines as I headed off, which was kind of him. I needed all the assistance I could get because the previous trip had produced precisely nothing, unless you count fresh air, a slightly damp landing net and the gradual deterioration of my emotional stability, oh and suspected Pike that picked up the luncheon meat. This time, however, I had a plan.
An old-school Drennan method feeder was going to be the weapon of choice, loaded with scalded Severn Valley Ambush pellet and accompanied by a short hooklink with a banded Ambush cushion tucked tightly beside the hook. The thinking was to create a concentrated little parcel of temptation rather than the more traditional approach, because the water was clear and I wanted the fish to encounter something resembling a five-star takeaway rather than a motorway service station.
The Avon was up slightly, carrying more flow and looking absolutely bang on. You know those moments when a river looks so perfect that you immediately become convinced you're about to catch something enormous, despite absolutely no evidence whatsoever to support the theory?
This was one of those moments.
The feeder went in and almost immediately there were little signs of interest. Not exactly the sort of interest that makes you reach for the landing net, but enough to keep me staring at the rod tip with the intense concentration normally associated with bomb disposal.
Time slipped away and dusk began creeping across the valley. The light was disappearing at an alarming rate, and I was rapidly approaching that horrible period of an evening session where every minute of daylight becomes more valuable than a winning lottery ticket.
I was staring at the LED on the rod tip when I spotted a head torch approaching across the field. There are few things more exciting to an angler than seeing another human being approaching after dark, because you immediately assume they have either come to talk about your fishing, arrest you, or tell you that you've accidentally pitched up in their garden.
I'd already had to negotiate the cows on the way in, so I was hoping the approaching figure wasn't some sort of livestock-related vigilante.
It turned out to be a dog walker.
He stopped and, after looking at the glowing rod tip, announced, “Oh! An angler, did think what that light was.”
And then the rod went absolutely mental.
Not a polite little pull. Not a couple of nods followed by a contemplative pause. No, this thing went into full-scale meltdown, the rod arcing over as if somebody had attached a tow rope to it and driven a tractor into the river.
The timing was impeccable. There I was, standing in darkness having just been identified by a member of the public as an angler, and within approximately three seconds I was wrestling with a barbel while attempting to operate a head torch, rod, reel and my rapidly deteriorating nervous system.
I knew immediately what it was. The initial surge was pure barbel, heading straight for the cover with the sort of enthusiasm normally displayed by a teenager who has just been told there's a party at the other end of the village.
Thankfully the tackle held and I managed to turn it. For a brief moment I thought I had everything under control, which was obviously the cue for the fish to make another run.
It battled brilliantly, and just when I thought I was getting it anywhere near the net, it saw the landing net and apparently interpreted it as an invitation to begin the fight again. Two additional runs followed, accompanied by me making noises that probably sounded considerably more panicked than I would have liked in front of the dog walker.
Eventually the barbel slid over the net.
There are few better sights in fishing than a proper Avon barbel lying in the folds of a landing net, especially when five minutes earlier you'd been convinced you were going home with nothing more than a cold backside and an unhealthy hatred of British winter.
The dog walker wanted a good look at it and seemed genuinely amazed. I was equally amazed, although for entirely different reasons, chiefly that I'd managed to land the thing without falling in, breaking something or accidentally shining the head torch directly into my own eyes.
After a short chat and a decent rest for the fish, I took the trophy shot and slipped it back. The barbel swam away strongly, leaving me standing there with that ridiculous grin that makes non-anglers wonder whether we've all suffered some form of head injury.
There was still around twenty minutes left, so naturally I set everything up again.
Because apparently catching a barbel wasn't enough.
The feeder went back out into the darkness and I settled in for the final few minutes, feeling like a man who had just won a battle and was now hanging around the battlefield to see if anyone else fancied a go. The swim was now properly dark, although there was still a trace of light in the sky, which was just enough to convince me that packing up would be cowardice.
The next fish was a decent bream.
Naturally.
After all that excitement, the Avon had decided to send me a large, slimy envelope containing a bream as a thank-you note. It had obviously heard about the Ambush cushion and decided that if the barbel were going to get involved, it wasn't going to miss out on the buffet.
And that, as they say, was that.
Curfew arrived, darkness had completely swallowed the swim and common sense finally returned sufficiently for me to pack up. The cows were thankfully further up the field this time, meaning I could make my escape without having to negotiate a bovine security checkpoint while carrying several kilos of fishing tackle and looking suspiciously pleased with myself.
So there it was: one lovely 7–8lb Warwickshire Avon barbel from the poaching peg, a decent bream and another small victory against the rapidly approaching forces of winter. Quest completed, box ticked and sanity restored, at least temporarily. The poaching peg isn't very pleasant to fish as the cows use it to access the river for drinking and the banks are steep, so thankfully a barbel has been caught.
The drive home was pitch black, naturally, but it somehow didn't seem quite as depressing. I'd spent the evening beside a river, watched a barbel try to dismantle my tackle in front of a dog walker and successfully survived another encounter with the Warwickshire wildlife.
For a few precious hours, the winter blues had been beaten back.
The sun might have gone to bed at four o'clock, the cows might be plotting their next ambush and the river might soon resemble the Amazon after a biblical rainstorm, but for now I had a barbel in the memory bank.
And that, frankly, was enough to keep the lights on in my head for another week.
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