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 - Salt-Guns and Salamandroids

Well, if the Met Office are to be believed, Stratford-upon-Avon could be nudging 40 degrees this week. Forty! That's not weather for Warwickshire; that's weather for lizards, tourists with regrettable sunburn, and blokes who insist on wearing socks with sandals. I spent most of the morning wondering whether to fill the bird bath or simply climb into it myself.

The talk everywhere seems to be air-conditioning. A few years ago, buying an air-conditioning unit in Britain felt about as necessary as owning a snowplough in the Sahara. Now I'm finding myself browsing appliance websites with the same urgency normally reserved for bait orders and discounted fishing tackle. The nation's gone from discussing drizzle to comparing BTU ratings in the space of a fortnight.

As for the fishing, common sense may have to prevail. When the river feels more like the warm shallow seas of Ayia Napa than a flowing watercourse, it's hard to justify chasing barbel around. They fight like demons at the best of times, and in these conditions with lower oxygen levels you can't help but wonder who's really enjoying the experience. Probably not the fish. Probably not the angler either once he's melted into a puddle on the riverbank.

So, for now, the rods may remain in the garage after this session while I seek refuge in the shade, clutching a cold drink and keeping one eye on the thermometer. If this carries on much longer, Shakespeare's birthplace will need palm trees, and I'll need that air-conditioning unit after all.

Now ordinarily, I’m a man of absolute peace. Give me a lukewarm flask of tea, a pack of maggots that are crawling suspiciously faster than they should, and a quiet swim on the Warwickshire Avon, and I am content. But during a recent heatwave session on a sneaky stretch of the canal, I wasn’t just doing battle with the local zander. I was the primary target for a merciless, bloodthirsty squadron of Warwickshire mosquitoes. 

I’m talking about the kind of airborne pests that laugh at insect repellent. After stopping counting at about 35 bites, I sat on my chair, scratching like a dog with fleas, and thought: there has to be a mechanical solution to this biological warfare. Enter an engineer mate of mine. Engineers don’t look at bugs the way normal people do. They don’t see an annoyance; they see a ballistics deficit.

“Mick,” he said, eyes gleaming with the manic energy of a man who spends his lunch breaks analysing stress-strain curves. “You need a laser guided Bug-A-Salt 3.0. It leverages compressed spring kinetics to atomise standard sodium chloride crystals. It’s pure mechanical genius.” Naturally, I was sceptical. As an angler, I’m used to precision mechanics the buttery click of a high-end centrepin reel, the perfect taper of a carbon Avon rod.

But watching an engineer examine this plastic fly-swatter alternative is a different sort of entertainment altogether. 

When it turned up a few days later I was practically drooling over the tolerances of the pump-action mechanism and the fluid dynamics of the salt hopper.

“Look at the safety cross-bolt engagement,! Look at the elevation on the Patridge sight!”

Then a massive horsefly landed squarely on my bait box, eyeing up my red maggots like a hungry Brummie at a kebab van. 

I racked the pump a satisfying clack-clack that felt like closing the breech on an expensive piece of kit sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

Pfft!

No toxic spray. No chemical stink to ruin my hookbaits. Just a tiny puff of table salt and one very neutralised horsefly dropped onto the towpath without a single splatter.

Clean execution.

If I can’t bait-boat my way out of a mosquito frenzy, at least I can anti-air weapon my way through it. It leaves a pinch of salt on the grass, but frankly, if a few grains land in the water, I’ll just call it pre-baiting for the next incoming shoal. I might even try loading it with fine garlic salt next time give the canal roach a bit of seasoning before they even see the hook.

Tight lines, and keep your hopper dry.

Anyway over a week now into the river season and, as is traditional, I found myself undertaking what sounded far grander than it actually was: a reconnaissance mission. In reality this involved driving around Warwickshire in a Suzuki Jimny looking for somewhere nice to sit and occasionally throw bits of fish food into a river.

This new venue (to me)  in question came recommended by a blog reader whom I've bumped into on a couple of occasions. Hi Baz !!

This is hardly surprising as we both seem to suffer from the same affliction: an overwhelming desire to avoid other anglers. 

If there were a syndicate called "The Society for the Preservation of Peace, Quiet and Not Being Bothered" we'd probably both be committee members.

The stretch itself ticked all the important boxes. It was less than nine miles away, fifteen minutes from home and involved a route consisting mainly of country lanes narrow enough to make you question whether modern vehicles were a mistake and be thankful the Jimny is unconventional . 

Most importantly, it offered that rare combination of solitude, wildlife and the realistic possibility of not hearing somebody else's bite alarm rendition of a submarine emergency.

What had really piqued my interest though was the untapped zander potential. The thought of improving my personal best had lodged itself firmly in my mind. This is dangerous because anglers are remarkably skilled at convincing themselves that fish they've never seen definitely exist and are probably enormous.

Google Maps only tells you so much, but what I could see looked promising. Better still, the entire 600-metre stretch was accessible by vehicle. The little Jimny would be in its natural habitat. Some people buy four-wheel drives to conquer mountain ranges. Mine spends most of its time transporting pellets, flasks and unrealistic expectations, but unlike many 4x4 users these days, it often does what it is designed to do.

Being able to park virtually on top of the swim is a massive advantage for short sessions. The older I get, the more I appreciate a fishing venue where the walk from car to river doesn't require expedition supplies, sherpas and a farewell letter to loved ones.

There was no rush. Dusk wasn't until after 10.00pm and with the heat wave kicking in soon about the best opportunity I had all week for a dangle, leaving plenty of time for a proper look around. I checked the water temperature which was 23 degrees 😯 I wandered from swim to swim, peering into the water with all the confidence of a man who was largely making things up as he went along. Every crease looked fishy. Every glide looked fishy. Every snag looked fishy. In fact everything looked fishy, which was fortunate considering it was a river.

I scanned the deeper in a few areas and it's a fairy uniform depth with lots of character, lily pads and weed in lots of area but clean gravel also which was nice to see.

Eventually I settled on a swim that looked suitably fishy. I can't adequately define what "fish" means but experienced anglers will understand. It's a bit like house hunting. You walk in, look around and immediately decide whether you'd live there despite having absolutely no logical basis for the conclusion. Well, ok I confess I had a few swims to try from Baz. 

Tactics were kept pleasingly simple. A concentrated patch of bait delivered via a PVA bag, some homemade paste making its appearance again and, on the hair, an ever-reliable Robin Red pellet. It had served me faithfully last season and I see no reason to abandon a successful partnership. Unlike several football managers, the pellet has never let me down.

To get things started I introduced a bait dropper full of hemp and small pellets before allowing the swim to rest. This sounds wonderfully tactical and scientific. In truth it mainly gave me an excuse to sit down, drink cold water and stare at the river whilst pretending important things were happening beneath the surface.

The jungle drums on the WBAS WhatsApp group had been beating loudly since the start of the season. Rumours suggested the barbel were preoccupied with spawning activities when the drawbridge came up on the 16th and therefore maybe less interested in my carefully prepared offerings. They may well have more pressing matters on their minds than helping me improve my catch reports, but to be honest with the water temp as it is, they can wait for a while. 

It's difficult to compete with romance.

Still, I remained optimistic. If sure the barbel still could well be engaged in their annual bout of bukkake despite waiting over a week since they had been spotted on various rivers, that or chilling in the weirs because of the heat, perhaps a bream might wander past or a nice bream, Chub are wonderfully accommodating creatures. While barbel often behave like celebrities surrounded by security staff, chub are more akin to that bloke in the pub who'll happily stop for a chat with anyone.

Anyway as the evening settled and the shadows lengthened, I sat quietly beside a stretch of river I'd never fished before. Not that much traffic noise. No crowds. No distractions. Just birdsong, flowing water and the comforting knowledge that somewhere beneath the surface there might be a specimen fish, absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Which, when you think about it, is one of the many reasons fishing remains such a splendidly ridiculous pastime.

With the heat of the day finally ebbing away, it was surprising just how quickly the water temperature dropped. Over a couple of hours it shed more than two degrees, helped no doubt by the steady rain that accompanied the first part of the session. Despite looking promising, very little happened early on and the river remained stubbornly quiet.

Things livened up when the bats emerged. For the best part of half an hour they seemed intent on colliding with the line, rattling the rod tip often enough to keep me guessing. More than once the tip flicked round in a way that would have convinced anyone a fish was attached. Eventually dusk deepened and the bats moved elsewhere, leaving the river to settle once more.

Not long after came a proper whack on the rod. The tip sprang into life with a series of sharp knocks, though nothing really committed itself. A strike connected with something, but the culprit proved to be a tiny chublet whose ambition far outweighed its size. It was quickly swung to hand and admired before being returned.

Another fifteen minutes passed without further action, so that was that. Even so, the stretch looks full of promise, particularly for predators, and I'm keen to spend more time exploring it when conditions improve. For now, with the heatwave set to tighten its grip again, it's a case of sitting it out and looking ahead to a cooler weekend.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.142 (Canal Zander)

There are few acts in modern life more heroic, more ambitious, and ultimately more fragile than a man deciding with absolute conviction that he is going fishing early in the morning. Not just any morning either, but a Saturday. A sacred morning. A morning traditionally reserved for sleeping like a log that’s recently been hit over the head. And yet, there I was, awake before the birds had even finished negotiating whether they could be bothered, gear loaded in the car like I was embarking on some grand expedition, and the kettle roaring into life with all the promise of a new beginning.

Now, it’s at this exact point kettle on, boots half-laced, mind brimming with imagined catches that reality likes to quietly tap you on the shoulder and whisper, “You don’t actually have to do this, you know.” It’s never loud. Never dramatic. Just a gentle suggestion. A seed planted. And before you know it, you’re standing there, staring at the kettle like it’s personally wronged you, questioning everything. The canal will be cold. The fish will be moody. Your hands will resemble frozen sausages. Meanwhile, upstairs, your bed sits in serene, judgment-free silence, radiating warmth like a loyal old friend who’s never once let you down.

The kettle clicked off. That was the turning point. Not a bang, not a crash just a quiet, decisive “nope.” The deadbaits, which moments earlier had been symbols of optimism, were solemnly returned to the freezer like soldiers dismissed before battle. And with all the grace of a man who absolutely intended to go fishing five minutes ago, I turned on my heel and went straight back to bed. A tactical withdrawal. A strategic regroup. A complete surrender to comfort. I slept like a champion.

Now, I’d love to say this was a rare lapse in discipline, but that would be a lie of heroic proportions. Until the clocks change, I operate on what can only be described as a seasonal malfunction. The enthusiasm is there oh, it’s there in abundance but it’s buried under layers of frost, darkness, and a deep-rooted suspicion that being horizontal is simply the better option. Come lighter evenings, I’m a different man. A motivated man. A man who actually follows through. But in late winter? I’m essentially negotiating with myself on an hourly basis.

Redemption, however, came in the form of an afternoon trip to Stratford-Upon-Avon a place that feels like it was specifically designed to make you forget you bottled a fishing session. Sam was there on his bike, full of energy and clearly unaware of the psychological battles that had already been fought and lost that morning. The rabble were in attendance too, bringing with them the usual blend of noise, chaos, and inexplicable stick-collecting. It was all very wholesome, very pleasant, and just the right amount of distracting.

Naturally, this wholesome experience was elevated to near perfection with a visit to the Dirty Duck, where a pint was consumed with the kind of satisfaction normally reserved for people who’ve actually achieved something. It didn’t matter. In that moment, I felt like a winner. A well-rested, slightly fraudulent winner, but a winner nonetheless.

Sunday morning, though Sunday was different. Sunday had purpose. Sunday had grit. Sunday had frost so thick it looked like the fields had been dusted with icing sugar by an overenthusiastic baker. It was properly cold. The sort of cold that sneaks into your bones and sets up camp. Naturally, this is exactly the sort of weather that inspires a man to go and stand next to water for several hours.

I headed to a nearby stretch about fifteen minutes away known for occasionally producing a big fish. And when I say “occasionally,” I mean just enough to keep hope alive while simultaneously destroying your confidence over time. A classic relationship, really.

The plan was simple: rove about, cover water, find fish. A smelt on one rod, a roach on the other a dynamic duo of optimism. The zander in this stretch have a distinct black tinge to them, which gives them a slightly villainous appearance, like they’ve been plotting something. Not that I saw any. But I know they’re there. Watching. Judging.

An hour in the first swim a swim that has, in the past, been generous produced absolutely nothing. Not even a courtesy nibble. It was the aquatic equivalent of being ignored in a conversation. The only real entertainment came from a group of lambs in the field opposite, who were bouncing around with reckless joy, completely oblivious to the fact that I was slowly losing the will to feel my fingers. Honestly, they were having a better session than me.

And so, the roving began in earnest. Five swims. Five fresh starts. Five opportunities to turn things around. Each one approached with renewed enthusiasm and left with slightly less dignity than the last. The water was crystal clear  the kind of clarity that makes fish behave like paranoid conspiracy theorists. Every movement, every shadow, every slightly suspicious-looking human with a landing net  all immediately noted and avoided.

What I needed was a boat. Just one. A nice, inconsiderate boat to come chugging through, stirring everything up, giving me half a chance. I waited. I listened. I even glanced into the distance like a man expecting reinforcements. Nothing. Not a ripple. It was as if the entire canal network had collectively agreed to ruin my day.

There was, however, a moment  a brief, electrifying moment when the float snapped from flat to vertical like it had just remembered an urgent appointment. Heart racing, eyes locked, brain firing on all cylinders. 

This was it. The bite. The moment. The story. Except… no. Nothing. It just… stopped. Like a joke with no punchline. I was left staring at it, trying to process what had just happened, like a man who’s just waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at him.

They’ve been dredging along that stretch too, which has transformed one of the nicest swims known affectionately as Bream Bay into something resembling a construction site. 

Piles of silt dumped on the side, the whole place looking like it’s been through a rough breakup. It’s still fishable, technically, but it’s lost a bit of its soul. You can tell.

Four and a half hours later, the result was undeniable: a blank. A proper, honest, can’t-even-blame-the-moon-phase blank. 

The kind that strips things back and reminds you exactly what this pastime is all about prolonged optimism followed by quiet disappointment.

The frustrating part? The conditions were absolutely perfect for float fishing for smaller species. Calm water. 

Hardly any movement. The sort of scenario where you could probably catch something… anything… just to avoid total humiliation. Naturally, I had committed fully to not doing that.

The walk back to the car was a slow one. Not dramatic. Not tragic. Just… reflective. 

The gear seemed heavier, the cold a bit sharper, and my internal commentary had shifted firmly into sarcasm. 

Still, there’s always a safety net in these situations. A reliable, comforting, slightly frothy safety net.

The pub.

A pint of Theakston’s Old Peculiar was secured, and let me tell you it tasted like success. Not actual success, obviously. More like emotional compensation. 

But at that point, I was more than willing to accept it. And now here we are. Gear still in the car. Hope, somehow, still intact. The itch returning, as it always does. 

Because despite everything the blanks, the cold, the self-inflicted misery there’s always that tiny voice saying, “Next time.”

So, after work, I’ll head back out. Evening this time. Different light. Different mood. Same questionable decision-making. Will I catch a zander? Possibly. Probably not. But that’s never really the point, is it?

Next time, a different stretch.

Definitely.

Almost certainly.

Unless the bed gets involved again. Anyway if you want to entertainment watch this !!!

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.39

Ah, yes. Monday. Approaching not with dignity or grace but with the subtlety of a Northern pike detonating into a shoal of roach. The Big 5–3, looming like a barbel bivvied under a snag—patient, inevitable, and smelling faintly of halibut pellet and mid-life crisis. Fifty-flipping-three. One foot in the grave, the other still trying to perfect a Wallis cast without looking like I’m conducting a small orchestra of invisible bees.  

People say I don't look my age, of course they lie, but I appreciate the effort. I maintain the sprightly demeanour of a man in his late forties on a good physio day, provided the ibuprofen has kicked in and the knee brace is on the correct leg. Elasticity? More like well-loved bankstick tubing: perished, cracking, yet refusing to give up through sheer bloody-mindedness.

And sixty—SIXTY!—is out there beyond the marginal lilies, squinting through bifocals and polishing its orthopedic slippers like a retired SAS sergeant tending to his ceremonial dagger. 

I can almost hear it wheezing, chuckling, sharpening its scythe on the back of my last functional lumbar vertebra. 

Time, that slippery devil, is racing past faster than a spooked chub on the gin-clear Warwickshire Avon, the kind of fish that looks at you, judges your life choices, and then bolts off like it’s late for a Zoom call with its therapist.

The Mrs God bless her for tolerating my collection of rods, reels, and landing nets that cost more than her wedding shoes (a fact she reminds me of seasonally like the renewal date on a rod licence)—had a scheme. Thinking, no doubt, “Let’s see if his arteries can handle something that would make a Roman senator wince,” (We have recently renewed our life insurance !!) she whisked me off to a Brazilian Rodizio in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Because nothing screams "celebrating your continued survival" like testing whether your cardiovascular system can endure sword-wielding waiters slinging protein like medieval siege engineers launching cattle over castle walls.

Meanwhile young Sam now a towering beanpole of teenage non-fishing rebellion stayed home to look after big brother Ben. 

A rare treat: to trust your offspring not to burn the house down, adopt a goat, or order industrial-scale pizza deliveries. With no support network worth mentioning, it's an odd sort of luxury to have a kid mature faster than your cholesterol levels. 

And oh, what a spectacle. The passadores essentially churrasco-trained meat ninjas strode about with skewers so imposing I half-expected the bard himself to rise from his grave and ask whether we were rehearsing Macbeth or an enthusiastic re-enactment of Gladiator. 

At one point, I swear one of them sized me up like a hog roast candidate. If the green card on the table flipped the wrong way, I might’ve ended up rotating over charcoal while tourists from Birmingham applauded politely and asked whether I came with chimichurri.

Chicken hearts arrived by the dozen Coração de Frango, which in Portuguese either means “delicious delicacy of cultural significance” or “procedure your GP recommends avoiding after 50.” I devoured them with the enthusiasm of a carp that’s just discovered someone spilt a bucket of Dynamite Marine Halibut boilies in the margins. 

Bife de Alho flowed past like long-lost relatives at a wake each slice a garlicky whisper saying, “You lived another year. Reckon you can handle another?” A man at the next table was openly sweating meat grease like a bacon candle. His wife looked like she had already drafted the eulogy.

Somewhere between the ninth cut of sirloin and what may have been a small llama disguised as beef “special cut,” my body began issuing gentle warnings. 

First a polite nudge: “Steady, lad.” Then, moments later, an urgent communiqué from the Department of Internal Affairs: “We didn’t sign off on this mission. Stop or we’re pulling the plug.” I powered on anyway, because pride is a terrible helmsman and also there was caramelised pineapple and frankly I fear no man and certainly no tropical fruit.

I reached a personal plateau of protein intake that could only be described as prehistoric caveman meets Tom Stoltman preparing for a WSM tournament. 

Then came the meat sweats. Oh yes, those glorious humid trousers of perspiration, clinging like a wet wader after you step in slightly wrong. 

I lay down at home staring at the ceiling, belly like a python post-gazelle, and in that moment of culinary delirium and self-reflection, I Googled Mounjaro. 

Not because I need it heaven forbid  but more in a “might-need-it-in-2027-as-a-backup-plan” kind of way. Future-proofing is important at my age, especially when your metabolism is basically a retired greyhound.

In this cost of living crisis those small wins, or in this case BIG wins need to be grasped with both arms, make hay whilst the sun shines and we both certainly did I can tell you that. 

Anyway to the fishing if you are still awake !! in an act of nostalgia or masochism I revisited an old blog post, (this is number 1834 👀 btw ) (which frankly feels like the age my spine believes it is), chronicling a COVID-era syndicate adventure where poachers roamed with all the subtlety of Newcastle clubbing ladies at a kebab van after midnight. 

I had landed a respectable 12lb 6oz pike PB at the time back when the world was mad, the rivers quieter, and my knees slightly less creaky. Since then, I've bettered that PB both river and canal side, with a canal pike over 17lbs that looked like it wanted to claim council tax benefits and register as a local resident.

I don't target pike much these days, largely because they look like a Victorian doctor designed them after seeing a crocodile once in a sketchbook.  

But when you do bank a good ‘un, there’s awe. A prehistoric torpedo designed for pure murder that swims around the Midlands silently plotting mayhem. Beautiful in a “don’t-put-your-fingers-there-Mick-you-pillock” sort of way.

Anyway, fishing wasn't really about pike today nor even Zander, those nocturnal teethy goblins of the cut. The farmer finally removed the electric fence to contain the sheep, meaning access to more swims along the syndicate stretch, and crucially I could now drive right behind the peg instead of lugging a hedge cutter like some geriatric lumberjack cosplay.

Yes, I have grown lazy in my golden-fishing-years era. Once I'd stride along riverbanks like a younger man possessed now I see a walk longer than a Tesco Express car park and internally whimper. 

(I'm still maintaining 10k steps on average a day you will be please to know) The hedge cutter alone weighs as much as my resolve did before discovering LSD in my twenties. 

But needs must, and if maintaining the swims means I get first dibs at the good ones, then so be it. The river gods reward effort allegedly. Though they mostly reward people who own stealthy bait boats and suspiciously expensive sunglasses.

There’s a moment, somewhere between swinging a hedge timmer like a medieval turnip farmer and realising you’ve just stepped in something that definitely wasn’t mud, when a man questions his life decisions. I’d set off for the river with hope in my chest and breakfast pastries in the glovebox, convinced that today yes today! I would outwit a pike and maybe even look competent doing it. Fast-forward half an hour and I was locked in mortal combat with autumn nettles, swearing with the gusto of a pirate who’s stubbed his toe on his own treasure chest.

I hacked, trimmed and generally vandalised the riverside vegetation until the bank looked like someone had attempted landscape gardening with the emotional restraint of a toddler on a Haribo overdose. Sweat poured, ambition radiated, and at one point the brambles and I were so entwined we may as well have been engaged. But, dear reader, swims were cleared. Nature defeated. My honour only mildly compromised. A couple of heroic dips in the river sorted the sweat situation and I emerged ready — nay, ordained — for piscatorial victory.

 

Rods out. Float poised in that perfect way that suggests something might, at any moment, explode into a dramatic spray of water and primal triumph. The river glistened like polished silver, dragonflies danced in the morning sun, and my anticipation crackled like the first gulp of a cold pint after a week of pretending salad is a satisfying lunch. I could practically hear the David Attenborough narration warming up.

So the masterplan: four or five swims, hour in each, find a pike, land said pike, grin smugly for blog readers and imaginary documentary crew. First swim, normally as reliable as the bloke in the pub who always “knows a shortcut.” Nothing. Not a nudge, not a rattle, not even a pike popping up to laugh at me. Fine. Onto the next roving mode activated, strides purposeful, like a man who definitely knows what he’s doing and not one who forgot which pocket he put his forceps in.

Second stretch of river again, splendid nothingness. Fishless silence, punctuated only by the gentle rustling of reeds and the slow deflation of my ego. I tried sink-and-draw with the smelt, a deadly method according to every fishing article written in the last two decades and also every bloke with a YouTube channel and a beard. I twitched that smelt like I was presenting it at the Royal Ballet. Nothing followed. Not even a curious roach pretending to care.

To the deeper water then, where big pike theoretically lurk like those grumpy nightclub bouncers from Coventry's Fatty Arbuckle's back in the day. I chucked a lure about with all the finesse of a drunk penguin. Wind picked up, lure rod began behaving like it was possessed by the spirit of a disgruntled washing line, and very quickly “dedicated lure angler” became “man giving up before he throws something expensive into the reeds out of spite.”

 Deadbaits back out. Prayers whispered. Offerings made to the fish gods that probably violated several religious guidelines. The river responded with all the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to unload the dishwasher. By this point, the only thing taking interest in my baits was a lone leaf, which drifted past with a kind of pitying vibe, like even the foliage had given up hope.

Hours passed. My optimism slowly dissolved, much like my rear end’s feeling in that ridiculous folding chair that looks sporty but has all the ergonomic qualities of an anvil. In the end, the only thing I hooked all day was a clump of reeds the size of a Labradoodle and a philosophical crisis about why I don’t play golf instead though then I remember golf involves trousers.

And so I trudged home, smelling faintly of sea fish, plant sap, and desperation, self-esteem slightly bruised but not fully annihilated. Because that’s fishing: endless hope, frequent humiliation, and just enough stubbornness to do it all again next weekend. Besides the river owes me now. I’ve filed an emotional complaint. Next time, I want action. And if not action, at least a pike swimming by so I can swear at it with purpose.

On to the next one !!

Warwickshire Avon - Starmers and Starbolins

It’s typical, isn’t it? Just when the old fishing mojo starts to worm its way back into the bloodstream like a long-forgotten pint of McEwan's Champion, life has this curious knack of pulling the rug from under your size nines and replacing it with something altogether less palatable like a to-do list, a calendar full of appointments, and the occasional reminder that the wife’s nail appointment, is in fact, a non-negotiable slot.

You see, I’d just got myself back into that comforting rhythm of fishing thoughts creeping into my head when I’m supposed to be drafting a project plan for work. A Zander here, a deadbait there, a jigging rod leant jauntily against the desk whilst the interior designers want to challenge the engineering team over this and that. 

The timing couldn’t be worse, because wouldn’t you know it, the latest automotive contract has me wearing smart'ish itre again instead of joggers, back in the office almost full time, and reacquainted with the dulcet tones of the coffee machine that sounds like it’s wheezing out its final rites. Nice office though. Big windows, clean carpets, and not a single whiff of sardine oil so I can hardly complain.

Still, the Friday finish remains my golden ticket. Half past twelve, I’m out the door, visions of rivers, reels, and a fish or two putting the sort of bounce in my step that makes passers-by assume I’ve either won the lottery or discovered a hip flask of something medicinal. But alas, life’s gears and cogs have a funny way of snagging on each other. Case in point: the Suzuki Jimny. Faithful little steed, six years of age, fifty thousand miles of dubious road trips and dubious takeaway wrappers crammed under the seat and suddenly the brakes decide they’re auditioning for Britain’s Got Talent with a judder felt through the steering wheel and body that could wake the dead.

 “New discs, new pads,” they said. “As soon as possible post MOT,” they said. And I, of course, nodded like a man who knows he’s about to wave goodbye to a chunk of his Friday fishing fund. 

Because you see, while I really wanted to be setting up by the Dead Arm a stretch I hadn’t haunted for a while but which has a reputation for fat Zander with bellies like bowling balls instead I was sat in the waiting area of the garage, sipping machine coffee and thumbing through a three-year-old copy of Saga Magazine.

Now, normally that’d be enough to sour the week. But you see, there was a bright spot. Earlier in the week, I’d gone out with my mate Phippo for a spot of culinary adventuring at the Fusion Clan restaurant in Warwick. And I’ll tell you what, it was worth every sideways glance from the wife who thinks curry houses are just excuses for men to talk nonsense for two hours while the naan bread goes cold. She’s not wrong, but still. I started with this liver and mushroom starter that had been licked with Keralan spices  one of those dishes that makes you briefly consider moving to South India with nothing but a fork and a pair of elasticated trousers. 

Then came the seafood platter, which was essentially Poseidon’s pantry served on a plate: prawns, seabass, dosa, squid, and things with shells that looked like they might scuttle off the plate if you gave them half a chance. All rather nice too, washed down with a crisp lager and the kind of banter you only get with someone who’s watched you fall in the river more than once.

The river, by all accounts, is low. Lower than the humour levels in a corporate health and safety briefing. But that’s no bad thing because the Dead Arm has its secrets. The casual passer-by might see nothing but featureless water, yet I know the swims where the depth holds steady, the sort of dark lairs where a Zed might skulk, licking its vampiric chops and waiting for an unsuspecting roach to flutter by. 

In those moments, I feel like a detective in a flat cap, pipe clenched between teeth, except the crime I’m solving involves 20lb wire and the faint whiff of rotting sprats. But here’s the rub. Fishing plans are like soufflés delicate, unpredictable, and liable to collapse if someone so much as looks at them the wrong way. Between the wife’s appointments, the kids’ taxi service schedule, and my own growing list of “jobs that need doing before winter sets in,” the Dead Arm trip as expected will have to wit till next week. On the positive though, there is rain as I type this and hopefully that will bring some much needed colour in the water. 

Now a man of my age doesn’t get phased easily experience has seen to that but it does feel like a cosmic joke sometimes. You wait all week, your imagination practically salivating over the thought of a midnight-eyed predator hammering into your bait, and then bang! Life steps in with a well-aimed kick to the shins.

Still, that’s fishing life, isn’t it? We chase moments. We juggle. We balance. And if we’re lucky brakes permitting, diaries aligning, and the Wife not suddenly deciding that the loft really must be cleared out on Saturday morning we might just get to wet a line in those dark waters. And who knows? Perhaps a Zander or two will be kind enough to remind me why I put up with all the chaos in the first place.

So with Friday literally a washout 

It was an early start, I must admit one of those mornings where the alarm goes off and for a fleeting second you wonder if it’s worth it. Then you remember: there are barbel to be caught, reputations to uphold, and bacon rolls to consume. Buffalo Si had been banging on about this new hot peg that had apparently been spitting out barbel like confetti at a wedding. Not at dusk, mind you oh no, these were sophisticated, all-day-dining barbel. Naturally, I had to have a go.

The stretch was eerily quiet, save for the wind, which seemed to be auditioning for a part in The Wizard of Oz. I was the only angler about possibly because everyone else had checked the weather forecast and decided they’d rather be in the pub. But I was wrapped up tighter than a sausage roll in puff pastry, so I wasn’t about to let a bit of meteorological mischief ruin the fun.

Four hours in, not so much as a twitch. The river looked spot on moody, yet the rods remained motionless, the quiver tip as still as a monk on mute. I had plenty of time to think dangerous, that. You start questioning life choices, like why you didn’t take up golf, or why smelt smell like something you’d find down the back of a student fridge.

Then, at long last, a bite! Not an epic, rod-rattling affair, but more of a polite nudge as if the fish was tapping me on the shoulder to say, “Excuse me, sir, might I trouble you for a small wrestle?” I struck, heart pounding, visions of a 20lb Warwickshire whopper filling my head… only for a rather snotty, underfed pike to appear, looking more insulted than hooked.

It wasn’t the triumphant moment I’d been picturing. More like opening a Christmas present and finding socks from Aunt Maureen. Still, a fish is a fish, even if it did look like it needed counselling and a good meal.

As I packed up, the wind howling like a banshee across the Avon, I realised something: maybe it’s time to stop chasing other people’s barbel dreams. Buffalo Si can keep his hot peg and his mid-day miracles. Me? I’ll stick to my own chaotic brand of piscatorial pottering. After all, blanking in style is still blanking and I’ve got that down to an art form.

Warwickshire Avon - Haybales and Haycocks

Well, not-so-little Sam decided to tag along for a meander down the gin-clear and ever-beguiling Warwickshire Avon. A fine decision it was too, especially with sight-fishing being on the cards  the bread-crust ballet that both of us hold dear. No feeders. No fancy rigs. Just rod, line, hook and a loaf of something white and indecently soft, oh and polarised sunglasses. 

First swim was quieter than a barbel in February. Not so much as a twitch. But no matter like any good river wanderers, we moved downstream with hope in our hearts and bread in our pockets (and, in my case, annoyingly in the bottom of my ruckbag too). Second swim, secluded and shady, looked positively fishy, like a place a chub might loaf about waiting for a snack. No freebies required  just a flick of flake and a bit of faith.

A bronze-flanked chub drifted up from the gloom like a ghost of summers past and with all the caution of a Labrador near an unattended sausage roll, snaffled the bread with aplomb. I was on the rod, heart doing somersaults. A spirited scrap ensued line taut, rod tip alive and soon the chub was sulking in the net, fat and glistening like a riverine gold bar.

Sam, naturally, declared it his turn, and who was I to argue? We wandered upstream via a third swim that seemed to contain nothing but water and a vague sense of disappointment. But the next spot looked the business nice flow, good depth, the sort of swim you imagine in winter daydreams when you’re stuck in IKEA pretending to care about curtain poles.

Barbel were there, just loafing about in the current like teenagers outside a corner shop. A few chub too, all shadows and suspicion. They gave floating crust the kind of disdainful look that says, “Really? Bit obvious, don’t you think?” So we switched tactics to slow-sinking bread, the piscatorial equivalent of lowering the bait into their inbox with a winking emoji.

The first few attempts were met with the kind of short takes and last-minute refusals that make you question if you’ve angered some river deity. Sam, though, with grim determination and a rather stylish flick, sent a piece tight to the far bank. One of the chub came up like a missile, nailed it, and instantly regretted everything. A proper scrap followed. Sam held the spool like a tiny gladiator and even when the fish snagged him, gave it slack with the cool confidence of someone who knows what’s what.

Fish was landed, applause was muted (save for the mad wagging of my internal dad-pride meter), and then… crack!

Sam lifted the net, and the landing net handle a old Drennan job, usually as reliable as rain at a barbecue gave up the ghost in spectacular, carbon-snapping fashion. 

A tragic moment, made all the more surreal by Sam’s genuinely innocent face of “Did I break the river?” Fortunately, after that time on the Wye when I had to abandon my gear mid-session and do a 5-mile yomp to a tackle shop, I now keep a spare net handle in the car. Always learning.

Now the rest of the swims were mostly empty or rather, occupied by chub with commitment issues. One swim was positively chub soup, fish everywhere but acting like the bread was laced with cyanide. Floaters ignored, crusts sniffed and snubbed. 

We managed a small chublet after disturbing a pike who’d clearly had enough of our nonsense. Then the pool went full shutdown fish vanished, silence descended, and it felt like the Avon herself was telling us to pack it in.

So we did the only sensible thing left: took a stroll down to the syndicate stretch for a nose at the farmer’s most recent hedge-trimming artwork and a glance at the big pool. Sadly, it was blown out with a wicked surface chop, more North Sea than middle England. No good for finesse, and certainly no place for floating crust. So we called it a day, laughed about the broken net, and rounded it off with a bacon sarnie that tasted of triumph, river air, and just a touch of disappointment the flavour of fishing itself.