Warwickshire Avon - Benevolence and Benification

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead the rod hooped over beautifully.

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

It was, naturally, a chub.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warwickshire Avon - Synchronised and Subterfuge

I stumbled across a rambling gospel of trotting pellets for roach written with the sort of conviction usually reserved for people who’ve just discovered a “secret peg” that everyone else has also been sat on for 20 years. I meant to skim it, but it escalated into full attention somewhere between “this is interesting” and “I now need to try this immediately on the Warwickshire Avon”.

The idea, as far as I can tell, is brutally simple in a way that feels slightly insulting to more complicated tackle boxes. Find a river where pellets are already going in for barbel, and you’ve basically already found the roach it’s just a case of convincing them to behave like roach instead of underwater pensioners ignoring you from a distance. 

Big fish, apparently, are less “rare and mystical” and more “opportunistic and slightly lazy”, which is a theory I can relate to on a personal level. The method hinges on doing one thing properly: presenting a single pellet on the drift so it behaves like a natural, sinking morsel rather than something you’ve lobbed in with hope and denial. 

Light float, just enough shot to control the descent, and a banded 4–6mm pellet that sits neatly on the hook like it belongs there. 

Nothing fancy, nothing clever, just controlled chaos drifting through a feeding lane. Where it gets interesting is the feeding. Not dumping bait like you’re trying to fill a skip, but little and often just enough to keep fish interested and moving up in the water. 

The idea is to create a sort of conveyor belt of pellets, so the roach aren’t rooting around on the deck but actively intercepting stuff as it comes through the swim. In theory, you’re not “fishing a spot” so much as running a tiny underwater production line.

That bit really appealed to me on the Avon, because I’ve seen enough barbel anglers doing their thing there to suspect the roach are already fully enrolled in the pellet lifestyle. There are stretches where you can almost feel that fish are present but not quite engaged, like they’re watching from the side-lines waiting for something to make sense of all the free food. 

Trotting a pellet through that feels like switching the lights on in a room that was already full. The stretch in question to give it a go, I'd seen roach shoals in two swims and some of those roach were pounders easily, so not to be sniffed at certainly.

The key, from what I can gather, is keeping everything moving and natural. Let the float run, control the depth, and resist the urge to turn it into a static bait situation the moment you get bored or too hot. It’s very much a “trust the drift” approach, which is easy to say and immediately forgotten the first time the float hesitates like it’s thinking about being a tench.

On the Avon, the plan is simple enough to be either genius or delusional: light tackle, banded pellet, steady trickle of feed, and a controlled trot through likely glides where I’ve already seen enough suspicious silver flashes to justify the optimism. If it works, I’ll claim watercraft. If it doesn’t, I’ll claim the river was “off”.

Either way, it feels like one of those methods where the fish already know what they’re doing and the angler just turns up to try and look involved. Worst case, I catch endless dace and pretend they were part of the plan. Best case, I finally meet one of those Avon roach that makes you forget every sensible thing you were meant to be doing with your time.

So anyway, the plan was sound, how was the execution ?

Well the weather had finally come to its senses. After what felt like days living inside a giant hairdryer, the heatwave had packed its bags and wandered off elsewhere. At last we were back to proper fishing weather, with cool fresh air replacing that sticky humidity. I could actually step out of the car without feeling like I'd been wrapped in cling film.

An early start was always going to be the order of the day because I had my sights firmly set on the weir peg. Like most favourite swims, if you arrive late, somebody else has usually beaten you to it. Thankfully, the riverbank was deserted, the grass sparkled with dew and there was just enough of a chill to remind you summer hadn't completely taken over. Naturally, I was still wearing a T-shirt because that's what anglers do.

The point swim just below the weir looked absolutely perfect. A nice line of foam drifted steadily downstream, telling me the pace was about right. River anglers have a remarkable ability to stare at floating bubbles for several minutes and convince themselves they're conducting serious scientific research. In reality, we're just watching froth.

With everything assembled, I began introducing mixed 6mm pellets little and often. It sounds wonderfully disciplined until you realise "little and often" usually becomes "another handful won't hurt." Still, the plan seemed sensible enough. The Dave Harrell Speci-Stick settled perfectly on its first run downstream.

I wasn't expecting much from the opening trot, so when the red domed tip vanished almost immediately, I wondered whether I'd imagined it. I hadn't. A lively little chublet was attached to the other end and seemed just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. It wasn't exactly the planned start, but I certainly wasn't complaining.

What followed was one of those magical spells every angler dreams about. Cast, float under, fish. Cast, float under, fish. If only every trip worked like that, tackle shops would have to start selling excuses instead of bait.

The chublets arrived one after another, accompanied by some lovely dace that looked like polished bars of silver. Every now and then a slightly better chub joined the procession to remind the youngsters who really owned the swim. The only species refusing to join the festivities were the roach. They clearly hadn't received the memo.

I slipped a few fish into the extra deep landing net for a quick photograph later. It's amazing how unbelievable a productive session sounds unless you've got a picture to prove it. 

Besides, they were sitting happily in well-oxygenated water while I carried on catching. I suspect they were already comparing notes on where it had all gone wrong.

Sadly, tranquillity on the river never lasts forever. The first narrowboat emerged from the lock, gently ploughing through the swim like a floating bungalow. 

Moments later a couple of enthusiastic dogs decided the bottom of my peg would make an excellent swimming pool. Labradors clearly have many talents, but understanding trotting tactics isn't one of them.

Almost instantly the bites disappeared. The float sailed through untouched time after time without so much as a twitch. I gave it a few more hopeful trots because anglers are naturally optimistic creatures. Eventually reality won the argument.

With another narrowboat heading my way, I decided a change of scenery might be worthwhile. 

I moved only a short distance upstream, practically within spitting distance of the weir itself. Sometimes a move transforms a session. Other times it simply gives you a different place to blank.

The pellets started going in again and the float settled beautifully on its first run. Down it went almost straight away. This time it wasn't a chublet but a lovely roach that glistened in the morning sunshine. Suddenly everything felt very promising indeed.

The swim had completely changed character. Instead of endless little chub, the roach had moved in and were more than happy to sample a banded 6mm pellet. One after another they slipped over the net, all beautifully marked and in cracking condition. It really was one of those mornings where everything seemed to fall into place.

I retained a few more fish for a photograph before slipping them safely back later. They rested quietly in fresh flowing water while I continued fishing. No doubt they were discussing the dangers of greed and the suspicious appearance of small brown pellets. Fish gossip probably isn't much different to ours.

Even a perch fancied joining the party. It hammered the pellet with all the confidence of a fish that hadn't read the rulebook saying perch are supposed to prefer worms or little fish. I wasn't about to argue. If it wanted pellets, pellets it could have.

The odd chublet still sneaked into the catch, but the roach were definitely running the show now. Every run through carried that lovely anticipation that the float could disappear at any second. More often than not, it obliged. It doesn't get much better than that.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was just how effective the 6mm pellets proved to be. The really big roach never made an appearance, but I have a feeling they're still lurking somewhere, watching their smaller relatives make poor life choices. They'll get their turn eventually. Rivers have a habit of keeping a few secrets in reserve.

I packed the gear away with that satisfying feeling only a good morning's fishing can provide. Two hours, plenty of bites, a nice mixed bag and a method that has definitely earned another outing. Sometimes it's not about catching monsters. Sometimes it's simply about enjoying every minute beside the river, and this session certainly ticked every box.

Warwickshire Avon - Piscatoriality and Perplexification

Friday afternoon once work had finished began in thoroughly civilised fashion. A couple of drinks in the sunshine with my good friend Beth beside a rather pleasant stretch of the River Leam which coincidently just so happen to be part of the WBAS portfolio. 

It was all terribly sophisticated and cultured. Unfortunately, I had already made the fatal mistake of thinking about fishing.

Before Beth arrived, I had carefully introduced a few pieces of bread into the pool from the old bridge. At first the chub treated the offerings with the suspicion normally reserved for unsolicited emails and politicians. Then, gradually, they gained confidence. One appeared. Then another. Before long they were crashing the surface like aquatic Labradors being fed sausage rolls.

Naturally, I concluded that catching one later would be easier than falling downstairs.

After our farewell and promises to do it again soon, I returned to find my waiting audience had undergone a complete personality transplant. The same fish that had been enthusiastically inhaling bread now regarded my hookbait with profound philosophical disapproval.

Eventually I managed to persuade one small chub of around two pounds to make a mistake. For a few glorious moments I was connected. Then the fish headed purposefully toward a reed bed, the hook pulled, and my career entered another brief but memorable decline.

The remarkable thing was what happened next.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The chub vanished so completely that I began to suspect they had emigrated. I tried another swim and achieved precisely the same result, which is to say none whatsoever.

With my confidence somewhere near my bootlaces, I drove to the Warwickshire Avon to revisit the swims where only a few days earlier I had caught seven chub off the surface. Surely familiarity would breed success.

It didn't.

The river looked identical.

The swims looked identical.

I looked identical.

The fish, however, had clearly attended a different meeting and failed to inform me.

Still, the day improved considerably when Steve and I headed to vibrant Kings Heath to see Neil Barnes from Leftfield at the Hare and Hounds. Prior to this we visited Eat Vietnam in Stirchley, which I can report was very good indeed. Whether it was authentically Vietnamese or a cheerful act of culinary improvisation mattered not a jot. The food was excellent, the service first class and the bill failed to induce cardiac arrest.

Saturday dawned with the prospect of more fishing. Sensibly, I ignored this possibility for several hours and put my feet up.

Now there are some mornings when a man awakens full of purpose, determination and piscatorial optimism, only to discover that the reality of the situation bears all the hallmarks of a badly organised military campaign led by somebody who once got lost in a telephone box. This particular morning fell neatly into that category. 

Having decided to wander down to the syndicate stretch for a spot of trotting, partly to see if I could persuade a few obliging fish to sample my offerings and partly to investigate whether any larger residents were loitering suspiciously in a couple of likely swims, I set off with the enthusiasm of a man who had entirely forgotten how uncomfortable chest waders can become when exposed to direct sunlight. 

The other day I had purchased two pints of bronze maggots from Angling Direct in Coventry, a transaction which at the time appeared perfectly sensible. Unfortunately, by the following day these industrious little creatures had apparently reached the point in their careers where they felt promotion to caster status was overdue. 

Even though they had been carefully stored in the fridge, a fair number had already begun the transformation. Whether they had been born ambitious or simply sold to me in a state of advanced maturity remains uncertain, but it was clear they needed using before they collectively applied for retirement.

Upon arrival I made my way to the swim I had fished a few days earlier. Now, anglers are frequently guilty of assuming that because a swim produced fish once, it will continue doing so indefinitely, rather like expecting a fruit machine to pay out every time simply because it did so last Thursday. Sadly, the fish had not been consulted regarding my plans. 

The swim appeared strangely lifeless and the better stamp of fish that had been present previously seemed to have emigrated, perhaps in search of cooler water, superior maggots or simply to avoid my company. Nevertheless, I persevered for a while, feeding carefully and watching the float with increasing intensity.

The fish that did appear were small, nervous and possessed the irritating habit of nibbling at the bait with all the commitment of a politician answering a difficult question. Matters were not helped by the fact that I was standing in full sunshine wearing enough rubber to survive an Arctic expedition. Before long I was generating sufficient internal heat to power a small market town.

Recognising that there are limits to human endurance, particularly when one's lower half has become a portable sauna, I eventually staggered ashore and removed the waders. This manoeuvre was achieved with all the dignity of a man attempting to escape from an oversized rubber octopus. Several minutes later, dressed in a more suitable fashion and considerably less likely to suffer spontaneous combustion, I relocated to another swim. 

Here things improved immediately. The float began dipping with reassuring regularity and fish started coming to hand. They were not monsters by any stretch of the imagination, but under the prevailing conditions I was hardly in a position to be choosy.  

The river at present resembles a giant bottle of mineral water. It is low, crystal clear and provides fish with the sort of visibility normally enjoyed only by birds of prey.

Under such circumstances, simply catching consistently feels like a notable achievement rather than a routine expectation.

For the next couple of hours I settled into a pleasant rhythm. Cast, feed, trot, strike, unhook, repeat. 

The fish came steadily enough and were undeniably welcome, but unfortunately they all appeared to be members of the same exclusive weight category, namely "small". 

Every time the float disappeared I entertained visions of a decent chub having made a catastrophic error of judgement. 

Every strike was accompanied by a brief surge of hope followed almost immediately by the unmistakable wriggling of something weighing approximately the same as a packet of crisps. 

One fish of perhaps five ounces briefly threatened to become fish of the day, which tells you everything you need to know about proceedings. Had a seven-ounce specimen appeared, there would probably have been speeches and a commemorative plaque erected on the riverbank.

As the afternoon progressed I continued feeding the swims I had earmarked for larger fish. The theory was straightforward enough. Introduce a little bait, encourage confidence, and perhaps return later to find a heavyweight resident waiting patiently for my arrival. The practice, however, relied heavily upon fish behaving in a cooperative manner. 

Experience has taught me that large fish rarely feel obliged to participate in plans devised by anglers. They have spent years avoiding herons, cormorants, otters and every conceivable form of angling ingenuity. Consequently, they are unlikely to throw caution aside simply because somebody has scattered a few handfuls of maggots into the river. Still, hope springs eternal. Angling without optimism is rather like going to a restaurant and ordering disappointment for starters.

Eventually I was forced to concede that the anticipated giant chub had either declined my invitation or was observing events from a safe distance while laughing quietly behind a submerged tree root. After a respectable couple of hours the tally consisted entirely of modest fish and no surprises whatsoever. Not that I was particularly upset. 

There are days when simply being beside a river is reward enough. The kingfishers continue their aerial patrols, dragonflies buzz about with all the urgency of tiny helicopters, and the water slips past with that hypnotic murmur capable of convincing an angler that sitting in one place for three hours constitutes productive activity. In truth, even a poor day's fishing often beats most alternative forms of recreation, especially those involving lawnmowers, supermarkets or DIY.

Looking ahead, the weather forecast promises yet another heatwave from Tuesday onwards, with temperatures climbing into the mid-thirties. This prospect fills me with mixed emotions. On one hand, such temperatures make daytime fishing about as appealing as spending an afternoon inside a tumble dryer. 

On the other hand, they create excellent opportunities for evening sessions. There is something undeniably magical about fishing into dusk and darkness when the worst of the heat has finally retreated. The river seems to relax, the shadows lengthen, and the larger fish often begin to move with considerably more confidence. 

Better still, it provides an entirely legitimate excuse to escape the house, which by that stage usually resembles a slow-cooker with furniture. Whilst sensible people will no doubt be sitting indoors complaining about the heat, I fully expect to be standing beside the river, surrounded by midges, losing tackle in the dark and convincing myself that the next bite will be from the fish of a lifetime. Some habits, after all, are impossible to cure.

Warwickshire Avon - Trots and Transtubstantiationalists (Barbel content)

Now there are wellness retreats costing thousands of pounds where earnest people sit cross-legged beside scented candles attempting to discover inner peace. Personally, I prefer a stick float, a pint of maggots, and a slightly damp meadow somewhere along an English river. The beauty of trotting a float is that absolutely nothing much happens. 

In modern life, this is a rare luxury. Emails don't trot downstream. Meetings don't trot downstream. Utility bills certainly don't trot downstream. A stick float, however, drifts away with the current carrying all worldly concerns towards the next county.

The process is gloriously simple. Cast upstream, mend the line, watch the float. Repeat until tea time or darkness, whichever arrives first. It is difficult to feel stressed when concentrating on a tiny painted tip wobbling through a crease beneath an overhanging willow. 

Summer is the finest season for it. The river shrinks into polite proportions, dragonflies patrol like miniature helicopters, and every cow in the county appears determined to supervise proceedings from the opposite bank. The scent of warm grass drifts through the air while swallows skim the surface collecting insects with outrageous efficiency.

Then there are the fish. Most of them are not famous. The average trotting session produces a cast of modest performers. Dace arrive in cheerful shoals. Small chub dash about with the confidence of fish three times their size. Roach gleam briefly in the sunshine before returning to their watery affairs.

Yet every run through contains possibility.

That is the great secret.

The next trot might produce exactly the same four-ounce dace as the previous twenty-five trots. Or it might produce something rather more substantial. A proper chub could emerge from beneath the far-bank nettles. A surprise barbel may lumber into the swim. Occasionally the float vanishes with such determination that one's heart immediately attempts to leave via the throat.

This possibility transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary.

For hours nothing remarkable occurs. Then suddenly something remarkable occurs.

Life, if we're honest, works in much the same way.

The float itself becomes a companion. After several hours together you begin to recognise its habits. You know how it behaves in the fast water, how it hesitates over gravel, how it nods politely through the deeper glide. You watch it with the affection usually reserved for elderly Labradors and reliable kettles. Lunch tastes better by a river. 

Nobody knows why. A slightly squashed cheese sandwich consumed on a grassy bank somehow rivals restaurant cuisine. The tea from a flask acquires medicinal properties. Even a biscuit retrieved from the bottom of a tackle bag seems entirely acceptable.

Of course, there are occasional setbacks.

A tree may intercept a cast despite standing in exactly the same place all morning. A swan may decide your swim is ideal for a lengthy inspection. A cow may stare at you continuously for three hours, apparently attempting to solve a complex mathematical problem involving anglers.

These things merely add character.

By the end of the day the catch may amount to a dozen small fish and one respectable specimen. Yet the real harvest is something less tangible. The shoulders relax. The mind quietens. The endless chatter of modern life fades into the background hum of flowing water.

You leave the river convinced that next time the big one will certainly arrive.

It probably won't.

But then again, it might.

And that possibility is enough to send a stick float trotting downstream all over again. 

Now there comes a point in every angler's life when he stops listening to experts and starts listening to his own aches and pains. For me, that moment arrived when I could no longer see a No.8 shot without assistance from modern science. Once upon a time I happily copied complicated shotting patterns from magazines. The diagrams looked less like fishing tackle and more like blueprints for a suspension bridge.

Nowadays I look at tiny shot with deep suspicion. If I can't see it without squinting, there's a fair chance it isn't going on my line. My answer is simple. A small stick float, a 1-gram olivette and a couple of float stops solve most of life's problems. The olivette sits neatly where I want it. It doesn't slide about, it doesn't tangle and it doesn't require the eyesight of a peregrine falcon to install.

Being a design engineer, I like things that are tidy. If a component stays where it should and performs its function properly, I'm generally happy. This is why shirt-button shotting patterns make me slightly uncomfortable. I fully accept that they work brilliantly, but my engineering brain starts asking awkward questions. Every pinched shot looks like another potential weak point. While other anglers are catching fish, I'm conducting an imaginary failure analysis.

The experts, of course, know better than I do. That's why they write books and articles while I spend half my time looking for things I've dropped in the grass. John Allerton back in the day could probably glance at a swim and instantly know the perfect shotting arrangement. I glance at a swim and wonder whether I packed enough biscuits. The fish themselves seem wonderfully unconcerned. They have never once asked for a detailed breakdown of my shotting pattern.

A dace has never refused my bait because it disapproved of my loading arrangement. Nor has a chub suggested improvements to the presentation. So I'll stick with my olivette system. It suits my eyesight, suits my temperament and keeps the whole rig refreshingly simple.

Will it catch every fish in the river? Probably not. Then again, neither will I.

What it does provide is confidence. And confidence catches far more fish than a packet of microscopic shot I can't actually see, anyway enough of this nonsense I'm down the syndicate stretch with some maggots to drown I better get fishing without the waffle. 

Now there are fishing sessions, and then there are fishing sessions. This one started with me splashing about knee-deep in a swim kindly prepared by fellow syndicate member George, who had clearly decided that if I wanted fish, I ought to work for them first. Waders on, dignity off, and into the river I went. The swim itself was a masterpiece of inconvenience. 

Reeds lurked everywhere, seemingly with a personal grudge against floats. Every cast felt like threading a needle whilst riding a bicycle. Thankfully, an olivette down the line allowed the rig to slip free often enough to keep me from launching the rod into the nearest hedge.

The fish, however, were in a cooperative mood. Maggots rained in and dace, roach and the occasional ambitious chublet queued up as if tickets were being handed out. 

Bites arrived in manic bursts before vanishing completely, only to return twenty minutes later as though they'd all gone for a committee meeting.

At one point I connected with something considerably larger. Unfortunately, the fish had clearly read a different script. It headed for some tree roots to my left with alarming purpose. I attempted to stop it. The fish disagreed. The hook pulled and I was left staring at the water whilst inventing several new theories about what it might have been. 

The swim did at least provide shelter from the blazing sun. While sensible people were roasting elsewhere, I was comfortably hidden away, looking every bit like a riverbank hermit who'd lost track of both time and personal hygiene.

By half past nine I packed away and prepared to head home. The session had been enjoyable enough and common sense suggested calling it a day. Fortunately, common sense has never played a major role in my fishing. With dusk approaching, I wandered into another swim where Sean had thoughtfully trimmed back some branches. 

A few robin red pellets were dispatched alongside a PVA bag with freebies, with a 15mm robin red with a subtle paste wrap on an hair, and within fifteen minutes the rod erupted in a full-scale meltdown. The fish had practically hooked itself and was heading off with my tackle at alarming speed.

 For a brief moment I felt in control. Then the fish found a snag. The snag found the fish. I found despair. Despite briefly feeling the fish still attached, the inevitable happened and everything went solid. 

Game over. At that point many anglers would have gone home. I nearly joined them. The car was parked nearby. The evening was fading. The fishing gods had apparently spoken. Then again, they often mumble, so I decided to ignore them and cast out once more, this time well away from the snag.

The evening settled into one of those magical river moments where everything feels possible. 

Birds chirped, the river glided past and I began mentally rehearsing my drive home. Naturally, that was the exact moment the rod tip gave two unmistakable bangs before wrenching round with authority.

This was no chub.

This was a barbel.

The fish charged off on three powerful runs, each one reminding me that barbel possess approximately twice the horsepower nature intended. 

Eventually it surfaced and immediately my heart rate doubled. It was a proper fish. Seeing the landing net, it decided one final escape attempt was necessary and tore off again.

Thankfully, after that last effort the fish seemed to accept that negotiations were over. Moments later it slipped over the net cord and into the mesh.

What a fish.

After resting it in the net, I convinced myself it might scrape double figures. Anglers are optimistic creatures by nature. The scales eventually settled at 9lb 8oz. Not quite the magical ten, but a cracking opening-season barbel by any sensible measure. The funniest part? Three syndicate members had been there the previous evening targeting bigger fish at dusk and all blanked. Meanwhile I was halfway to the car before changing my mind and stumbling into success.

As ever, fishing remains the only pastime where poor decision-making can occasionally be rewarded with a personal triumph. Had I gone home when common sense suggested, I'd have missed the fish of the session. Sometimes it really is a case of right place, right time and just enough stubbornness to stay for one last cast.