Westward Ho! - Storms and Smooth-Hounds

There are some fishing trips where everything falls beautifully into place. The weather behaves itself, the sea resembles a large ornamental pond and the fish queue up politely to inspect your bait. And then there are trips to Westward Ho! in October half-term, where Mother Nature appears to have taken a personal dislike to you and the sea looks like it's auditioning for a disaster movie.

This particular expedition was brought to us courtesy of Storm Austen, who clearly hadn't received the memo that we were coming down for a relaxing week by the coast. Still, having made the journey from Warwickshire on what turned out to be a surprisingly straightforward Saturday morning, we weren't about to let a bit of weather interfere with our plans.

Saturday seems to be the day to travel south, with the traffic considerably more civilised than during the usual weekday chaos. We left at 7.00am, made excellent progress and, after a brief roadside pit stop to drain the main vein, rolled into Westward Ho! at approximately 10.30am.

Not bad at all. Three and a half hours, a reasonably comfortable journey and only one necessary interruption to proceedings. There's something rather satisfying about arriving at your destination before lunchtime, particularly when the alternative is spending half the morning staring at the back of a white Transit van somewhere near Bristol.

Mind you, the first sight of the sea rather brought us back down to earth. Looking out towards the water opposite the Pier House, it was immediately apparent that the fishing might have to take a back seat for a while.

Jesus Christ, what an angry-looking sea! This wasn't a gentle Atlantic swell rolling in to welcome visitors; this was the North Atlantic looking like it had just received a parking ticket and was determined to take it out on everyone within several hundred yards.

White water everywhere, huge swells and a general impression that anything attempting to fish from the rocks would probably be returning home several miles further down the coast, assuming they returned at all. Still, we'd arrived, the accommodation was ready and there was absolutely no reason to get too excited about the fishing just yet.

We were staying in the same accommodation as our summer visit, largely because it's convenient, comfortable and offers some cracking views across the Bristol Channel. There is something rather special about sitting in the warmth while watching the weather do its worst outside, particularly when you aren't the one standing on a slippery rock with a rod in one hand and a rapidly diminishing sense of self-preservation in the other.

The views were spectacular, although the building itself has rather more pressing matters to attend to. Apparently, the entire Horizon View block is due to have scaffolding erected in January, with the initial scaffolding bill alone reportedly coming in at a staggering £650,000.

And that's before the dodgy cladding is removed and replaced, which is likely to send the overall bill into the sort of territory normally reserved for national infrastructure projects and people with considerably more money than common sense. For the owners, particularly those operating holiday lets, it's an absolute nightmare.

No rental income for the duration of the work, substantial additional costs and, to add a little extra seasoning to an already unpleasant financial dish, owners being asked to contribute towards the pot themselves. It's hardly the sort of business plan that gets the champagne flowing.

Imagine buying a holiday property, calculating your annual income, working out your bookings and looking forward to a nice little return, only to discover that your investment is about to become an expensive metal-framed sculpture for an extended period. 

You could hardly blame some owners for looking at the situation and wondering whether they'd accidentally purchased a building project rather than a holiday apartment.

We were fortunate enough to be in the property by midday, so there was no hanging about. Bags unpacked, a look at the views and the official start of a week of doing as little as humanly possible.

Which, as regular readers will appreciate, is something we have become rather good at. One of the great attractions of coming down here is the people, with my brother and his daughters, Chris and the wider Westward Ho! massive all part of what makes these visits so enjoyable.

There's something about arriving in North Devon that makes the outside world seem a very long way away. You could almost describe it as an enclave of its own, where we switch off big time, catch up with everyone, have a few drinks, exchange the usual insults and generally get on with enjoying ourselves.

A few drinks are consumed, naturally, although I'm not going to suggest that we're particularly enthusiastic about this sort of activity. That would be terribly unfair on the pubs and, more importantly, might damage our carefully cultivated reputations as sensible, responsible adults.

The sunsets were another highlight. On a couple of evenings the skies were absolutely spectacular, with those vibrant colours that make you stop whatever you're doing and simply stare.

Whether sitting in the Fairway Buoy, literally yards from the sea, or watching from the accommodation, there was no escaping them. When the sky puts on a performance like that, even the most hardened pub-goer has to pause between drinks and acknowledge that nature occasionally gets something right.

Although, judging by the sea conditions, she was clearly having a bit of a laugh at our expense elsewhere.

We also made another visit to the Crowbar in Northam, where they've really nailed the concept. It's great to see a new business getting things right, creating a place people actually want to visit and providing something that adds to the local community.

I genuinely hope they thrive. It's no secret that hospitality businesses are operating in challenging times, and anyone prepared to put their money, time and energy into opening a new venture deserves a fair crack at it.

The last thing we need is another empty premises with a faded To Let sign in the window. Of course, I have my own opinions about the wider economic situation, and government policy, taxation, fiscal drag and the ever-increasing cost of running a business are all subjects that can get me going, particularly after a couple of pints.

My view is fairly straightforward: if you want people spending money, you need to leave them with enough of it to actually spend. 

Taxing businesses and individuals to the hilt and then wondering why everyone is tightening their belts isn't exactly a masterclass in economic genius.

Hospitality needs customers, customers need disposable income and businesses need some encouragement rather than another financial obstacle course. 

But enough of that, I hadn't come to Devon to solve the economy, although judging by some of the decisions being made, perhaps I should have packed a calculator and a government policy document alongside the fishing tackle.

I had fish to catch. Or at least that was the general idea.

As already mentioned, the sea was looking rather lively on arrival, and the initial fishing opportunities were somewhat limited. Still, anglers are a stubborn breed, and the prospect of catching something occasionally overrides the perfectly sensible suggestion that perhaps today isn't the day to go anywhere near the water.

Sam and I ventured out with Chris to try the rocks, although conditions were still far from ideal. It was turbulent, the water was moving around considerably and the general feeling was that we were probably a little early in trying to get amongst the fish.

There is a fine line between being determined and being an absolute idiot. We were probably operating somewhere around that boundary.

The following morning Chris kindly picked us up at 7.00am, and we headed off to Greysands to fish approximately an hour before high tide. It was a much more promising proposition, although the fish weren't exactly throwing themselves at us.

We did manage to locate a few small schoolie bass, which seemed to have developed an unhealthy enthusiasm for anything that entered the water. Small they might have been, but they certainly weren't short of appetite.

Anything that came their way was getting nailed, and for a while there was a bit of activity to keep us interested. They were typical school bass, though, and whilst always welcome, they weren't exactly the sort of fish that would have you ringing the local newspaper to announce a major angling achievement.

Still, it was fishing, and after looking at the sea on arrival, we weren't going to complain.

The final opportunity came when Sam and I decided to return to the original rock mark. This time we positioned ourselves approximately 100 yards away, where the water looked a little calmer and, perhaps more importantly, there seemed to be a reasonable opportunity to fish without having to negotiate the sort of conditions normally encountered during a naval training exercise.

We were using crab and squid bombs, and followed the tide down for around an hour and a half. Nothing particularly exciting was happening, and I was beginning to wonder whether the fish had all decided to relocate somewhere considerably more hospitable.

Then, completely out of the blue, something happened.

There was suddenly some interest on the crab and squid offering, and it wasn't the usual little tap that leaves you wondering whether you've got a fish, a crab or a particularly enthusiastic piece of weed attached to the hook. The rod pulled over and, before I had much opportunity to contemplate what was happening, I was into a solid fish.

Now, anyone who has fished this sort of ground will understand why heavy tackle is necessary. This isn't delicate fishing where you spend ten minutes admiring the bend in a light rod and discussing the fish's possible intentions.

It's more a case of lift, haul and hang on. The ground can be unforgiving, the water moves considerably and there is very little room for making mistakes.

But this time there was a decent weight on the end, accompanied by some proper heavy pulls. This was no occasional cluster of seaweed requiring a recast, although I've been fooled by that particular performance often enough to know better than to get too carried away.

Something substantial was attached, and it was giving a good account of itself.

I've fished around this area quite a few times and had been keen to add a smoothhound to the species list. It was one of those fish I'd wanted to catch from this particular coastline, and the persistence was finally about to pay off.

There is always that moment when you're fishing a rough mark and you know you've got something decent, but you haven't yet seen exactly what you're dealing with. Your imagination starts working overtime, your concentration goes through the roof and suddenly every decision seems to have the importance of a military operation.

Then the fish appeared from the depths. A smoothhound!

And not just any smoothhound, but a rather lovely starry smoothhound. Absolutely fantastic.

I had my heart in my mouth, but fortunately I'd chosen the swim with a little thought behind it. I'd identified a vantage point that offered a realistic opportunity to land a decent fish, rather than simply hooking one and then discovering that the only available landing area was a vertical rock face surrounded by several million gallons of angry seawater.

It was all about timing. The next wave would lift the water level sufficiently to allow me to slide the fish towards safety, and that was exactly what I needed.

A little patience, a bit of careful handling and, thankfully, no spectacular swimming demonstration required. Before long, the fish was safely in my hands.

Mission complete!

A beautiful starry smoothhound and another species ticked off the list. You can spend an awful lot of time fishing, trying different marks and experimenting with different baits, but there's nothing quite like finally catching a species you've been after for some time.

And especially when it comes from a mark that has been giving you absolutely nothing but grief. I was delighted.

The fish was returned safely, and I stood there with the sort of grin normally associated with someone who has just discovered they've won the lottery, although unfortunately without the accompanying bank balance. A cracking fish, a great moment and well worth the effort.As if that wasn't enough excitement, the angler positioned further down from me was suddenly into a fish himself. It looked to be a decent huss, which added a little more interest to proceedings.

Then I had another bite after recasting. This time it turned out to be a dogfish, although it provided a slightly unusual landing performance.

At one point it came up on top of a rock before promptly falling off again, apparently having decided that being landed was rather too much commitment. I'm assuming it had simply been clasping onto the bait rather than being properly hooked, although I'm not entirely sure what its long-term strategy was. Perhaps it had spotted the smoothhound being returned and decided it didn't fancy the interview process. Either way, things were certainly becoming lively.

For a brief period it was almost as though the fish had received a group message informing them that there was free food available and everyone should attend immediately. Smooth-hound, possible huss, dogfish and a general sense that something was finally happening.

Of course, it couldn't last. The mark was gradually becoming unfishable as the tide dropped, and the more the water receded, the more apparent it became just how much ground we had actually been fishing over. This is one of the fascinating aspects of fishing from rocks. When you first arrive, you're looking at a mass of water and trying to imagine what lies beneath it.

You might see a few gullies, some rocks and the odd patch of white water, but you don't really appreciate the scale of the underwater landscape until the tide starts to disappear. And disappear it certainly did. With the full moon these were spring tides, with an incredible 9.5 metres of water at high tide and less than a metre at low. The sheer volume of water shifting in and out is genuinely astonishing to watch.

You can stand there and appreciate the power of the wider Atlantic, but when you start seeing the underwater ground that was previously hidden beneath several metres of water, it really brings home what you're dealing with. It's quite incredible. It's also a bit of a nuisance when you're trying to fish. One minute you're casting into what looks like a perfectly reasonable expanse of water, and the next you're wondering whether you should be putting your fishing tackle away and opening a geological survey business.

The mark was becoming increasingly difficult to fish, so eventually it was time to call it a day. But what a result.

After returning the smooth-hound and packing away the gear, there was only one sensible thing left to do. Celebrate.

And what better way than with a pint alongside my brother and his mates? After all, we'd endured the weather, battled the conditions and finally managed to get amongst a decent fish, so it would have been positively irresponsible not to mark the occasion. The conversation was flowing, the usual banter was in full swing and, as is often the case down here, there was no shortage of characters to keep things entertaining. One particular individual deserves a mention.

The one and only Rob Braddick who yet again thought I was Chris before correcting him !!

For those unfamiliar with Rob, he's a prominent local businessman, employing somewhere in the region of 170 people in the area, as well as being a prankster, publican, family man and owner of Westward Ho!'s rather famous haunted house and the car-park and bought and made free.

He's also the owner of the pub we happened to be in, which meant there was always a reasonable chance that proceedings could become slightly unpredictable. Rob is one of those characters who doesn't need much encouragement to get involved in a bit of mischief and made headline news in the USA when he put some toilet rolls in the arcade grabber machines during the COVID hauding madness. 

There's always a story, a joke or some form of entertainment lurking around the corner, and this occasion was no exception. Between the banter, the stories and the general nonsense, it was another thoroughly enjoyable evening.

You could spend a fortune trying to organise entertainment of this nature, but sometimes all you need is a local pub, a few familiar faces and someone like Rob wandering about with a mischievous look on his face. Far more effective than most television programmes, and considerably better value.

So there we have it. A week that started with Storm Austen throwing everything at the coastline, a sea that looked positively homicidal, a few fishing sessions that required more optimism than ability and, ultimately, a lovely starry smoothhound to make the whole expedition worthwhile.

 We caught up with family, spent time with friends, enjoyed some cracking sunsets, ate some good scran, supported a local business and managed to squeeze in a fair amount of fishing whenever the Atlantic allowed us to do so without requiring a lifeboat.

The fishing wasn't easy, but then it rarely is when you're fishing unfamiliar ground and dealing with enormous spring tides. The schoolie bass at Greysands were welcome, the final session produced some proper excitement and that smoothhound was the icing on the cake.

It's also another reminder that sometimes you just have to keep putting the hours in. You can read the conditions, choose your marks, select your bait and prepare your tackle, but ultimately the fish decide whether they're going to play ball.

And on this occasion, one finally did.

The starry smoothhound was safely returned, the species list gained another tick and I had that very satisfying feeling of having achieved something I'd been wanting to do for a while.

As for Westward Ho!, well, what can I say? We absolutely love the place.

There's something about the whole area that gets under your skin. The coastline, the people, the pubs, the views, the sunsets and the general atmosphere make it somewhere we keep returning to, and I suspect that won't be changing any time soon. Even when the weather is doing its best to discourage us. Even when the accommodation is facing a scaffolding bill that would make a property developer faint. Even when the spring tides are shifting enough water to make the Hoover Dam look like a garden pond. And even when the fishing is so challenging that you begin to wonder whether the fish have all been relocated to another county.

We'll be back, and yes the kids still love bodyboarding despite the chill !! There'll be more fishing, more laughs, more pints, more banter and no doubt another collection of stories that probably sound slightly exaggerated when recounted to people who weren't there. But that's Westward Ho! for you. A cracking place, cracking people and another fantastic escape from the everyday grind.

And if you happen to be reading this from somewhere warm and comfortable, just spare a thought for those of us who occasionally stand on a rock heading towards winter, holding a rather broom like carbon fishing rod while several tonnes of Atlantic Ocean attempt to rearrange our afternoon.

Still, I got my smoothhound. And frankly, that's all that matters!

Until the next one, tight lines!

The River Leam - Gravers and Graphochromotherapy

Now it’s typical, isn’t it? The weather holds itself together in a fragile truce of lukewarm, semi-acceptable mediocrity for weeks, but the exact second the bags are packed for a half-term escape to Devon, Mother Nature summons Storm Austen to blow the roof off the tent and hurl coastal spray directly into your morning brew. 

Still, if anyone can find misplaced optimism in a tempest, it’s my twin brother Chris. 

He rang me while I was up in Glasgow to detail his latest marine skirmish a gruelling twenty-minute battle with the undisputed leviathan of the deep from the Ho! rock mark. 

There he was, bent double under the strain of what was undoubtedly a specimen bass, hound or bull huss, only for the unseen monster to spit the hook right beneath his rod tip, aided and abetted by a floating continent of drifted weed. 

Heartbreaking stuff, though deep down we both know the big bass always fancy a feed when the sea looks like a washing machine on full spin. Speaking of Glasgow, my brief escape north 'AGAIN' was precisely the tonic required before confronting the impending autumnal squalls. 

The promoters at Emerge put on an absolute masterclass at their brilliant new venue, unleashing legends in the progressive house scene Nick Warren and Hernán Cattáneo for a six-hour back-to-back marathon set that was trying to rattle my fillings out and wobble my belly. 

Despite its bad rap, Glasgow has a wonderful way of keeping a ‘graver’ like me, and plenty of others like me, sane. Much of that comes down to its formidable line-up of culinary warmers, both grub and guzzle. Why Glasgow gets so many gigs is anyone’s guess, but let’s just say Glaswegians don’t give a sh*t — much as they didn’t back in the ’90s.

The undisputed standout was a twelve-hour slow-cooked ox cheek at The Iron Duke a dish so rich, dark, and utterly glorious that it positively thawed my soul after waking early to to a nippy Scottish frost. A  cracking Sunday Roast at Rye and Porter that included some added bone marrow which I thought was a nice touch. Oh and the Madeira cask from Clydeside Distillery, a really lovely dram, my favourite from the weekend I think. 

Three days of bright autumn sunshine couldn't hide the sharp drop in temperature, but over six hours of progressive house and a hearty plate of slow-braised ox will cure almost any chill known to man and give gout to those that suffer with it. 

Back home, reality reared its ugly head, forcing me into a rare act of reckless self-indulgence: a payless afternoon off on the syndicate stretch of the River Leam. 

With heavy rain slated to tip down by evening and following on the following day a deluge the parched riverbanks desperately needed, I knew it was my absolute last shot at a quick angling fix before heading southwest into Storm Austen’s warm embrace, and whilst work is quite, why not. 

Armed with misplaced confidence and a tub of fresh bait, I'd give the river a proper bash before sneaking off to meet old Phippo for a strategic curry and a debrief on life's mysteries. 

If Devon proves to be a wash-out of gale-force winds, tangled rigs, and soggy pasties, at least I’d have laid the groundwork with a hit of river time, a belly full of spiced logic, and the comforting thought that somewhere out in the churning froth, a giant bass is waiting for the storm to ring the dinner bell.

Anyway better get fishing hadn't I !! now where are those worms !!

Now as I was off for a curry later I couldn't fish in to dusk so not ideal because I've had some nice roach (pictured below) and chub for that matter here however, we have had some rain of late and hoping a tinge of colour, or heck, even maybe some flow wouldn't be nice wouldn't it. 

The plan was my standard light link ledger set-up with a small cage feeder with some groundbait for some smell. It's surprising how deep some of the swims are here I'm sure a bit of Gros Gardons would help the fish wondering what had just entered their domain. Anyway enough of the waffle, how did the session go? Well, as is often the case when one approaches the bank armed with self-assurance and French-named groundbait, the river had other ideas. 

The River Leam looked superb on arrival wearing that alluring, pea-soup tinge that usually screams "big roach feeding spell." I picked a nice, slack eddy beneath an overhanging willow, dropped the chair in a patch of stinging nettles with my usual lack of grace, and gently swung out the light feeder rig.

The first cast was met with that breathless anticipation every angler knows, where you stare at the quivertip so intensely your retinas burn. Ten minutes passed. 

Then twenty. The river gently slid by, carrying with it a solitary plastic bottle, three wet sheep-drawn thoughts, and absolutely zero indications of life. 

It turns out that whatever had entered their domain via the scent of sweet, spicy, and aromatic Gros Gardons had not inspired curiosity, but rather a sharp, collective exit by every scales-bearing resident in the parish.

I re-baited with a plump, juicy half a lob worm, tucked my chin into my collar against a sneaking draught, and tried a subtle tweak in length. 

A gentle pluck followed! My heart leaped into my gullet, hand poised over the rod butt like a wild-west gunslinger. I struck with the crisp precision of a man who knows his craft, only to pull up three yards of waterlogged flannel and a dead twig. The river 1, Mick 0.

Now are days when a spot of fishing goes exactly to plan, and then there are days when the plan gets chucked in the river, you see I was concentrating intently on the quiver tip when my phone suddenly pinged into life. 

It was Denis, announcing that he’d booked himself into the river’s WhatsApp group and was coming down to join me. 

Now, I’m all for a bit of company on the bank, but I’d rather been looking forward to a solitary session where I could enjoy the sort of peace normally associated with a monastery, or at least a household where the television remote has gone missing.

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, Denis appeared. Now, I’m not one to make personal observations about a fellow angler’s hearing, but Denis would have been an outstanding candidate for one of those magnificent seventeenth-century ear trumpets. 

You know the sort, a large brass contraption resembling a Victorian plumbing experiment, designed to help the profoundly hard of hearing participate in everyday conversation. I practically had to shout for him to hear me, which isn’t exactly ideal when fishing a small river where stealth is rather more important than the ability to communicate with shipping in the English Channel. If a chub had been listening, it would have known our entire conversation, my fishing plans and probably what I was having for tea. 😂🙉

Denis was roving the stretch just as I was, which promptly put the kibosh on the carefully laid plans I’d spent all of five minutes formulating. Still, there was enough river to go around without us having to draw straws or resort to a physical altercation involving landing nets. 

I decided to carry on regardless, although the thought of moving to another stretch was already forming in the back of my mind. Sometimes a fishing plan needs adapting. Sometimes it needs a minor adjustment. And sometimes it needs putting in a bin and setting fire to before anyone else finds out what it was. The river itself was in a curious mood. Despite the recent rain and a welcome increase in levels, much of it looked almost motionless, with several of the swims smothered in duckweed. The weir, some considerable distance downstream and not somewhere we could fish anyway, was barely managing a trickle. 

It was all rather underwhelming, like turning up to a fireworks display and discovering the organisers had brought along a packet of sparklers and a damp box of matches. Nevertheless, I had lobworms, a quiver-tip rod and an optimism that has survived decades of fishing in conditions that would have sent a more sensible individual home to watch television.

I’d been getting the odd sharp pull, the sort of tentative little enquiries that leave you wondering whether a fish is interested in your bait or whether a particularly indecisive piece of weed has developed a taste for worms. Then, completely out of the blue, one of those pulls developed into a proper wrap-round bite. I struck, and immediately knew I was attached to a chub. It was heading straight back towards its lair with all the determination of a man sprinting for the last available pub seat on a Sunday lunchtime.

Fortunately, the tackle held true. I managed to turn the fish away from its intended escape route and coax it out into open water, where it gradually surrendered to the inevitable. A few moments later, it was safely in the landing net. A fish! A fish! A FISH! I told myself, with the sort of restrained dignity normally displayed by a football supporter whose team has just scored in the ninety-sixth minute. 

After a succession of unproductive swims, there is something deeply satisfying about seeing a proper fish lying in the net. It doesn't matter that you’re alone, or that the fish isn't going to trouble the record books. For that moment, you're the undisputed champion of the river, and nobody can take that away from you. Except possibly Denis, if he happens to ask you to repeat yourself.

With one chub safely banked and having apparently discovered a patch of river worth fishing, I decided another cast was mandatory. It would have been positively rude not to. After all, if a fish has just given you a clear indication that the swim contains something worth eating, you’d be foolish to pack up and leave. It’s the angling equivalent of discovering a pub does excellent steak pie and deciding to order a salad instead.

Sure enough, lightning struck twice. Another bite developed in exactly the same fashion, and I was into a second chub. This one didn't feel anywhere near as substantial, but after the barren spells I'd endured, I wasn't about to start complaining. I landed it, had another go for a third and then tried a couple of other swims for good measure. Sadly, the river had apparently decided that two fish constituted a generous contribution to the afternoon's entertainment. 

I returned to the original swim, tried again and drew a complete blank. The sun had come out, the wind had a bit of a nip to it, and the conditions had that slightly awkward feel of a river that has improved on paper but hasn't yet received the memo that it's supposed to be fishing well. Still, two chub were two more than I'd managed before the first bite, and I wasn't about to start demanding a refund from the Environment Agency.

With the Leam session seemingly done and dusted, it was time to move on to my next destination. But first, a stop at the pub was required. I popped in for a pint of Bass and a portion of what were described as ‘hot’ pork scratchings. Now, the word hot can mean several things in the culinary world. It can mean pleasantly warm, it can mean a gentle chilli-infused tingle, or it can mean that somebody has apparently attempted to manufacture a snack using material normally reserved for resurfacing roads. 

These scratchings fell firmly into the latter category. After the first mouthful, I was fairly certain that if I wanted to continue eating them, I would need to contact my bank manager and arrange an extension to the mortgage. My mouth was in financial difficulty, my tongue had entered witness protection and my pint of Bass was being called upon to perform emergency damage limitation.

Events were about to take a turn that would have tested the resolve of a much lesser man. My thoughts had already turned towards the evening's curry, and more specifically to the planned outing with Phippo. Now, Phippo and I have consumed enough curries together over the years to make the owners of several Indian restaurants consider naming a dish after us. We must be well into the hundreds of shared curry outings by now, and that's not counting the occasions when we've ordered enough food to make it look as though we'd invited the entire village round for dinner. 

So when a message arrived informing me that he wouldn't be making it later because he was throwing up and suffering from what can only be described, in the interests of delicate company, as a severe case of gastrointestinal turbulence, I knew something was seriously wrong. Phippo cancelling a curry is rather like a salmon refusing to swim upstream. You immediately suspect either a medical emergency or a fundamental breakdown in the laws of nature.

With my dinner companion hors de combat, the evening's arrangements were in ruins. There was only one sensible thing to do: change the fishing plans yet again and head for the River Avon. If the day was going to be unpredictable, I might as well embrace it. Besides, a solitary angler can always find comfort in a river. Rivers don't cancel at the last minute, they don't send you messages about digestive distress and, although they occasionally leave you staring at a motionless quiver tip for hours, at least they don't pretend to have food poisoning when you've booked a table.

I settled into a swim on the Avon and once again presented the lobworm. The response was immediate. The quiver tip began doing things that suggested the local perch population had received an urgent communication about an all-you-can-eat buffet. 

There were little rattles, sharp pulls and all manner of indecisive activity. I soon managed to catch a small perch and a couple of chublets, which was encouraging, even if the fish were of a size that suggested they'd been recruited straight from the junior division. Still, I was enjoying myself, and that's the important thing. 

You can spend an entire afternoon chasing a specimen and go home miserable, or you can catch a handful of smaller fish and return home happy. Ideally, you do both, but fishing has never been particularly interested in my personal preferences.

I decided to try bread for a change, but the river wasn't having any of it. The fish seemed to regard my offering with the same enthusiasm that a hungry man might display towards a plate of boiled cabbage. Nothing happened. 

I returned to the lobworm, of which I had just a couple left, and settled down for another attempt. It was beginning to feel as though the afternoon was winding down, and I wasn't particularly geared up for sitting beside the river in the gathering gloom for another half an hour, followed by an extended session in which I gradually lost the feeling in my toes.

Then, as if the Avon had been listening to my complaints, the quiver tip pulled round properly. This wasn't one of those little tiddler-induced tremors. This was a proper bite, a confident declaration of intent from something with a bit of substance behind it. 

I struck and found myself attached to a decent fish. The light quiver rod bent nicely, the centrepin began earning its keep, and for a few glorious moments I was engaged in the sort of battle that makes all the earlier faffing about worthwhile. The fish fought well, using the depth to its advantage, but eventually I guided it towards the waiting net. 

A lovely two-pound chub appeared from the depths, looking rather pleased with itself despite having just been persuaded to participate in a photographic opportunity it hadn't requested. It was a cracking way to finish the session, and a timely reminder that the best fish of the day don't always arrive where or when you expect them. Sometimes you have to keep moving, keep adapting and keep a few lobworms in reserve.

With that final fish safely landed, I decided enough was enough. I wasn't equipped for a prolonged dusk session, and there was a more pressing matter to attend to. I had a lamb naga and garlic rice waiting in the future, and I wasn't about to let another unexpected development deprive me of it. So I packed up and headed for the Raj and his excellent team at the Curry Republic, where a takeaway was duly acquired. The lamb naga is always a winner, and after a day involving ear trumpets, aquatic vegetation, financially ruinous pork scratchings and a cancelled curry companion, I felt I'd earned every last mouthful.

Looking back, it had been a thoroughly worthwhile afternoon. Three chub, a couple of chublets, a perch or two, a pint of Bass and a takeaway curry represented a pretty decent return for a few hours away from the day job. More importantly, I'd started the afternoon feeling a little irritable and finished it feeling almost horizontal. Not literally, you understand, although after the lamb naga and garlic rice there was a distinct possibility that getting off the sofa might have required assistance from the emergency services.

That's the beauty of a few hours on the river. You can begin the day with a carefully constructed plan and end up doing something completely different, all the while discovering that the things which went wrong were often the things that made the day memorable. 

Denis may have arrived and disrupted my carefully orchestrated solitude, the river may have been reluctant to give up its fish, and Phippo may have been temporarily incapacitated by a digestive catastrophe of biblical proportions, but none of it really mattered in the end. I caught a few fish, enjoyed some fresh air, had a pint, ate a curry and returned home considerably more relaxed than when I'd left.

The River Arrow - Bovinae and Bovarism

Now there are days when you wake up and know that a spot of fishing is exactly what you need, and then there are days when your body is telling you to stay in bed, drink something warm and stop behaving like a complete idiot. 

Unfortunately, when there's a river involved, I have a remarkable ability to ignore the latter, so despite having a cold and a trip to Glasgow looming the following morning, I decided that a bit of sunshine and fresh air would do me the world of good.

After all, what could possibly go wrong? A few hours roving the Arrow, a loaf of bread, a couple of obliging chub and home in time for a nice cup of tea, surely. 

Mind you, I've been fishing long enough to know that whenever you start making sensible predictions about how a session will unfold, the fishing gods are already preparing something to make you look like a complete berk.

The Arrow, like many of the local rivers, was looking extremely low and clear, which is lovely if you're a kingfisher or a water vole but rather less appealing if you're hoping to deceive a suspicious chub. 

In conditions like these, the fish can see everything, including your carefully concealed approach, your expensive tackle and possibly the sandwich you had for lunch three hours earlier.

Still, I set off with optimism in my heart and a nose that appeared to have developed a plumbing fault. The countryside was looking glorious, the sun was shining, and for a little while I forgot that I felt like I'd been dragged backwards through a hedge by a particularly aggressive badger.

Then I spotted the cattle.

Now, I have nothing against cows, provided they remain in their designated areas and don't interfere with my fishing. Unfortunately, amongst the cows and calves was what looked suspiciously like a bull, and I found myself conducting a rather serious assessment of the situation.

I like fishing, but I'm not sufficiently committed to the cause to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a large bovine gentleman, particularly when my immune system appears to have gone on strike. I could just imagine explaining to a paramedic that I'd been flattened by a bull while trying to catch a two-pound chub, and I suspect even the paramedic might struggle to maintain a professional expression.

So, with a tactical withdrawal worthy of a military commander who has just discovered the enemy has considerably more firepower, I moved away from the bovine bother and continued my roving adventure elsewhere.

The fishing wasn't easy, though, and the clear water meant that stealth was essential. I crept along the bank, peering into each swim and trying to move quietly, although sneaking about with a cold is a bit like trying to rob a bank while carrying a tambourine and shouting about your latest symptoms.

Then, quite by chance, I came across a group of chub feeding off the surface.

Well, now we were talking!

There is something wonderfully exciting about finding fish feeding confidently, especially when you've spent the previous hour wondering whether the only thing likely to take your bait is a passing leaf. I watched them carefully, presented the bread and waited for the magic to happen.

And happen it did.

The bait was taken, the rod bent beautifully and suddenly I was attached to a chub. For a few glorious seconds, I forgot about my cold, my impending journey to Glasgow and the fact that I'd nearly had a close encounter with a bull.

Then the hook pulled.

Oh, for goodness' sake!

One minute I was playing a fish, and the next I was standing there holding a rod that had become about as useful as a chocolate teapot. 

The fish had gone, my confidence had taken a considerable dent, and I was left wondering whether the chub had escaped or simply decided that I wasn't worth the trouble.

Naturally, I replayed the whole incident in my head about seventeen times, each replay producing a slightly larger fish and a slightly more tragic account of my misfortune. 

By the time I'd finished, the lost chub was probably approaching record proportions, despite the fact that I'd barely seen it.

Never mind, I told myself. There would be other fish.

This is one of the great lies of angling, along with “I'll only have another cast” and “I don't need any more tackle.” Nevertheless, I moved on, determined to make the most of the afternoon.

The next swim looked promising, but one of the chub had clearly spotted me. I presented the bait, hoping that the fish might overlook my presence, only for it to swim upstream without a care in the world.

And I'm convinced it stuck two fins up at me as it went.

Honestly, the cheek of it! Here I was, a poorly bloke making an enormous effort to present a respectable piece of bread, and this aquatic hooligan couldn't even pretend to be interested. It simply disappeared upstream, presumably to tell its mates about the strange creature on the bank who looked as though he needed a week in bed.

“Oh, so you're cagey, are you?” I muttered. “Too good for my bread, are you? Well, don't come crying to me when the river freezes over!”

The fish, naturally, remained completely unmoved by my little speech. I suspect it had heard considerably worse from anglers over the years.

There was still one deeper swim worth trying, though, and I wasn't about to give up just yet. I settled in, introduced some bread and watched carefully as it drifted through the swim.

A few minutes passed before I noticed a little movement.

Pluck, pluck.

Now, those two little indications are enough to make even the most experienced angler sit up straight. The imagination immediately gets to work, transforming a tentative nibble into a monster chub that will require a specially reinforced landing net and possibly the assistance of the fire brigade.

Then the line tightened, the rod bent and I was into another fish!

At last, something was going according to plan.

I played the chub carefully, determined not to repeat the earlier mistake, and soon enough it was safely in the net. It wasn't a monster, but then this was a small section of river, not some mythical waterway populated exclusively by six-pound chub with personal trainers.

It was a lovely little fish, and more importantly, the blank had been avoided.

There is something deeply satisfying about catching a fish when conditions are difficult, particularly on a small river where stealth, observation and a little patience can make all the difference. You might not catch a monster, but you've earned that fish, and sometimes that's worth considerably more than the size of the scales.

 I returned the chub safely and immediately began thinking about catching another one, because apparently one fish is never enough for an angler. We could land a perfectly respectable catch, have a wonderful afternoon and still convince ourselves that the next swim holds the fish of a lifetime.

It's a terrible affliction, and I'm not sure there's a cure.

I persevered for a little longer, but my cold was beginning to remind me that I wasn't exactly in peak physical condition. My nose was running like a burst water main, my head was throbbing, and I was starting to wonder whether another chub was really worth the possibility of arriving in Glasgow looking like a Victorian ghost.

I decided to leave a voice message for Nic from Avon Angling, who had been catching some Warwickshire Avon barbel on the float. His fishing sounded rather more exciting than my own battle against low water, suspicious chub and agricultural wildlife.

Nic got back to me, and after a brief chat he delivered a rather sensible observation.

“Yeah, you do sound rough, Mick. I'd get off for some rest if I was you.”

Well, that told me!

I'd spent the afternoon convincing myself that fresh air was doing me good, only to discover that I apparently sounded like a rusty tractor attempting to start in the middle of winter. The worst part was that Nic was absolutely right.

I could have ignored him, carried on fishing and tried to squeeze another fish out of the river, but sometimes even the most stubborn angler has to accept defeat. Besides, I had a journey to Glasgow ahead of me, and the prospect of spending the weekend coughing like a bloke who'd swallowed a bag of gravel wasn't especially appealing.

So I packed away and called it a day.

All things considered, it had been a rather enjoyable little adventure. I'd escaped the bull, found some feeding chub, lost one fish in spectacularly annoying fashion, been given the aquatic equivalent of two fingers by another and finally managed to land one before common sense intervened.

Not a bad result, really.

The Arrow had provided a lovely few hours in the sunshine, and although the conditions were tough, there is always something satisfying about roving a small river and trying to work out where the fish are holding. You never quite know what the next swim might produce, and that uncertainty is a big part of the attraction.

As for Glasgow, the gig is on Sunday, so I'm hoping that a little rest, some good food and perhaps a couple of medicinal drams will get me back into reasonable working order. I'm not claiming the drams are medically approved, naturally, but I'm willing to conduct a little informal research into their restorative properties.

For now, the tackle is away, the chub can relax, and the bull can continue running his little riverside empire without any interference from me. Next time, I'll hopefully be feeling considerably better, the river might have a touch more colour, and perhaps the chub will be slightly less inclined to take the mickey. Although, knowing my luck, I'll probably turn up to find the bull waiting for me with a fishing rod of his own.

On to the next one, which looks like being well into next week.

Tight lines, folks!

Warwickshire Avon - Twinosaurs and Twincompatibility

Now there are few things in life more reassuring than meeting up with your identical twin brother, Chris, because you know you’re in the company of someone who shares your genes, your facial features and, presumably, the same questionable manufacturing process. 

We are, quite literally, two peas from the same pod, although one of us has clearly been stored in a slightly more questionable environment than the other.

Chris escaped Coventry some eight years ago and established himself in North Devon, where he has built a life for himself as a single dad, provider, chauffeur, cook, counsellor and general-purpose domestic appliance. 

He’s one of those unsung heroes who quietly gets on with things, despite life occasionally chucking a paving slab in his direction, and in 2026 I suspect we belong to a forgotten breed of men who simply crack on regardless.

Not that we sit around discussing the decline of Western civilisation over a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit, you understand. 

We’re identical twins, after all, and there are only so many times you can stare into a slightly older-looking version of your own face before the conversation turns to fishing, food or when was it that the hairline finally surrendered.

Chris was stopping at our mum’s for the night because, apparently, the modern world still requires human beings to physically attend an office occasionally, just to prove they haven’t been replaced by a particularly convincing screensaver. 

As an IT specialist who has spent much of the post-COVID era working from home, he’d been summoned to show his face for a couple of days to appease a new client, presumably to demonstrate that the bloke fixing their computer problems wasn’t actually a well-trained Labrador.

 We managed a pint in the local hotel before heading for a curry, which was a pleasant enough evening until the restaurant demonstrated its own unique interpretation of quality control. They’d managed to provide us with an extra main course, which meant I found myself eating a substantial portion of curry for lunch the following day at work, attracting the sort of raised eyebrows normally reserved for people who bring a full Sunday roast into the office.

Still, there are worse things in life than unexpected curry, and I certainly wasn’t about to complain. My colleagues may have wondered whether I was experiencing a midweek breakdown, but if a man can’t enjoy a free curry at lunchtime in this economy, then frankly the country is finished.

Chris was on call, so our evening had a curfew imposed by the technological gods, but it was good to catch up properly. We’re heading back down to Devon during the half-term holiday, where he’s promised to show me some of his fishing spots, and I’m particularly looking forward to that because I’ve managed to get him back into fishing again.

He’s already been catching bass and smoothhound, the lucky so-and-so, and I’ve yet to catch a smoothhound myself. I’m hoping this will be rectified, although knowing my luck I’ll travel all the way to North Devon, spend a fortune on bait, and end up photographing a crab that looks disappointed in me.

Anyway, Chris asked how my own fishing had been going, and I had to admit that things weren’t actually too bad, all things considered. The conditions on the Warwickshire Avon have been absolutely pants, though, with water levels so low and clarity so ridiculous that I half expected to see a barbel reading the writing on my hooklength before swimming away to report me to the Environment Agency.

Consequently, my fishing has become a series of short, sharp, smash-and-grab missions, squeezed into the available gaps between work, domestic responsibilities and the general business of trying to remain a functioning member of society. There’s little time for leisurely sessions involving three courses, a comfortable chair and a philosophical discussion with a passing swan; this is angling by appointment, with a strict return-to-base policy.

On the journey home from work, after another day that had been about as stimulating as watching paint dry in a darkened shed, the Skullcandy Crushers had once again been earning their keep. They’re excellent headphones, capable of delivering enough bass to make your ears question their life choices, and without them I suspect I’d have started communicating with the photocopier just to feel something.

Then I remembered the surplus curry sitting comfortably in my stomach and thought there was really only one sensible thing to do. Rather than head straight home like a responsible adult, I decided to squeeze in another smash-and-grab session on the Avon, because apparently what my body needed after a full day at work and another Indian meal was an hour or two sat beside a dying river hoping a fish would make a mistake.

The river really is on its knees at the moment, and we desperately need some rain. 

The Warwickshire Avon is looking less like a productive barbel river and more like an enormous, slightly murky garden ornament, although I remain convinced that somewhere beneath the streamer weed there are fish wondering why the hell everyone keeps turning up with fishing rods.

I headed for a stretch where I’d already managed to catch a few barbel and chub this season, but decided to try something different. Not a completely different swim, you understand, because that would involve too much walking and potentially a dangerous amount of optimism; 

I simply chose the right-hand side of the same peg, leaving the deeper section to the left where I’d been fishing upstream. The new swim looked promising, with a little more cover, a narrowing channel and shallower water around the streamer weed. It had that lovely, fishy look about it, the sort of place that makes an angler think he’s finally discovered something clever, when in reality he’s probably just found somewhere a fish occasionally goes to have a quiet afternoon. I introduced a helping of scalded pellet and a little groundbait, then left the swim to settle for half an hour. 

This is the sort of tactical patience that separates the serious angler from the impatient idiot, although the distinction becomes considerably less clear when you’re sitting there watching the clock and wondering whether you could have got away with fishing ten minutes earlier.

With dusk still about forty minutes away, I reckoned the fading light would offer the best chance of a bite. 

The water was so clear that I was half expecting the fish to have already inspected the swim, checked my credentials and circulated a WhatsApp message warning the others that some bloke with a barbel rod was operating in the area.

The rig finally went out, the bait settled on the bottom, and within a minute the rod tip gave a sharp pull. Another followed shortly afterwards, and I was suddenly alert in the manner of a man who has spent the previous eight hours being paid to look at a screen and has finally encountered something interesting that doesn’t require a password.

Whatever was responsible had clearly taken a liking to my paste-wrapped 10mm Robin Red pellet, and the indications were encouraging enough to get the old ticker working. I was immediately entertaining visions of a barbel, a bend in the rod and a triumphant photograph, which was rather premature given that I’d barely had time to digest the last mouthful of curry.

The culprit soon revealed itself as a chub, which was hardly a disappointment, although it did mean my grand plans for a heroic barbel encounter would have to be shelved. It was a decent fish, too, and put up a respectable scrap, but against the barbel rod it was a little like challenging a shopping trolley to a tug-of-war with a tractor. Still, a fish is a fish, and I was grateful not to have blanked. The chub had done its bit for the evening, taken a liking to the bait and provided some welcome entertainment, whereas the river had so far contributed little beyond scenery and an overwhelming sense of impending hydrological doom.

I slipped the fish back and put the bait out again, expecting that the swim might have come alive. Almost immediately there were more sharp pulls and little plucks on the rod tip, the sort of activity that gets an angler excited while simultaneously making him question whether the fish are actually feeding or simply taking the mickey.

I sat there watching the tip, willing it to pull round properly, but the promised action never materialised. Whatever was nibbling seemed perfectly happy to sample the menu without committing to a main course, rather like someone at an all-you-can-eat buffet who spends three hours eating the free poppadoms before announcing that they’re not particularly hungry.

The light gradually faded, the temperature dipped and my allotted fishing time began to evaporate. My strict curfew was fast approaching, and although I considered the possibility of ignoring it in pursuit of a barbel, I decided that explaining to the family why I’d disappeared into the night chasing a fish that might not even exist was unlikely to improve domestic harmony.

Eventually, I called time with one decent chub to show for my efforts and absolutely no barbel. It wasn’t the result I’d hoped for, but it was a perfectly enjoyable little session, and on a river looking as poorly as the Avon does at present, I was hardly going to complain about catching a fish.

Besides, barbel are supposed to be difficult, aren’t they? If they simply leapt out of the water, seized the hookbait and politely posed for a photograph, there would be considerably less mystery to the whole business, and an awful lot fewer men sitting in muddy fields looking like they’d misplaced their car keys.

So, another smash-and-grab session completed, another chub in the book, and another evening spent trying to outwit fish that probably possess a better understanding of the situation than I do. The Avon desperately needs rain, the barbel remain elusive, and I still have a smoothhound to catch in Devon, which means there’s plenty to look forward to.

At least Chris and I can agree on one thing: fishing is a wonderful pastime, even when the fish refuse to cooperate, the rivers resemble overfilled puddles and your identical twin is catching more interesting things several hundred miles away. There’s always another session around the corner, another swim to explore and another opportunity to spend good money proving that fish are perfectly capable of surviving without our assistance.

And if the next session produces nothing, I can always console myself with another curry. Although, given my recent lunchtime performance, I suspect the office might be more concerned about my fishing results than my digestive system. Tight lines, and may the rain gods finally take pity on the Warwickshire Avon before we’re all reduced to fishing with a teaspoon and a length of dental floss.

Warwickshire Avon - Gravers and Grandiloquence's

Well, chaps, the news has finally filtered down to the bankside, and it’s fair to say it’s left a bitter taste in the mouth. Sharper than any hop, that's for sure. They’re shutting down Marston's. The historic cathedral of brewing in Burton-upon-Trent is to be boarded up by the summer of '27. Out with the Union sets, in with the corporate spreadsheet.

Now, you might be sitting there, scratching your head, wondering what a boardroom decision by Carlsberg has to do with a bloke sitting on a damp basket at 5:00 AM waiting for a quivertip to slam round. Everything. Absolutely everything.

You see, my quest for that elusive, mythical monster barbel—that double-figure whiskers I’ve been chasing through weedbeds and gravel runs for longer than my lower back cares to remember—isn't just about the fish. It’s about the ritual.

 Fishing, in its truest, most Piscatorial sense, is an ecosystem of tradition. You pack the rods, you obsess over the river levels, you freeze your fingers off threading line through iced-up guides, and you do it all knowing there is a specific reward waiting at the end of the line. 

For decades, that reward was a pint of Burton’s finest. Pedigree, or on those truly special, frost-bitten winter evenings, a sneaky bottle of Owd Rodger (god rest its soul, since they took that away from us prematurely I've stashed a few bottles away).

There’s a spiritual tie between the River Trent and the water that brewed those beers. It’s the same land. The same subterranean alchemy. When you sit on the Trent, targeting a specimen barbel, you are fishing in the shadow of giants—both piscatorial and industrial.
So how does the closure affect the quest?

Logistically, it doesn't change the weight of the fish. A 14-pounder doesn't care if the local brewery is open or closed. It still wants its halibut pellets. It still wants to play keep-away in the snags.
But emotionally? Philosophically? It changes the whole damn landscape. Stripping Marston's out of the Trent valley is like stripping the gravel out of a barbel's favourite feeding shelf. It leaves the whole thing feeling a bit hollow. 

A bit sanitized. If we lose the heritage surrounding our rivers the pubs, the local brews, the history then we’re just men pulling digital scales out of plastic bags in a world that’s forgotten how to appreciate the finer things.

They say they are looking for "independent custodians" to save Pedigree. I bloody hope they find them despite bugger all help from the government as expected. 

Because if I finally net that history-making, net-filling, whiskers-trailing beast of a Trent barbel sometime (Nic we need to sort a date out), and I can't toast it with a proper pint of Burton ale... well, it’ll still be a magnificent fish, but the victory will feel just a little bit flatter.

Keep your lines tight, and your glasses full while you still can.

Anyway another week, another series of dawns witnessed not from the tranquil, reed-fringed margins of the Warwickshire Avon, but through the smeary glass of the commuter bus while clutching a lukewarm travel mug. 

Don’t get me wrong the walk into the office has been surprisingly civilised of late. Sunrise over the office puts on a lovely little vista a fleeting bit of golden-hour drama before the curtain comes down and the day’s drudgery proper begins. 

But as the calendar ticks on and the light shortens, I can’t help noticing a grim piece of arithmetic: the days are pulling in, and my window for slipping away on a proper fishing trip is shrinking by the week.

After thirty-seven solid years in full-time employment thirty-seven years of memos, redundancies, mild peril, and staring blankly at CAD terminals and clay models while pretending to care about cars and vans I'd never buy,

I think we can all agree there are vastly superior ways for an aging chap to spend his finite time on this earth. Which brings me to the grand, glorious nonsense of angling.

It isn't just about fish, is it? It’s the entire coping mechanism. It’s sitting at your desk on a Monday morning, completely numb to a four-way email debate about unfeasible passenger airbag positions, cup holder dimensions and the latest NCAP protocols , while silently planning the next stealth offensive. 

Which stretch of the river? Is the flow right? Do I target those craftily cynical chub under the far-bank willow, or go full optimist for a proper Avon barbel? Then comes the real therapeutic magic: justifying the next vital equipment purchase. You convince yourself that a new centerpin reel, or that delightfully obscure tub of flavoured paste, isn't just a gadget it’s a certified, non-negotiable mental health booster. 

A prescription for the soul, wrapped in bubble wrap and delivered to the front door before the Wife notices.

The older I get, the more this little dose of bankside madness feels less like a hobby and more like a mandatory survival strategy in a world that’s gone completely off its rocker and only Lucy's or Microdots could be the temporary solution for some escapism . 

So, I’ll suffer the day's drudgery for another quadrennium (fingers crossed). But in my head, I’m already bankside, smelling the damp silt, watching a float bob gently in the crease, and letting the madness of the modern world just float right on down to Tewkesbury.

Anyway enough of the waffle !! to the fishing, this stretch of river has been dear to my heart over the years, specifically the swim known in my own personal, highly scientific lexicon as the Tragus. 

You see, the river in plan view has a funny way of mimicking the human body, or maybe it’s just that a lifetime on the banks of the Warwickshire Avon makes you see ears, noses, and questionable anatomical features in every passing ripple. 

If you find a stretch where the bank pinches in a sharp bend, a deliberate flap of clay and reed projecting right out into the flow like the tragus of an ear you don’t walk past it. 

You stop, you drop the heavily laden ruckbag with a thud that dislodges three vertebrae, and you watch. On the Avon, a feature shaped like that is an absolute goldmine for proper, whisker-twirling big barbel. The Tragus Swim is home to my best barbel from the river caught on a huge piece of spam, so it would be downright rude not to give it a go, especially considering I’ve been doing quite well on the barbel front lately.

Now, this spot is located well away from the young’uns, the gatecrashers, and the late-night party people who think a riverbank is a grand place for a Bluetooth speaker and lemon-flavored cider. Back in the day, this very bank was prime territory for the Gravers and yes, I proudly count myself as one of them, with my next rave scheduled for this weekend up in Glasgow alongside progressive house legends Nick Warren and Hernán Cattáneo, an event for which my knees are already filing a formal written complaint in advance. 

Looking at the silent, mysterious water today, I couldn't help but wonder whether the old Gravers were still in residence around here, or if they were all currently at home strapped to heat pads, nursing bad backs, and sipping chamomile tea while debating the merits of orthopaedic insoles. 

Only one way to find out, I suppose: cast a rig right into the crease, collapse heavily onto the unhooking mat, and turn the water quality up to eleven.

I settled into the bankside grass, adjusted my layers, and prayed for the tip to wrap around before the strict curfew called me home to the chaos. 

 It’s a delightfully mental game, angling one minute you're analysing hydrodynamic eddies with the laser precision of a hydraulic engineer, and the next you're practicing your 1992 rave moves in full camo waterproofs just to keep your toes from dropping off while a rogue chub nibbles your boilie blind. 

I better prepare itself for the Glasgow onslaught this weekend, but for now, the deep rhythmic bassline of the river was more than enough, and the wait was officially on.

Now, what I certainly didn’t expect, having barely settled my aching carcass onto the bank and flipped open a lukewarm flask of questionable tea, was a whacking, rod-rest-rattling chub bite within five short minutes of the bait touching down. 

"Here we go," I muttered to the startled reeds, puffing my chest out like a triumphant kingfisher. "I am indubitably on for a fish here."

Alas, the angling gods are cruel, mocking creatures who delight in inflating a man’s hopes only to pop them with a rusty hook.

Despite the swim looking absolutely prime for a bite nestled comfortably along the deep, mysterious outside bend where monsters surely lurked—those promising initial minutes ticked away into absolute, crushing silence. 

Dusk arrived with unseemly haste, creeping across the water like a wet blanket, closely followed by the suffocating gloom of my self-imposed curfew. Before I knew it, I was packing away slinking back to the motor with nothing to show for my misplaced optimism but a blank notebook and cold toes.

I shall return, of course. A glutton for punishment, I’ve already scouted a couple of alternative swims in my endless, quixotic quest to track down that elusive, mythical big barbel. The real snag, as ever with this magnificent stretch of river, is that there is simply too much glorious water to go at and in the convoluted mind of an obsessive angler, having too many good options is the greatest catastrophe of all.