Westward Ho! - 'The Real Newey'

North Devon has always felt like my true spiritual home, with the only real snag being that I do not get down here anywhere near as often as my sanity requires. 

My identical twin brother Chris managed to escape the relentless concrete and grey skies of Coventry twelve whole years ago to set up camp in Westward Ho!, though he still has to drag himself up to the Birmingham office a couple of times a month to keep the lights on where he operates as a security cleared software IT engineer. 

The locals down here all know him as "Newey," but the second I step foot in town, I am rightfully crowned as "The Real Newey."

I throw myself headfirst into local life and embrace the coast to its absolute fullest whenever I visit, whereas Chris—bless his cotton socks is such a creature of habit he practically needs a GPS unit to step five yards off his daily routine.

The brilliant thing about the area outside of the chaotic summer holiday rush is that the locals actually get to know one another, and looking like Chris comes with distinct tactical advantages. We are made to feel right at home the moment we walk through the door, mainly because the family is recognized everywhere and treated like honorary locals.

Now, my brother occasionally dabbles in a spot of sea angling, but it usually takes my triumphant arrival to actually ignite a fire under his backside and get him near the water. Seeing me unpack the gear last week worked its usual magic, inspiring him to tag along for a few sessions and even part with his hard-earned cash for some shiny new tackle that hopefully will not end up gathering dust in his garage.

Since it was a standard working week for him, our joint appearances were mostly restricted to social catch-ups over a few pints rather than proper dawn raids on the beach, but I definitely put some solid irons in the fire for his angling future. For me, this trip was a desperately needed recharge because a proper, uninterrupted holiday has been a bloody long time coming.

I am fed up with the soul-destroying daily grind of work and watching my hard-earned tax money get enthusiastically wasted by clueless politicians and enjoyed by the shirkers, like all the alarm clock Brits. So fingers crossed my early retirement calculations pay off very soon, because the grand master plan is to pack up the circus and move down in his direction permanently.

For starters, the weather turned out to be absolute bliss compared to the usual British gamble, giving us a couple of scorching hot days balanced by a cracking sea breeze that cooled the cockles perfectly. Naturally, the summer 'Grockles' were out in full force clogging up the high street and driving at five miles an hour, but even they could not ruin the coastal magic.

We devoured some proper quality scran over the course of the week, including a massive bowl of fat, garlic-drenched mussels that did not stand a chance. We also decided to check out a brand-new tapas joint down the road in Northam called the Crowbar for the wife’s birthday, where "The Real Newey" proudly beat his brother to the punch despite Chris living practically next door. 

The absolute highlight of the meal was a slow-cooked pork dish prepared over a roaring open fire that delivered an incredible smoky depth, paired with some utterly sublime garlic gambas. It was top-tier, mouth-watering grub, well recommended to anyone wandering through Northam with a appetite and a appreciation for proper cooking.

Despite a forecast that promised some gloom and rain, the weather gods decided to smile on us and my early morning sessions, making the 7:00 AM stroll to the mark in shorts and a t-shirt an absolute delight. I stumbled upon an absolute gem of a fishing mark that is probably no big secret to the local greybeards, but to me, it felt like discovering hidden pirate treasure.

If you walk up the Westward Ho! long straight, take a sharp right, and march straight towards the point directly opposite the Appledore Lifeboat slipway, the coastline reveals its finest secret. Whatever the state of the tide, this spot can be fished with total confidence, offering the kind of setup that makes an angler's mouth water.

The incoming tide floods into this massive estuary area, creating a roaring, fast-water river on your left and a lush, almost completely static back-eddy on your right. As an angler, you spend years learning how to read the water, but here you did not need advanced watercraft—the crease between the fast and slow water practically screamed "there are hungry bass sitting right here."

Since the trusty old Volvo XC90 is sadly no more, I could not pack my massive beachcasting tripods and heavy rods, so I had to travel light with pure lure gear. I packed a tactical selection of surface poppers, sidewinder sandeels, and shallow-running hard plastics, comforting myself with the thought that I could always borrow Chris’s gear if things got desperate.

I have landed some cracking bass in this region before, and after my first morning session resulted in an early fish, I naively convinced myself I had the entire species completely figured out. But sea fishing has a funny, humbling way of slapping you across the face with its sheer lack of predictability just when you get cocky.

I spent one heavily overcast morning thrashing the water until my rotator cuff felt like it was about to detach, executing what felt like 199 completely fruitless, soul-crushing casts. Just as I was about to give up and head for a bacon sandwich, a massive shoal of tiny baitfish erupted in the middle of the estuary, followed by proper, dark-backed bass leaping clean out of the water like silver torpedoes.

Within ten minutes of the mayhem starting, a savage, arm-wrenching bite slammed through the braided line, bending my ultralight lure rod into a frantic horseshoe shape. The fish immediately stripped line off the reel and went on a series of powerful, tide-assisted runs that had my heart knocking against my ribs like a trapped bird.

After a brilliant, nail-biting scrap on light gear, the prize was finally mine as I safely slid a gorgeous, spikey bass onto the wet sand. 

It took a £20 lure personally recommended by the 'Fal Anglers' channel on YouTube—who are well worth a follow if you enjoy watching bloke-in-a-kayak angling poetry.

The fish was not quite big enough to justify the frying pan, but I am not one to just brain every fish I see over the head anyway unlike my father-in-law, who approaches trout fishing with the ruthless efficiency of a man legally obligated to hit his catch quota at all costs.

I snapped a quick photo, unhooked it carefully, and slipped it back into the swirling tide to grow into a real monster.

Chris’s mates' WhatsApp group instantly lit up like a Christmas tree when news broke that "The Real Newey" had managed to extract a hard-earned bass out of Westward Ho!. Later that evening, the victory parade congregated at the Fairway Buoy pub to sink a few well-earned cold ones and watch the sunset over the Atlantic horizon.

The place is owned by Rob Braddock, who is effectively Padstow's Rick Stein of Westward Ho!, except Rob actually plucks massive sums of his own hard-earned cash out of his pocket and pumps it directly back into the local community. He even recently bought a local car park that the greedy council was planning to slap pay-and-display meters on, making it completely free for everyone and securing his status as a local superhero.

Now, apart from the slightly eye-watering holidaymaker drink prices, the man is deeply respected by every local in town for keeping the soul of the village alive. Sure, paying a couple of extra quid for a pint stings a bit, but where else in England can you get a freezing cold lager with a world-class sunset right on the seafront edge?

Now, I did not actually manage to fish as many times as my inner obsessive wanted, but  Sam was well up for a dawn raid on Monday morning. Sadly, the sea was an absolute desert and we did not manage so much as a nibble between us for our efforts.

However, the father-and-son bonding time was worth every single minute, as getting out on that vast, empty expanse of sand opens him up in ways a living room sofa never could. Out there, away from screens and noise, we just walk for miles and have the most brilliant, completely random chats about life.

The trek to the mark and back clocked in at a staggering 15,000 steps, but when you are almost the only soul standing on a massive open beach, it feels like stepping into an entirely different universe. 

It works absolute wonders for the mental health, purging all the corporate stress and leaving you feeling completely reborn.

Naturally, as I sit here typing this back in reality, I am suffering from a massive, soul-crushing post-holiday comedown, which is only to be expected after a week like that. 

But looking back at the photos of those pristine coastlines makes the impending return to work just about bearable.

On another morning session, the wind was completely non-existent and the sea was as flat and glassy as a kitchen table. Standard fishing logic dictates that bass hate these conditions and will hide until the waves start crashing to disorientate the baitfish, but standard logic clearly does not apply in North Devon.

The crease in the water at this mark is so ridiculously feature-filled that the fish simply cannot resist hanging around in the deep eddies. I cast a sidewinder lure out into the seam, let it sink, and within thirty minutes, a hard-fighting bass absolutely hammered it on the drop.

We were immediately locked in another thrilling scrap on the light lure tackle, with the fish fighting like a heavyweight boxer all the way to the shoreline. It gave absolutely everything it had, stripping drag and thrashing in the shallow foam before I finally got my hands around its tail.

I was almost tempted to pull out the tape measure to see if it was a personal best, but holding it felt a bit hollow, and it was not quite the meal size I’d want to take home anyway. So, without any fuss, I slid it back into the cool water and watched it dart away into the blue to fight another day.

I fished on for another couple of glorious, peaceful hours without a single hit, but I could not have cared less if I tried. Standing on that shore under the morning sun was one of those rare, perfectly still moments in life that you lock away in your brain to treasure forever.

There were also quite a few massive fish leaping completely out of the water further out, with a few of them looking suspiciously like giant mullet—which led to a heated debate over whether mullet actually jump like bass, or if they were just mocking my lures. I switched to surface poppers to try and coax them into a explosive topwater strike, but time caught up with me and the mid-morning curfew meant I had to reel in.

That was the precise moment I made the spectacularly boneheaded decision to take a "shortcut" back across the Royal North Devon Golf Club. For those unfamiliar, it is located on the 650-acre common land of the Northam Burrows and holds the crown as the oldest golf course in England still playing over its original historic site.

What I foolishly failed to account for was the endless labyrinth of gorse bushes, hidden ditches, and protective fencing that stands between the fairways and freedom. I ended up doubling back on myself about four times in the blistering heat, turning a sensible 15,000-step stroll into a punishing 23,000-step survival march. 

Who on earth ever started the rumour that fishing is a lazy man's hobby clearly never walked nearly ten miles through a sand-dune golf course while dodging stray Titleist balls and carrying a backpack. But despite the blisters and the aching legs, it was another utterly fantastic North Devon holiday that reminded us why we love this place so much.

The kids had a absolute whale of a time messing about on the beach, while the wife and I spent most of the drive home debating when the big permanent move down south will actually happen. It is supposed to be another glorious, sunny week down there next week, and I must admit I am green with envy thinking about my brother living the dream while I sit at a desk.

It really does feel like a magical, untouched little corner of England from a bygone era, where life moves a bit slower and the fish hit hard. Until next time, North Devon—"The Real Newey" will be back very soon to reclaim his crown.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.52

You know how it goes. You can spend what feels like 5 or 6 weeks watching the garden slowly turn into the Gobi Desert, the rivers dropping an inch every day and every weather forecast promising "just one more day of sunshine." Then, the one time you actually have to walk somewhere, the heavens decide to recreate the Great Flood.

Yesterday was Chris's last day before taking early retirement at the tender age of fifty-seven. Some people retire because they've won the lottery, others because they've inherited a Caribbean island. Chris, meanwhile, has simply looked at another week of work and thought, "No... I think I've had enough of this circus."

To be fair to him, there was more behind the decision than simply escaping the daily grind. His father-in-law has dementia and in care and Chris wants to spend more time helping out, which is a far better use of his time than listening to another motivational speech from management about "embracing change." If ever there was a worthwhile reason to leave work, that's probably it.

Of course, there was also the small matter of spending years watching your tax money disappear into government-shaped black holes regardless of which colour tie happens to be in charge. After enough decades you begin to realise politicians come and go, but the ability to waste staggering sums of money is apparently written into the job description. Chris has simply decided he's had his fill.

Naturally, the occasion deserved a lunchtime pint. The pub is literally five minutes from work, which in normal weather is hardly an expedition worthy of Sir Ranulph Fiennes. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other plans.

As we stepped into the works car park the sky went from pleasant summer afternoon to biblical apocalypse in approximately six seconds. Rain hammered down so hard that fish were probably considering moving to higher ground. It wasn't rain so much as being pressure washed.

The scramble for umbrellas resembled a supermarket dash during a toilet roll shortage. People appeared from every direction clutching whatever vaguely waterproof object they could find. One umbrella looked like it had survived the Battle of the Somme and another appeared to have been borrowed from a toddler.

Despite our best efforts we were soaked before we'd even reached the gate. By the time we got to the pub we looked less like a group celebrating retirement and more like survivors of a lifeboat exercise. At least the pint tasted well earned.

Once home later that evening I noticed something rather unusual. The temperature had actually become pleasant instead of resembling the inside of a fan oven. That could only mean one thing.

Fishing.

The syndicate stretch of the Warwickshire Avon has been kind to me this season. It has also been about as predictable as a cat after six espressos. One evening it'll produce lovely chub and barbel, the next it'll look as though somebody forgot to tell the fish the river is open.

Low, clear rivers have their own timetable. During daylight the bigger fish tuck themselves away in every snag, undercut and shadow they can find, behaving like celebrities avoiding photographers. Then dusk arrives and suddenly they remember they're hungry.

I rolled into the field around half past seven feeling quietly optimistic. Not wildly optimistic, because that's asking for trouble, but optimistic enough to carry more bait than sandwiches. Experience has taught me that confidence usually lasts until the first cast.

The first job was visiting one swim where the stinging nettles had clearly enjoyed recent rainfall. They've grown to a size where I'm convinced they'll soon qualify for planning permission. 

Having negotiated the botanical assault course, I introduced a few handfuls of bait into several swims. It's always nice to imagine the fish gathering together discussing tonight's free buffet. Reality usually involves crayfish laughing themselves silly.

The river still carried a pleasing amount of flow despite being low. One particular pool had decent depth, so out came the lead to search for a nice clean patch. Nothing glamorous, just the sort of detective work anglers convince themselves is highly scientific.

About the fourth cast produced that glorious solid "donk" every angler loves. Roughly six feet deep, nice firm bottom and exactly the sort of place you'd expect a decent fish to patrol. Things were looking encouraging.

Then absolute chaos broke loose.

As I slowly retrieved the pale lead through the swim, a pike erupted from nowhere like an angry crocodile launched from a submarine. It wasn't interested in me, the rod or my fishing ability. It had apparently decided that my lead was tonight's evening meal.

In what can only be described as a spectacular lapse in judgement, the pike somehow managed to hook itself. I didn't strike. I didn't outwit it. I merely became an unwilling participant in what can only be called natural selection.

The fight was surprisingly lively considering it had attached itself in the pectoral fin. It charged about the swim throwing water everywhere while I stood there wondering how on earth I'd explain this one. Sometimes fishing makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Eventually the pike found itself safely in the net looking thoroughly unimpressed with life. It had clearly been feeding well because it was carrying far more weight than the average lean summer pike. Judging by its condition, this wasn't its first poor decision.

After sending it back to continue terrorising everything smaller than itself, I turned my attention towards the chub. Last time out they'd been happy enough taking bread off the surface. Naturally this meant they had now completely changed their minds.

Two promising swims produced absolutely nothing. Not even a curious swirl. It was like fishing in somebody's ornamental pond after they'd removed the fish.

What was impossible to ignore, however, was the incredible amount of small fish activity. Every inch of water seemed alive with tiny fish darting around in panic. Presumably they'd all received a memo informing them there was an overexcited pike somewhere nearby attempting to eat fishing leads.

With around forty-five minutes until dusk I settled into what I considered the banker swim. More bait went in, the rods were sorted and confidence made a brief comeback. Surely now something would happen.

It didn't.

Usually the fading light brings signs of life. Chub begin topping, odd swirls appear and eventually you reach for the isotope because watching a quivertip in the dark becomes an eyesight test. Last night the river resembled a painting.

Nothing moved.

Nothing twitched.

Nothing even looked remotely interested.

I sat there long enough to question every decision I'd made since leaving school. Had I chosen the wrong swim? The wrong bait? The wrong phase of the moon? Was the pike telling everyone to avoid the strange bloke with the rod?

Eventually I admitted defeat and tried a couple more swims on the drive back up the field. 

They were every bit as lively as the previous ones. If there had been any less activity I'd have started checking for a concrete riverbed.

The only creatures enjoying themselves were the bats.

Several decent-sized examples spent the evening performing aerobatics around my line with the precision of fighter pilots. 

One came so close I briefly wondered whether it fancied my hooklength as nesting material. Thankfully none of them connected.

The insect life was absolutely astonishing. Every flying creature in Warwickshire had apparently received an invitation to the riverside buffet. Clouds of them hovered over the water in numbers usually reserved for biblical plagues.

Then I remembered one of my latest bright idea.

I'd replaced the candles in the Jimny with those cheap Temu LED interior lights. Brilliant little things they are too. Bright enough to illuminate half the county.

Unfortunately they're also bright enough to attract every insect within a five-mile radius.

By the time I reached the car it looked less like a Suzuki Jimny and more like the grand opening of Warwickshire International Moth Services. Every gnat, midge, caddis, mayfly and unidentified flying annoyance had taken up residence around the LEDs.

Opening the door simply invited them all inside.

I reckon I drove home with enough insects to start my own nature reserve. Somewhere on the dashboard there was probably a dragonfly filling in a change-of-address form while several moths argued over parking spaces.

So, the evening produced one completely accidental pike, no chub, no barbel, enough bats to keep Gotham City safe and sufficient insect life to explain why spiders always look so well fed.

Would I change any of it?

Absolutely not.

Although next time the forecast says "dry with sunny spells," I'm taking a coat, three umbrellas... and I'm switching those blooming Temu lights off.

Anyway a bit of a plug for Gale Light's latest podcast, very interesting indeed.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.51

Sunday mornings and I have a bit of an understanding. The family don't really get going until lunchtime, so rather than pretending I was some sort of hardcore dawn raider, I decided to embrace the laziness and head for the syndicate stretch where I could park right behind my peg.

Why carry half a tackle shop across fields when you can practically fish from the boot of the car? Naturally, I still managed to bring everything apart from the kitchen sink, although looking back that probably wouldn't have looked out of place either.

The weather clearly hadn't read the forecast. We've had weeks of dry weather, yet somehow I found myself diving back into the car to dodge a couple of proper heavy showers. With a pint and a half of maggots to get through, I fancied a nice few hours trotting. The river, however, had other ideas.

Every run through produced the same result. Minnows, tiny dace and bleak had formed some sort of underwater feeding frenzy and were demolishing the maggots before anything worthwhile even had a sniff.

I tried fishing deeper thinking perhaps the better fish were holding near the bottom. Sadly, all I'd achieved was feeding exactly the same tiny fish at a slightly different depth. After about an hour I'd had enough. There's only so long you can convince yourself that catching fish the size of your little finger is exciting before admitting defeat.

So it was time for Plan B... bread and chub.

I've caught chub off the surface in this pool before, so I started introducing bits of bread. The tiny fish absolutely mullered every flake, but all that commotion often attracts bigger fish into the swim.

For a good half an hour absolutely nothing happened. Then, right over on the far side of the pool, I spotted that unmistakable bow wave that only a feeding chub seems capable of making. A lump of bread went straight onto the hook and landed close to where I'd seen the fish. It disappeared almost instantly, but I struck into absolutely nothing.

Thankfully I don't think the fish felt the hook. Another piece of bread went straight back out while I muttered a few choice words about my timing. The current started dragging the line out of position, but it didn't matter. About ten seconds later the bread vanished again and this time everything connected beautifully.

The rod hooped over and a proper summer chub thumped away with those lovely heavy head shakes. A few moments later a cracking fish slipped over the rim of the landing net, showing off those beautiful bronze summer colours. As often happens with chub, the swim immediately went quiet. Not a swirl, not a shadow and certainly not another chance.

I wandered downstream to another favourite swim armed with a fresh loaf and plenty of optimism. 

Several slices later I'd successfully fed every small fish in Warwickshire while the chub were clearly attending a meeting elsewhere. With nothing happening, I headed back to the original swim. I sat in the car for half an hour, watched the water, flicked the odd bit of bread in and simply enjoyed doing absolutely nothing.

Sure enough, another bow wave appeared. It was almost like watching a replay of the first fish.

Bread on. Cast out. Wait... slurp... fish on.

This one wasn't quite as big as the first, but it fought just as honestly and rounded off the morning perfectly. Two lovely surface-caught chub from a session that looked like it was heading for disaster.

Watching those chub suddenly appear reminded me of Luke Littler playing Gerwyn Price. 

Price can be firing in huge averages and looking in complete control, but Littler has this incredible habit of waiting for the right moment before clinically taking his chance with a 167 check out, just like those chub that appeared from nowhere after half an hour of patience. 

That was the end of the session. No huge haul and no personal best, just a couple of lovely fish and a thoroughly enjoyable few hours beside the river.

The maggots almost certainly ended up feeding several thousand minnows, bleak and dace. Somewhere on that stretch there's probably a tiny fish telling his mates about the best Sunday buffet he's ever attended. 

The older I get, the more I realise fishing isn't always about catching loads of fish. Sometimes it's simply about switching the world off for a few hours and concentrating on nothing more than where the next piece of bread should land.

It's amazing what fishing can do for the mind. Not mindfulness... just mind blank, and sometimes that's exactly what the doctor ordered.

Warwickshire Avon - Gingers Growlers and Gourmandizers

The rumours had been swirling around Westminster for weeks, but now it was official. Andy Burnham had somehow ended up as Prime Minister, and quids in Angela Rayner was installed alongside him and others in his cabinet, and before anyone had even found the tea bags in Number 10 they'd already discovered a fresh collection of ways to relieve the taxpayer of his hard-earned cash. 

As I stood beside the Warwickshire Avon, I couldn't help wondering whether the Chancellor had somehow managed to put VAT on optimism.

Being someone who tried to do the right thing over the years these days feels remarkably similar to fishing a snag-filled weir pool. Every time you think you've made a bit of progress, something unseen grabs hold and strips another few yards off the spool before you've even realised what's happened. You don't actually see where the money goes either, much like my favourite packets of pellets, they simply disappear and you're expected to smile politely while thanking everyone for the privilege.

Still, politics can do one !!. I'd arrived at one of my favourite weir pools on the Warwickshire Avon, a stretch that has the remarkable ability to make grown men forget mortgages, inflation and whichever minister has just announced another "necessary adjustment" to the nation's finances. Water thundered over the concrete lip, throwing oxygen into the pool below like someone had emptied a truckload of fizzy water into the river.

Everywhere else the Avon looked like someone had forgotten to refill it. The river was low and as clear as a freshly cleaned pint glass, hardly ideal conditions for pursuing a barbel that possess the paranoia levels of international spies. Thankfully, the turbulence below the weir transformed the swim into an oxygen-rich sanctuary where the fish could pretend August wasn't trying its hardest to boil them alive.

I've always had unfinished business here. The last visit still wakes me up occasionally, usually around three in the morning, when my subconscious enjoys replaying the exact moment disaster unfolded in glorious high definition.

I'd barely settled into the session when the rod absolutely hooped over. Not twitched. Not nodded. It tried to make a break for Stratford-Upon-Avon before I even got my hand on the cork handle. For a split second I genuinely believed the rod was about to launch itself into the river in search of a more competent owner.

I eventually managed to intercept it, mostly through panic rather than skill. The fish powered downstream with the confidence of a government minister explaining why your taxes definitely aren't going up while simultaneously introducing six brand-new ones.

Whatever was attached to the other end felt absolutely like a big barbel. It hugged the bottom, ignored side strain, ignored persuasion and generally behaved like it owned the river. Then, just as I'd convinced myself this was going to be the barbel that would dominate every future fishing conversation, the line suddenly sprang back towards me.

Gone.

The silence afterwards was deafening. Even the gulls looked disappointed. Somewhere down in that emerald-green pool swam a barbel that had almost stolen my rod before casually stealing a little piece of my soul instead.

Fortunately, the Avon occasionally throws you a sympathy card. 

A succession of decent chub arrived to cheer me up, each one putting up the sort of spirited scrap that reminds you why they remain one of Britain's most underrated fish. They weren't the monsters I'd hoped for, but they certainly stopped me feeling completely robbed. Then, just before packing up past curfew, redemption arrived wearing bronze scales.

 A lovely Warwickshire Avon barbel eventually found the net, and although it wasn't the mythical river monster from earlier, it somehow stitched together enough of the emotional damage to make the drive home bearable. That's fishing in a nutshell. It kicks you in the shins before offering you a biscuit.

Returning now, I couldn't help wondering whether the giant was still lurking beneath the frothing white water, probably several pounds heavier and infinitely wiser. Fish have an annoying habit of learning from our mistakes while anglers continue making exactly the same ones every single season.

The weir itself remained wonderfully theatrical. White water crashed relentlessly into the pool below, creating seams, eddies and mysterious dark holes where anything with whiskers could be hiding. If barbel designed luxury apartments, this would surely be the penthouse suite.

As I recast for what felt like the fiftieth time, my thoughts drifted back to Westminster. Andy Burnham was no doubt unveiling another bold vision for Britain which will be headlines and bluster. Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating how many bags of pellets, pints of maggots and tanks of petrol quietly vanished every time another percentage point disappeared from my payslip.

Those like me do occupy a fascinating position. Apparently we're wealthy enough to keep contributing ever larger chunks, but not wealthy enough to notice that the bank account resembles a neglected keepnet after a difficult match. Every announcement seems to conclude with the comforting phrase that "working people will be protected," moments before my wallet receives another enthusiastic uppercut.

Perhaps they should spend an evening barbel fishing instead. It teaches patience, humility, resilience and the uncomfortable reality that sometimes you can do absolutely everything right and still lose the biggest opportunity of the day. Admittedly, it also teaches colourful language, but Parliament already seems to have mastered that one.

Despite all the grumbling, there are moments beside a river that effortlessly reset your perspective. Kingfishers flash like electric darts across the surface. Swallows skim inches above the water. The constant roar of the weir drowns out rolling news channels, political debates and economists predicting precisely how much poorer everyone will feel by Christmas.

That's probably why I keep returning. Rivers don't care who's sitting in Downing Street, what tax band you're in they simply carry on flowing, rewarding persistence just often enough to keep us hopelessly addicted.

One day that barbel which nearly emptied my rod rest will make one mistake too many. Hopefully it'll happen before my next tax bill arrives, because I'd quite like to experience the feeling of actually winning something for a change. Until then I'll continue feeding the swim, feeding the Treasury and wondering which one is currently taking the biggest bites.

So anyway enough waffle, Mick get fishing !!!

Now some swims require a two-mile hike, three gates, a bramble assault worthy of Gladiators and a sat-nav. This one, however, is so convenient that passing dog walkers, cyclists and random members of the public can all enjoy the spectacle of me talking to fish that clearly aren't listening. Such is life at the weir pool.

The constant roar of the weir is one of those things that either drives you quietly insane or somehow becomes nature's own white noise machine. On this short evening session I found myself firmly in the latter camp, happy to let the sound drown out both the traffic and the little voice in my head reminding me I'd forgotten the flask.

Joining me were Nic and Tess from Avon Angling, who quickly discovered that watching someone fish can be surprisingly entertaining when there's a reasonable chance they'll accidentally launch a rod into orbit. They'd barely settled in before the action started, and thankfully it wasn't me falling over the boulders for once.

The chub had clearly missed the memo about being cautious. Robin Red hookbaits, sometimes with a delightfully antisocial paste wrap, were disappearing faster than my wages after payday, with six fish gracing the net between two pounds and comfortably over four.

Every cast was accompanied by a little PVA bag of 6mm Robin Red pellets, and almost every cast was rewarded with a bite. Not polite little plucks either... proper barbel-esque whacks that nearly resulted in me removing Nic's head with what can only be described as an enthusiastic strike. He survived, although I suspect he'll stand slightly further back next time.

As daylight packed its bags, Nic and Tess headed home, leaving me alone with the roar of the weir, a rapidly darkening sky and that dangerous thought every angler has: just one more cast. Fishing history has been written on worse decisions.

Then, around half an hour after dusk, it happened. The rod tip lunged forward, the clutch protested loudly and all subtlety disappeared as something on the other end decided it had absolutely no intention of meeting me. This wasn't a chub throwing its toys out of the pram; this was a fish with attitude.

There were no trademark head shakes, just heavy, determined lunges hugging the riverbed like it owned the place. After the third or fourth run, the fish finally accepted that perhaps this wasn't its evening either and slid into the landing net with all the grace of a nightclub bouncer finishing his shift.

Curfew was looming, so there was no time for a photoshoot worthy of Angling Times. The fish enjoyed a well-earned breather in the net while I packed away the tackle I'd somehow managed to spread across a swim barely bigger than my garden shed.

A quick trophy shot later and the barbel powered back into its watery lair without so much as a backwards glance. It wasn't a monster, it won't trouble the record books, but after an evening packed with hard-fighting chub, near-decapitations and a proper weir-pool scrap under fading light, it felt like exactly the sort of session that reminds you why we keep coming back.

Because let's be honest, Piscatorial Quagswagging has never really been about chasing records. It's about enjoying ridiculous evenings by the river, laughing at yourself, terrifying your fishing mates with over-enthusiastic strikes, and occasionally being rewarded with a cracking Warwickshire Avon barbel before sensible people are tucked up in bed.

Warwickshire Avon - Benevolence and Benification

Seventeen. How? Honestly, if you'd asked me yesterday I'd have sworn Ben was still an emerging teenager leaving socks in impossible places. Yet here we are. Seventeen years old. Time flies when you're repeatedly asking, "Whose plate is this then?"

Ben still in his own delightful little universe, orbiting somewhere between his reality and the next slice of pizza. But if there's one thing that can cut through the cosmic fog, it's the promise of molten cheese on dough.

So the family descended at the restauran . Every last one of the rabble. It looked less like a birthday meal and more like a UN summit for people who shout over each other. There was enough pizza to feed a Roman legion, or at least Sam after "just one more slice."

Now, I'm not exactly chairman of the Pizza Appreciation Society. Left to my own devices I'd probably be happier with a decent pie that once had feathers. But lashings of chilli and garlic oil transformed the whole affair into something rather agreeable. Amazing what happens when you aggressively season mediocrity.

Ben was happy, the pizzas vanished at an alarming rate, nobody came to blows over the last slice, and the washing-up fairy made an appearance this time, the wallet quite a bit lighter !!

All in all, a successful seventeenth. God only knows how he got there so quickly. Mind you, judging by the speed that pizza disappeared, I suspect he's been growing purely on mozzarella and pepperoni. There are certain moments in angling where common sense quietly packs its suitcase, waves politely from the gate and leaves you entirely to your own devices. This latest trip to the Warwickshire Avon was one of those occasions. 

After my recent success trotting a banded 6mm pellet—an approach that looked about as subtle as eating soup with a garden spade I found myself wondering whether lightning could strike twice or whether I'd simply been granted a temporary fishing licence by the gods of daft ideas.

You see, the smaller roach absolutely loved it. Every run through the swim was like the last helicopter out of Saigon, with silver fish piling over one another to grab yet another freebie before their mates could get there first. They had all the caution of Labrador puppies in a butcher's shop, which suited me just fine.

The bigger roach, however, are a completely different kettle of fish. They're not daft. They sit somewhere beneath a raft of streamer weed with their fins crossed, watching the youngsters charge around like teenagers at an all-you-can-eat buffet, muttering, "Go on then, Derek... you eat it first."

Those old warriors have seen absolutely everything. They've survived pike that look like crocodiles with anger management issues, perch built like nightclub bouncers, zander with eyes like they've been on a three-day stag do, along with otters, cormorants, goosanders and enough anglers to fill Wembley Stadium twice over. By the time a roach reaches two pounds it's probably got a pension plan and a list of things it no longer trusts, which includes suspicious pellets drifting naturally downstream.

Talking of suspicious pellets, blog reader Jon Pinfold and his lad have had some absolute clonkers while targeting barbel. It's always the way, isn't it? You spend half a season chasing a specimen roach and catch dace with delusions of grandeur, then somebody fishing two 12mm drilled pellets for a barbel suddenly rings you to say, "You won't believe what's just turned up!"

It's enough to make a grown man chew through his landing net. One minute they're waiting for a three-foot twitch from a barbel, the next the rod tip merely nods politely, almost apologetically, before a magnificent roach waddles off with the bait. The barbel rods suddenly become precision specimen roach gear, entirely by accident of course, which is generally how the best captures happen.

Now, being incapable of leaving well alone, I naturally convinced myself I'd cracked the code. Somewhere deep inside my brain lives a tiny engineer who constantly whispers, "You know what this needs? More components." Before long I was rummaging through boxes of terminal tackle like a pensioner searching for a receipt from 1987.

Out came a scaled-down ledger rig. Nothing outrageous, mind. Just a neat little inline lead, a short hooklength and a pair of delightfully squishy 8mm Robin Red pellets mounted on a quickstop, positioned at the tail of the swim like some undercover operative waiting patiently for the proper villains to arrive.

It was, in effect, a sleeper rod. Yes... I know. There, I've admitted it. Somewhere, several float purists have just dropped their centrepins into the river in disgust and are currently writing strongly worded letters using fountain pens.

Still, every scientist needs a control experiment. That's what I kept telling myself anyway. It sounded far more respectable than saying, "I've got another daft idea and fancy seeing if it works."

Meanwhile, the float rod received a complete makeover. The Avon was running as clear as bottled spring water, meaning every fish could probably count the freckles on my nose. So everything came down a size a slimmer float, a lighter olivette, finer fluorocarbon hooklength and enough delicacy to make a Swiss watchmaker nod approvingly.

Of course, tying fluorocarbon of that diameter in a stiff breeze is one of life's lesser discussed challenges. At one point I genuinely couldn't tell whether I'd tied a knot or accidentally knitted myself a tiny hammock. I spent five minutes talking encouragingly to the hooklength before finally convincing it to behave.

The swim itself looked absolutely perfect. The sort of place where you instinctively lower your voice despite nobody being within half a mile. Even the wagtails seemed to tiptoe around, as if aware that somewhere beneath the ranunculus lurked a roach capable of making grown anglers weak at the knees.

I began feeding steadily with the pellets. Not loads. Just enough to keep the conveyor belt ticking over without creating an underwater version of an all-inclusive holiday buffet. Before long the familiar procession started roach, dace, another roach, a chublet with more confidence than talent and one perch that looked permanently offended by everything.

The float travelled beautifully. Every run through looked exactly how angling books say it should, which immediately made me suspicious because fishing rarely follows the script. The smaller fish queued up with admirable enthusiasm, each one convinced it had discovered buried treasure.

Meanwhile the ledger rod remained motionless. Completely still. The tip was so lifeless that spiders began considering it suitable real estate. I found myself staring at it with the intensity of a man trying to boil a kettle through positive thinking alone.

Then came the tiniest movement imaginable. Not a pull. Not a wrench. More of a thoughtful nod, rather like somebody agreeing that yes, perhaps another biscuit wouldn't hurt. I picked the rod up almost absent-mindedly, expecting a nuisance chub.

Instead the rod hooped over beautifully.

For a glorious few seconds my imagination completely lost the plot. Perhaps it was the mythical Avon roach of three pounds. Perhaps I'd discovered the greatest specimen fish since Richard Walker frightened the nation with Clarissa. Perhaps the Angling Times photographer was already warming the camera up somewhere behind the hedge.

It was, naturally, a chub.

Not a monster. Not even a particularly impressive one. Just large enough to remind me that fish have a wonderful sense of humour and mine is apparently very expensive to maintain. It charged about the swim scattering every roach into neighbouring postcodes before eventually sliding into the net looking immensely pleased with itself.

As I released it, I couldn't help laughing. There I was trying to outwit elderly specimen roach with a cunning tactical masterplan and instead I'd managed to catch exactly what I wasn't really aiming for. Typical fishing, really.

The float fishing continued to produce fish but nothing big, all crimson fins and polished silver flanks that positively glowed in the morning sunshine. Magnificent creatures that remind you why the humble roach still deserves far more admiration than it often receives.

Did the adjustments work? I honestly didn't think they did. The lighter tackle certainly brought more confident bites in the crystal-clear water but oddly I got more bites last time, my suspicion was an angler might have filled it in overnight. I remain convinced that little ledger rig has plenty more chapters left to write. Whether it eventually tempts one of those old red-eyed ghosts lurking beneath the weed is another matter entirely.

Because that's the thing about specimen roach. They're like retired bank robbers. They don't make mistakes very often, they trust nobody and they always seem to know something you don't. Every blank session simply convinces you they're still there, quietly laughing into their gills while you invent another ingenious contraption.

Will I be back? Of course I will. Anglers possess the remarkable ability to mistake stubbornness for optimism, and nowhere is that more obvious than on the banks of the Warwickshire Avon. Besides, I've already got another ridiculous idea brewing, which almost certainly means the fish are one step ahead already.