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 - 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 - Argentocracy and Argy-Bargy

Now some itches can be ignored. A mosquito bite, perhaps. The urge to reorganise the tackle shed, if you've finally admitted you're never going to use that bent bankstick again. 

But the itch to spend an evening chasing a mythical Warwickshire Avon weir-pool barbel? That's the sort of thing that keeps you staring out of the window every ten minutes while convincing yourself the weather forecast has probably changed since you last checked it.

Unfortunately, England had a World Cup semi-final to play. Or, as it turned out, ninety minutes proving that football managers can overthink things even faster than anglers choosing between three perfectly good hooklengths. 

I should have known better. Hope has caught out more fishermen than badly tied knots ever have. There was, however, one bright spot. I'd treated myself to a couple of bottles of McEwan's Champion, which, in my entirely unbiased opinion, remains one of the finest beer ever brewed. 

Rich, well-being boosting and full of character, it did everything asked of it. Sadly, it couldn't inspire eleven blokes in white shirts to remember the opposition's goal was still at the other end.

If anything, the beer showed more ambition than England did after taking the lead with Anthony Gordon's 55th-minute cracker. Every sip promised excitement, while every backwards pass suggested someone had mistaken a semi-final for a pre-season friendly. 

Even the Wife looked as though she wanted someone to have a shot. By the final whistle the bottle was empty, England were out and I was left wondering whether I'd enjoyed the beer more than the football because at least one of them had gone forward all evening. 

McEwan's Champion finished strongly. England finished like a bloke arriving at the pub to discover the lights are on, the chairs are upside down and the landlord's already counting the till.

The first hour wasn't bad. England looked lively despite the scrapy argy-bargy nature, and moved the ball well and almost gave the impression they fancied winning the thing. 

As every angler knows, that's usually the moment you reach for the landing net before the float's actually gone under. Then someone clearly shouted, "Right lads... that'll do." Not behind the bus. Not near the bus. Properly parked it, switched the engine off, folded the mirrors in and settled down with a flask while Argentina wandered round the outside looking only mildly inconvenienced.

Watching it unfold was like spotting the biggest barbel you've ever seen feeding confidently under your rod tip, only to reel in because you didn't want to disturb it. Football calls it game management. Anglers tend to use slightly stronger language. As if that wasn't cautious enough, Tuchel then decided the answer was to send on three defenders. That's rather like hooking the fish of your dreams before swapping your size 8 hook for a paperclip because it looks less intimidating. You half expected the fourth official to hold up a sign reading, "No more attacking."

By this point England looked less interested in scoring another goal than preserving one they hadn't quite finished scoring in the first place. You half expected them to ask the referee if they could just keep possession until penalties became available.

It reminded me of every helpful soul who's ever appeared behind you on the riverbank. "You won't catch one from there." Curiously, they're normally carrying an empty landing net and wondering why they haven't had a bite since breakfast. Advice, like cheap groundbait, is usually available in generous quantities.

Meanwhile the itch to fish was becoming unbearable. Every sideways pass was another nudge from my conscience saying, "You could be sitting beside that weir pool with a flask, a barbel rod and absolutely no idea what's about to happen." Which, when you think about it, still sounded like a better tactical plan than passing backwards until everyone forgot where the goal was.

The mythical Warwickshire Avon barbel has one enormous advantage over England. It doesn't spend half an hour protecting a lead it hasn't actually got yet. Mind you, if barbel employed football managers they'd probably insist on shoaling in the slack water until dusk before deciding feeding was too risky.

By now I'd mentally packed the car twice. The rods were assembled in my imagination, the bait was prepared in my head and I'd almost convinced myself I'd remembered everything. The only thing actually happening in the living room was another backwards pass and a commentator explaining why it was all very sensible. At least barbel are honest. They either make a fool of you or they don't. They don't spend thirty minutes passing the pellet backwards before disappearing into the reeds while someone tells you it's all part of the plan.

Next time the itch arrives, I'm going fishing. If I blank, I'll still have spent the evening watching flowing water instead of watching a manager turn England into the footballing equivalent of a bivvy with the zip firmly done up. Blanking somehow feels less disappointing when nobody interviews the chub afterwards. Now some places have a habit of getting under your skin. This weir pool is one of them, quietly nagging away until eventually you stop pretending you're going somewhere else and simply give in. Rivers can be remarkably persuasive without saying a word.

For all the years I've wandered this stretch, I've probably fished this swim no more than a handful of times for a Barbel. Strange really, because every visit convinces me there's a proper fish living there. Every visit also convinces the fish that today would be an excellent day to remain somewhere completely different.

The river slipped over the weir with that steady, reassuring murmur that persuades anglers to believe all sorts of unlikely things. It looked every inch a barbel swim. Mind you, so have plenty of others where I've carefully introduced two pounds of bait to a family of very grateful minnows.

There was enough pace, enough depth and enough mystery to keep the imagination busy. If confidence alone caught fish, I'd have needed a bigger landing net years ago. Sadly, rivers insist on introducing reality into the conversation. So, were there any barbel willing to sample my offerings? There was only one way to answer that question, and it certainly wasn't by standing on the bank looking thoughtful. Anglers call that watercraft. Everyone else calls it standing about.

Sadly there are evenings when the angling gods smile upon you... and there are evenings when they point, laugh, and nick your rig. I rocked up at 20:45 to find a couple of anglers cars at the stretch, but the weir was gloriously vacant, as if Neptune himself had reserved it under my name.

The place had changed since my last visit too. A tree had spectacularly folded itself in half, kindly dropping a leafy penthouse over the crease that positively screamed, "Big barbel live here!" Naturally, the first cast into paradise found a snag so committed it was probably paying council tax, and I was soon waving goodbye to lead, hooklink and a small chunk of confidence.

Plan B, a cast just to the right, landed with that beautiful donk every river angler dreams about. Within half an hour the tip gave the unmistakable chub clang, enough to get the pulse up before reality politely tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me I wasn't the guest of honour tonight.Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening than sitting beside a weir with its endless hiss washing the nonsense of the day downstream. Ten minutes from my front door, a cracking little hideaway, and exactly the sort of place built for cheeky smash-and-grab in to dusk sessions.

Mrs Barbel avoided the rendezvous this time, no doubt claiming she'd already washed her hair. Never mind, my dear... I'll be back, and next time you might not be quite so camera shy.

Warwickshire Avon - Bombast and Balderdash

There are two things the Midlands does exceptionally well. One is roundabouts that lead to more roundabouts, and the other is Indian restaurants. Every village, town and trading estate seems to have one these days, which is marvellous really because it gives me an endless list to work through before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Now last week's victim... sorry, destination... was the recently opened Nura Indian Restaurant in 'literally' the Heart of England. According to the website it's "award-winning," although it wasn't immediately obvious whether that was for the food, the décor or surviving without air-conditioning during the hottest week since Noah started looking at boat plans.

My old mate Phippo came along for the ride. He'll eat absolutely anything providing somebody else recommends it first, then spends the next hour telling you why he should've ordered something different.

The menu landed with a thud that nearly bent the table. I reckon there were close to sixty different main courses which is wonderful if you enjoy choice but slightly terrifying when you've already spent twenty minutes deciding whether to have a lime and soda, or as it's bring your own, nipping to the local shop for a Cobra. 

Eventually I homed in on the "Home Style Curries" section. The Khasia Lamb caught my eye immediately; melt-in-the-mouth lamb, fresh diced bullet chillies, green peppers and Madras hot... exactly the sort of sentence that makes me ignore all common sense and any concerns my digestive system may have lodged.

Naturally, I couldn't stop there. The Nura Special Kebab also found its way onto the order because, let's face it, if you're going to make questionable decisions you may as well commit properly.

Across the table, Phippo chose the Garlic Butter Shrimp followed by the Aloo Gosht Bhuna. The menu described it as a cherished homestyle classic packed with flavour in every bite, which sounded lovely until reality wandered in wearing muddy boots.

Before the food even arrived we'd noticed one slight issue. 

It was thirty degrees outside and approximately the surface temperature of Mercury inside, with a couple of industrial fans valiantly attempting to cool the place in the same way you'd tackle a forest fire with a Super Soaker. 

Was there aircon in the other bit of the restaurant ? well all I know is no cold air reached us just the pleasant waft of another sizzling dish being brought to the table. To be fair, the restaurant itself looked smart. Nice décor, pleasant atmosphere and friendly staff especially one called Elvis, but after half an hour my polo-shirt had become so attached to my back that we were practically in a civil partnership.

Then the food arrived.

My kebab was perfectly acceptable without being anything I'd be boring the grandchildren about in years to come. Pleasant enough, nicely cooked, but hardly the culinary equivalent of discovering buried treasure. The Khasia Lamb, however, was rather enjoyable. The lamb was beautifully tender, the chillies gave it a proper kick and it delivered exactly the level of heat I'd been hoping for.

There was just one observation and it's hard to unsee once you've seen it.

You see there appeared to be enough ghee and oil floating on top of my curry to keep a struggling third-world country's electricity grid ticking over until Christmas. If someone had dropped a wick into the bowl we'd probably still be able to see the restaurant glowing from space.

Phippo wasn't quite so fortunate. His Bhuna apparently lacked the rich depth and comforting punch promised by the menu and instead arrived somewhere between "quite pleasant" and "is that it?"

That's the funny thing about Indian restaurants. Two people can sit opposite each other eating supposedly similar dishes and leave with completely different opinions, rather like supporting England at football.

Would I go back?

Actually... yes.

Not because it was perfect, but because that menu is simply ridiculous in size and curiosity usually gets the better of me. There are still another fifty-odd dishes waiting to either delight me or separate another few quid from my wallet.

Phippo, on the other hand, won't be returning. That's fair enough because if we all liked the same restaurants there'd be queues longer than the NHS waiting list. No matter. My brother is due up from Devon before too long and I suspect he'll happily volunteer as my next accomplice. Besides, it's always easier blaming someone else when you've ordered enough food for six people.

Whilst all this culinary excitement was unfolding, the wife pinged me a photograph.

There she was dangling her feet in the swimming pool with the accompanying message, "We should have done this sooner."

Easy for her to say.

She's not the one who winces every time the water meter spins faster than a fruit machine, knowing full well the turd slingers at Severn Trent's finest accountants are already calculating how much they'll be relieving me of next month. Judging by recent bills, I'm fairly sure they're filling Rutland Water from my back garden.

Still, when I got home there was only one sensible course of action.

Pool.

"Fancy a gin and tonic, dear?" she asked.

Now there's a question with only one correct answer. Saying no would've been like refusing free bacon or turning down a winning lottery ticket. Before long we were sat beside the pool watching the sun disappear with condensation dripping down oversized sunglasses and not a care in the world. Sometimes the simple evenings end up being the best ones.

As I floated about trying not to think about the next water bill, my mind wandered somewhere infinitely more dangerous.

Fishing !!

It always does, and with the evening temperatures so much cooler as I type this, in-fact 10 degrees less at 9.00pm than the same time last week post curry I fancied a quick smash and grab session. 

The other week you see I'd wandered over to a local weir pool for a nose about. No rods, no bait, no net... just a quiet mooch while pretending I wasn't already planning another session. Standing above the water, I was peering down hoping to spot a decent chub or two. They were there all right, swaggering about the place like the local school bullies who've never been told no.

Then I saw them.

Two glorious barbel.

Those unmistakable deep bronze flanks and bright crimson fins gliding effortlessly through the oxygenated water. They moved together so closely they could've been joined by an invisible piece of elastic. 

Every now and then a chub would muscle in as though it owned the place before the pair casually drifted aside, completely unbothered by the aquatic hooligans.

I stood there for ages simply watching.

It's amazing how quickly a ten-minute stroll turns into forty-five minutes when fish are involved. 

Dog walkers probably assumed I was conducting important environmental research rather than staring into a river muttering, "Go on... just one more lap."

Unfortunately I'd brought absolutely no tackle with me.

Not a rod.

Not a landing net.

Not even a crust of bread.

Just me, my stupidity and two magnificent barbel swimming around completely unaware they'd just been promoted to the top of my hit list. They'd escaped this time purely because I'd arrived hopelessly under-equipped.

But don't you worry, lads.

Your cards have most definitely been marked.

Or have they?

Because if fishing has taught me anything over the years, it's that the moment you become convinced you've got a fish's number, (Barbara the Barbel epic fail anyone ?) it promptly reminds you who's really in charge. But you have to try don't you !!

Now France and Spain had been knocking it about for the best part of half an hour by the time I wandered down to the weir. The roar of the water was drowning out the commentary, so the trusty little JBL speaker earned its place in the rucksack once again. Priorities and all that.

There was already someone in residence, a young lad called Mikey, fishing the tail end of the weir. I'd recognised him from a YouTube video catching some proper barbel, but thought it best not to start with, "Aren't you off the internet?" Instead, I quietly slipped into the main pool where I'd seen a couple of barbel mooching about on an earlier visit.

Mikey told me this was his third crack at the swim and so far it'd only surrendered chub, although they weren't exactly tiddlers. He wasn't filming this time and was more than happy for me to fish a little way upstream. Always nice when common sense wins over elbows.

Nothing fancy on the business end. Homemade paste wrapped around Robin Red pellets, a little PVA bag of freebies and a cast into the steadier water away from the main boil. There's another swim that just screams rolling meat, but getting to it without an acrobatic qualification is another matter altogether.

About fifteen minutes later the rod tip gave a proper whack before springing back. Then it nodded again and this time stayed bent. Straight away it had all the hallmarks of a decent chub, plenty of head shaking and just enough attitude to remind me why they can still be good fun on a Harrison 1.75lb rod.

As I slipped it back, Mikey wandered over for a look. "Barbel next," he said with a grin. I liked his optimism, even if the fish hadn't read the script yet.

Ten minutes later all hell broke loose. The rod went from standing politely to looking like it'd been attached to a passing tugboat. It felt every inch a barbel... for about four glorious seconds... before everything went slack. That's not something Mr Rubber Lips does very often, so I stood there muttering a few words that definitely wouldn't make the editor's cut.

Mikey packed up shortly afterwards, leaving me to fish into dusk. Before he disappeared he said, "At least you know they're there. It'll come good." I hoped he wasn't just being polite.

The chub, meanwhile, were doing their level best to keep me occupied, with another couple deciding that homemade paste was simply too good to refuse. Fine fish, but they do have an uncanny knack of turning up exactly when you're waiting for something with whiskers.

Then, a good half hour after darkness settled in, it finally happened. That slow, deliberate three-foot pull after one big thump that every barbel angler dreams about. No violence, no theatrics, just pure confidence. I lifted into it and this time everything stayed firmly attached.

What followed was a cracking fight under the beam of the head torch, with the fish using every bit of flow it could find. Eventually the net slipped underneath a lovely barbel that looked remarkably like the size of the fish I'd watched cruising the pool before. Target achieved, I'd say.

After a quick trophy shot and a good ten minutes resting in the margins in the oxygenated weir pool now guarded by bats, it powered back into the darkness as though nothing had happened. Funny old things, barbel. They can make you question every decision you've ever made one minute, then have you planning the next trip before you've even packed the landing net away.

That's why I enjoy these short sessions so much. A few hours by the river, a couple of greedy chub, one proper barbel and a head full of fresh air does far more good than sitting indoors watching the mad mad world 🤯 tie itself in knots. I still can't sit behind motionless rods for long, but when they finally pull round like that, it's worth every minute.

The River Wye - Barbelification and Bewilderment

Now there are moments in life when you think you've absolutely nailed it. Booking a father-and-son trip to the River Wye seemed like one of those moments, right up until the Wife wandered past, looked over my shoulder and casually reminded me that I'd also managed to book it on our eighteenth wedding anniversary. Eighteen years. That's not one you can pretend slipped your mind because of "river conditions."

Apparently disappearing off fishing while your long-suffering wife celebrates nearly two decades of marriage on her own isn't considered acceptable behaviour. I briefly considered explaining that barbel don't understand calendars, but experience has taught me that wives are remarkably resistant to angling-based excuses. It's almost as if they've heard them all before.

Fortunately, diplomacy prevailed. "We'll go out for a nice meal on Saturday," she said. "Okay," I replied, sensing I'd somehow escaped with only minor injuries. Then came the knockout punch... "You can pay."

Well played.

Now, regular readers will remember Glynn Purnell's old place, The Mount in Henley. Well that's all changed because it's now a Thai restaurant, run by the same people behind The Bulls Head at Wootton Wawen, and if first impressions count then they're onto a winner because the place was absolutely rammed.

We kicked things off with three starters to share because apparently that's what civilised adults do rather than ordering enough food to feed a stag party. They were superb, but the real star of the evening was my main course, a Panang curry proudly displaying a five-chilli warning like some sort of legal disclaimer.

Now I do enjoy my spicy food. I like a curry that makes your forehead glisten slightly and encourages you to question some of your life choices. This thing, however, was operating right on the upper edge of my personal pain threshold and I absolutely loved every fiery mouthful.

The thick coconut sauce somehow managed to calm the inferno whilst simultaneously encouraging it to burst back into life about thirty seconds later. It was like being repeatedly slapped around the face by a very friendly Thai chef. Outstanding.

To make matters even stranger, the Wife volunteered to drive home. I wasn't about to question this miracle and instead concentrated on ensuring most of the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc didn't go to waste. It would've been rude not to.

It was genuinely lovely seeing such a busy restaurant. The pub garden was absolutely packed with people making the most of the warm evening, proving that good food and decent service still draw the crowds. Funny that.

Earlier in the day we'd met friends at The Fish in Wixford where the conversation inevitably drifted towards fishing. It always does. Give anglers five minutes and someone will either produce photographs of fish or directions to somewhere that definitely contains fish.

During a completely unplanned detour into Angling Direct in Redditch for "just a few bits"—those four words responsible for emptying more wallets than inflation—I somehow managed to leave with a £15 book for a club on the River Arrow. I hadn't gone in for a book. I never intended buying a book. But there it was, in my permit wallet whispering sweet nothings about undiscovered swims and mysterious barbel.

As it happened, someone I know had recently spotted a few decent barbel in one particular stretch. That's all it takes with anglers. Mention the word "barbel" and we're halfway out the door before you've even finished the sentence.

Now poor Sam had spent the previous day at school sports day where, according to him, a lad weighing "about 100 kilograms" decided the best way to celebrate athletics was by body-slamming him. Whether the lad actually weighed 100kg or whether he'd simply swallowed another Year 11 remains open to debate, but Sam's wrist certainly wasn't happy about it.

At precisely 5.45am I poked my head around his bedroom door expecting eager excitement. Instead I was greeted by a rather miserable-looking teenager apologising because every now and then shooting pains were racing through his wrist. Fair enough. Fishing can wait, wrists are quite useful.

 So for the first time in a while, my usual partner in crime wasn't making the journey. Shame really because he'd have absolutely loved this place. Then again, perhaps he wouldn't have appreciated what came next.

Getting to the best swim is less of a walk and more of an audition for SAS: Who Dares Wins. First there's a steep hill that reminds you you're no longer twenty-five, followed by two stiles specifically designed to catch landing nets, then a metal bridge, another gate and finally...

...a very large bull.

Now I'm no expert on livestock but when your route to the river involves crossing a field occupied by something that looks capable of towing tractors for fun, you suddenly become remarkably respectful of personal space. 

I perfected a walking pace somewhere between "calm countryside rambler" and "Olympic speed walker pretending not to panic."

Thankfully the bull looked at me, looked at the rod holdall and seemingly concluded that anyone voluntarily carrying that much fishing gear clearly had enough problems already. Crisis averted.

Eventually I reached the river and immediately noticed the water felt deliciously cool. Gone was the warm bathwater we'd endured previously. 

The plan was straightforward: fish hard through the morning, enjoy some lunch, fish a little longer and escape before the afternoon heat started turning anglers into human puddles.

Before leaving home I'd noticed Angling Direct had virtually no method feeders left apart from their own-brand versions. They're cheap enough and, to be fair, on a snaggy little river that's probably a blessing because feeding expensive tackle into submerged branches is a hobby I can live without.

I started with five feeders.

That detail will become important later.

The first cast had barely settled before the tip bounced round like it had been connected to the National Grid. Fish on. Lovely chub.

Second cast.

Another chub.

Third cast.

Believe it or not... another chub.

It became utterly ridiculous. The robin red pellet wasn't even getting chance to introduce itself before another greedy chub inhaled it. I reckon if I'd cast out an old sock soaked in curry sauce I'd probably have caught one on that as well.

Within about an hour I'd landed ten chub. Not bites. Not missed opportunities. Ten actual fish. The smallest looked offended to be there while the better ones were proper lumps that filled the landing net nicely.

Normally when chub are feeding like this you'd expect the barbel to gatecrash the party eventually. Not today.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The river was low and clear, the ranunculus weed was looking magnificent and from my elevated perch I could see all sorts moving below. The trouble was every single shape eventually turned into... another chub.

I messaged Nic from Avon Angling UK for moral support. He suggested the barbel might be lurking in the deeper hole off to my right. Excellent thinking.

So naturally I cast over there.

Chub.

Again.

Some of these fish were proper footballs with fins. Not quite five-pounders but certainly giving it serious consideration, and every single one was carefully unhooked in the water before swimming away looking vaguely annoyed that breakfast had ended so abruptly.

By lunchtime I'd already lost count of how many times I'd said, "Surely the next one will be a barbel."

It never was.

After lunch I fancied a change and wandered downstream to a faster glide for a bit of trotting. Because there wasn't anywhere sensible to stick a bankstick I wedged the rod and landing net into my waders with all the grace of someone attempting advanced yoga while dressed as a scarecrow.

The float travelled beautifully.

Then disappeared.

Chub.

Obviously.

By now I was starting to suspect I'd accidentally wandered onto the River Chub rather than the River Wye. If there had been a competition for catching species that weren't barbel, I'd have been lifting the trophy with both hands.

Eventually I wandered back to the original swim where the chub welcomed me back like old friends. They were still feeding with exactly the same enthusiasm they'd shown first thing that morning, which was both brilliant and faintly ridiculous. Trotting meat again just chub. 

Meanwhile my method feeders were disappearing into underwater snags with alarming regularity. Remember those five feeders I started with?

By home time...

I'd successfully reduced the population to precisely zero.

Somewhere beneath that swim lies an impressive collection of terminal tackle, enough to start a small underwater tackle shop. If fish ever learn to open businesses, they'll be trading by next spring.

As tempting as it was to stay until dusk, there didn't seem much point. The barbel clearly hadn't read the script and either weren't feeding or had already stuffed themselves senseless the previous day. Sometimes rivers simply decide today's not your day.

Did I mind?

Not one bit.

I'd spent the day surrounded by glorious countryside, watched kingfishers flash along the river like tiny feathered missiles, listened to buzzards calling overhead and caught well over a hundred pounds of wonderfully obliging chub. There are definitely worse ways to spend a Sunday.

The climb back up Heart Attack Hill after the over half a mile walk was surprisingly manageable too. Either someone's secretly reduced the gradient overnight or all this river walking is actually improving my fitness. Personally I suspect it's the latter, although I'm keeping an eye on that bull just in case he's been flattening it out between visits.

So no barbel, no fishing partner, no method feeders and an unexpectedly expensive wedding anniversary weekend. Yet somehow it all worked out rather nicely. The Wife got her anniversary meal, I got my curry-induced near-death experience, Sam gets another trip once his wrist behaves itself and somewhere on the River Wye there's a gang of exceptionally well-fed chub wondering when that daft bloke with the robin red pellets is coming back.