Warwickshire Avon - Honey Holes and H-Point's

Now there are certain doors in life that are never meant to be opened. For me it's Groundhog Day having worked in automotive design for such a long time, but Area 57 (Sam's own words) within an automotive design studio is one of them.

A mythical place whispered about in hushed tones where outsiders imagine dragons, laser sharks and at least one engineer who communicates entirely in CAD file extensions.

Sam wandered in looking like he'd accidentally won a competition he didn't remember entering, and, to his credit, only looked mildly concerned that security hadn't escorted him straight back out again.

His first day was a glorious blur of interior designers, 3D Alias, concept cars, virtual reality, packaging, hard model making, five-axis milling machines and enough 3D printers to make a sci-fi film director quietly weep with envy. Everywhere he looked there was another machine making expensive noises while quietly turning blocks of material into things that looked impossible. 

By lunchtime he'd probably seen more automotive wizardry than most people manage in a lifetime and was still pretending he understood what everyone meant when they said, "We'll just tweak the Class-A surfaces."

Then came Roy. Every workplace has a Roy, the sort of chap who could carve elegance out of a lump of clay while simultaneously making a cup of tea and explaining why deadlines are merely optimistic works of fiction. 

The pair clicked instantly, proving that if you put enthusiasm next to experience, something rather wonderful usually happens. Roy handed Sam the sacred tools of the clay modeller and let him loose under careful supervision. 

 Before long Sam was shaping automotive clay himself while listening to stories about the latest McLaren W1, the hyper car Roy had worked on, which apparently suffered more delays than the likely white elephant HS2, as well as stories on other McLaren cars such as others as the Speed-Tail and Senna,. 

It turns out creating automotive perfection takes time, particularly when perfection keeps changing its mind every Thursday afternoon.

As if that wasn't enough, Roy casually sorted him out with four kilograms of proper automotive modelling clay to take home. The only slight snag is that the stuff needs warming to about sixty degrees before it's usable, meaning Sam's biggest engineering challenge now is persuading his mum that occupying the family oven with industrial clay is a perfectly reasonable culinary decision. 

Nothing says "responsible parenting" quite like opening the oven expecting lasagne and discovering the beginnings of next year's concept car instead.

By the third day, fate dealt Sam the cruellest hand of all. He was assigned to me. My world of studio engineering involves over checking guidelines, tolerances, interfaces, feasibility, passenger airbag packaging studies and enough technical discussion to make a calculator ask for a coffee break.

I bravely soldiered on with explanations that even I was beginning to suspect required subtitles. After approximately the fourth yawn, I accepted defeat with the grace of a man realising he's become educational wallpaper. Rather than continue committing crimes against teenage attention spans, I quietly negotiated with the clay modelling department and arranged a swift transfer back to civilisation.

The reunion with the clay gang was like watching someone return home from an expedition across the Arctic. Smiles reappeared, conversation flowed and mysterious lumps of clay slowly transformed into shapes that actually looked like cars instead of my attempts, which generally resemble melted potatoes. Frankly, everyone won, including me, because nobody had to hear another thrilling explanation about datum structures.

What was lovely to watch over those three days was how confidence quietly sneaks up on people. On day one there was understandable caution, careful questions and that slightly wide-eyed expression of someone trying not to touch anything that costs more than their house. By day three he was chatting away, getting involved and looking completely at home among a bunch of people who clearly enjoyed having him around.

That's probably the real magic hidden behind the mythical gates of Area 57. Yes, there are astonishing machines, clever software and technology that feels like it's arrived from the year 2045, but it's the people who make the place memorable. A few days, a brilliant mentor called Roy, four kilograms of clay, one terrified domestic oven and one studio engineer who finally knew when to surrender—I'd call that work experience done properly.

Anyway to the fishing, every club has one member who can look at a perfectly innocent stretch of river and declare, "There's a swim in there somewhere." Most of us nod politely while wondering if he's recently misplaced his glasses. This time, rather annoyingly, he was right. 

In the close season armed with saws, loppers, enthusiasm and only the occasional tea break, the club who are trying to reinvent themselves set about giving one forgotten corner of the river a bit of a makeover. Brambles surrendered, nettles retreated and several stubborn branches were persuaded that they'd enjoyed enough years attached to the tree. By the end of it, daylight had reached the water for what was probably the first time since decimalisation.

What emerged wasn't a motorway service station of a peg with room for a bivvy, barbecue and three wheelbarrows of tackle like the other pegs on this stretch seem to be at the moment 🙈. It was simply a proper little swim where an angler could sit without looking as though he'd lost a fight with a hedge. You could even cast without donating two rigs and a hat to the overhanging willows.

Naturally, the rumours I suspect started before the last twig had hit the bonfire. Apparently, it's already home to a barbel the size of a Labrador, a chub with a mortgage and several fish that only appear when nobody else is watching. It's remarkable how quickly an ordinary bit of river acquires mythical status once you can actually get to it.

The first person to fish it will, of course, either blank spectacularly or catch the fish of a lifetime. There is absolutely no middle ground in these matters because fishing folklore simply won't allow it. The rest of us will be watching from a respectful distance while pretending we weren't planning to beat him there.

Whether it becomes the club's next legendary honey hole or just another pleasant place to spend a few hours beside the river hardly matters. The real success is that another swim on a club stretch of water is now fishable again instead of existing solely as a sanctuary for brambles and mosquitoes. Mind you, if it does turn out to be full of monsters, don't expect anyone to admit exactly where it is.

The plan, because there is always a plan, was beautifully simple. Start in the honey hole (hopefully) despite the river looking like someone had drained all the confidence out of it, with water so low and clear you could almost count the fish's eyelashes. Then, as dusk was on the way, move to the peg where only a few days ago a double-figure barbel had materialised from nowhere, had a good look at me, and decided I wasn't worth the effort.

Now this wasn't just any old barbel. This was one of those fish that had clearly completed an advanced course in angler avoidance and was probably handing out certificates to the others. It had the calm, smug attitude of a fish that had seen every trick in the book and probably written a few extra chapters.

First came the rolling lump of meat. It watched it drift by with all the enthusiasm of someone reading the terms and conditions on a washing machine warranty. Not so much as a twitch. No matter, I thought, because every great angler has a Plan B. The static bait went in looking absolutely irresistible, at least according to the bloke holding the rod. The barbel remained completely unmoved and somehow managed to look disappointed in me from several feet underwater.

Right then, time to get clever. Out came the scaled-down pellet on a band, the sort of bait that whispers, "Go on, you know you want to." The fish gave it the aquatic equivalent of a raised eyebrow before casually wandering off to continue whatever important business highly educated barbel get up to.

By this point I was beginning to suspect the fish wasn't avoiding the bait. It was avoiding me personally. Somewhere beneath the surface it was probably updating its mates with, "He's trying again that Piscatorial Quagswagging bloke, lads. Same time next week?" Still, the plan remains the plan. Fish the honey hole, wait for dusk, and hope over confidence that this time the old professor slips up. After all, if fishing has taught me anything, it's that hope is free, but barbel lessons can be painfully expensive.

With a club trying to reinvent themselves they've had the banks landscaped so well it looks like Spaniel-smuggling Charlie Dimmock arrived with the DIY SOS crew, leaving every peg flatter than a pancake and straighter than a surveyor's tape measure. It's all wonderfully convenient for seat box frequenters, but unfortunately the fish seem to have read the same brochure.

Every peg I dropped into carried the unmistakable signs of recent angling occupation. On a stretch this small, that's about as welcome as finding someone has pinched the last bacon sandwich from the tackle shop café, because once the fish have been pestered enough, they simply clock off and refuse overtime.

If I'd known what I know now before setting off, I'd probably have stayed at home and reorganised the pellet bucket. But fishing has a habit of scratching an itch that common sense never quite reaches, so off I went to the old honey hole with optimism outweighing logic... as usual.

The sun was still hanging around like an overstaying pub regular, and after an hour and a half I'd managed one decent chub pull on the pellet and inconspicuous paste wrap enough blank rod-tip staring to qualify for a hypnotist's diploma. Then, completely out of the blue, after a few rattles and little 'chu-bangs', the rod lurched over with all the confidence of a proper barbel.

Alas, it was a chub in fancy dress. Mind you, at around 3lb he was a very welcome actor, because avoiding a blank is a bit like escaping a parking ticket you don't care how, you're just relieved it happened.

After another half hour of stubborn optimism produced absolutely nothing, I admitted defeat and moved on. The honey hole hadn't exactly covered itself in glory, although I'll undoubtedly be back because anglers have remarkably short memories and endless supplies of hope.

I wandered down to the famous corner swim where I'd once tempted a cracking double-figure barbel. It still looked absolutely perfect dark, shady and full of promise—but then again, so does the dessert menu when you're on a diet.

The thermometer had settled nicely as the evening cooled, and by now the witching hour was edging ever closer. Surely, I thought, this would be when one careless whiskered resident made a mistake and I'd be hanging on for dear life.

Instead, the river went quieter than a library during a chess tournament. No clonks, no knocks, no rattles and certainly no wrap-around that leaves your heart somewhere around your throat while your arms suddenly remember they're attached to something very powerful.

By the time I packed up, even the owls seemed to be wondering why I was still bothering. The fish, meanwhile, were probably sat under a raft somewhere with their fins up, discussing the latest bait trends and marking anglers out of ten.

Back at the cars the other two anglers appeared wearing exactly the same expression I'd been practising all evening. Their report matched mine almost word for word—small chub, precious few bites and enough silence to make you wonder if the river had been switched off at the mains.

So, it's probably time for a rethink. Either the fish have become masters of avoidance, or they've formed a union and voted unanimously against cooperating with anglers until further notice.

Warwickshire Avon - Trundles and Tempests

The Wife raised an eyebrow when I announced we were having chilli con carne for tea. Fair enough really. A few days ago she was sat with her feet in the paddling pool, gently nursing a gin and tonic like she'd discovered the secret to surviving a British heatwave. Boy, it's been hot hasn't it? thankfully the 35 degree days are behind us (or are they ?), roll on winter !!

"what about a kebab wrap with loads of salad and plenty of tzatziki ?"

"Perfect!!!" she declared, before taking another sip of gin. Funny how these things become less of a discussion and more of a change of government.

I'd been itching to try one of those viral doner kebab tricks anyway. You spread seasoned and spiced mince between two sheets of greaseproof paper, peel one off, fold an inch or so, fold it again, and keep going until you've created what looks like the world's meatiest paper fan. Into the oven it goes, and somehow the magic happens.

I'll admit, I wasn't expecting much. Social media recipes can be as effective as a fart in a hurricane. But blow me down, it came out cracking. Packed into a wrap with crisp salad and a dollop of tzatziki, (with lots of chilli sauce for me) it was dangerously close to the real thing. Another meal added to the ever-growing armoury. Which is handy, because if this weather keeps up, the chilli can wait until October.

Now talking of meat there are certain summer days when a river appears to have signed a private agreement with its barbel. The terms are simple enough: the fish agree not to get caught, and the river agrees not to reveal where they are. The water is gin clear, the sun is blazing away like an overenthusiastic security lamp, and every fish in the county seems capable of identifying the make and model of your hook from twenty yards. 

On such occasions, many anglers respond by becoming ever more complicated. Out come the microscopic hooks, the fluorocarbon so thin it can only be seen by astronomers, and rigs with enough components to qualify for planning permission. Meanwhile, one of the most effective approaches of all sits quietly in the background like an old pub regular who knows exactly how the evening will end: trundling meat.

The curious thing about trundling is that it feels almost suspiciously sensible. A piece of meat enters the flow and proceeds downstream exactly as countless edible items have done since rivers were invented. It does not arrive attached to a feeder the size of a small grenade. It does not sit bolt upright in the current like a traffic cone. 

It simply wanders along with all the purpose and dignity of a mildly confused sausage. 

To a barbel accustomed to seeing every conceivable modern presentation lowered onto its nose, this can be alarmingly convincing. Summer barbel, particularly in clear water, often resemble elderly gentlemen peering through net curtains. They see everything. They inspect everything. They trust absolutely nothing. A static bait can receive the sort of scrutiny usually reserved for suspicious parcels left outside government buildings. The fish circles. It pauses. It tilts. 

It appears to be conducting a full risk assessment. A trundled bait, on the other hand, drifts past with an air of complete innocence. The fish has only moments to decide. There is no committee meeting, no consultation period, and no opportunity to spend twenty minutes glaring at the hooklink. It is either food or it is gone.

This urgency is one of the great strengths of the method. Barbel are not always hungry in difficult summer conditions, but they are often opportunistic. A piece of meat rolling naturally through the swim can trigger exactly the sort of impulsive reaction that a carefully positioned static bait may never provoke. The take often feels less like a feeding response and more like a fish suddenly thinking, "Hang on, if I don't grab that now, Dave downstream will have it."

One angler who appears to understand this better than most in recent times is fellow blogger and angler James Denison, who I've been lucky to meet and fish with (he's difference gravy !!) During his quest to land double-figure barbel from forty different rivers, he has frequently spoken about the value of mobile, searching tactics, particularly when approaching unfamiliar water. 

It is easy to see why. When you arrive at a new river, armed with little more than optimism and an inflated belief in your own watercraft, trundling allows you to cover water, learn the contours of the swim and put a bait in front of fish quickly. Rather than spending three hours convincing yourself that an empty peg is "bound to switch on at dusk", you are actively hunting. The river starts revealing its secrets far sooner.

In many ways, fishing a new river resembles being invited to a party where you know nobody. Some anglers immediately march into the middle of the room and start talking. Others stand awkwardly near the buffet hoping someone recognises them. Trundling meat is the angling equivalent of quietly wandering around introducing yourself to everybody. Before long, you discover where the interesting characters are gathered and, more importantly, where the barbel are hiding.

The method also remains gloriously underused because it demands rivercraft rather than shopping. There is no need to remortgage the house for the latest titanium-enhanced, aerospace-derived widget. The principal item of technology involved is a lump of luncheon meat. This is deeply disappointing for anyone hoping to solve the problem by purchasing another £17.99 packet of something described as revolutionary. Trundling requires observation, movement and thought, all of which are regrettably difficult to hang on a tackle-shop display hook.

Indeed, much of the pleasure comes from becoming actively involved with the river. One starts watching currents, studying gravel runs, and considering where a drifting bait might naturally travel. Before long, the angler is creeping about the bank like a Victorian naturalist with slightly poorer posture. Every crease looks promising. Every shaded run acquires significance. One becomes absorbed in the process and temporarily forgets that the fish are doing their very best to make a fool of everyone.

The bait itself deserves some credit. Luncheon meat possesses a remarkable ability to remain effective despite being treated with almost complete snobbery by sections of the angling world. Pellets arrive with scientific names and nutritional profiles. Boilies are discussed with the seriousness of fine wine. Meat arrives in a tin and looks as though it should be served with chips. Yet barbel continue to eat it with an enthusiasm bordering on embarrassment. If fish had social media, many would probably deny ever touching the stuff while secretly queuing up for another piece.

Perhaps the greatest reason trundling meat excels in clear summer conditions is that it appears so utterly unremarkable. Rivers are full of things moving downstream. Rivers are not full of suspiciously anchored cubes of food attached to invisible strings. The more pressured the fish become, the more valuable that ordinariness is. A bait that looks boring to anglers often looks entirely believable to barbel.

So when the river is low, clear and apparently devoid of cooperation, it may be worth resisting the urge to become ever more technical. The fish have already seen most of the clever ideas. What they have not seen nearly as often is a humble piece of meat tumbling naturally through their world. It lacks glamour, prestige and fashionable terminology. 

Which is probably why it keeps catching barbel while everyone else is busy explaining why it shouldn't. And if a man can travel the country in search of double-figure barbel from forty different rivers and repeatedly place his faith in such a simple approach, perhaps there is a lesson there for the rest of us. Sometimes the cleverest tactic on the river is the one that looks as though it ought not to work at all.

So anyway, I better get the gear and get trundling !!

Now I'd had the evening mapped out in my head. You know how it is. I'd mentally packed the tackle, already decided which swims I'd fish and was halfway through catching a mythical twelve-pounder before I'd even left the house. 

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, the Wife casually announced, "Don't forget I'm going over to Sarah's later." Well... that rather rearranged proceedings. "Errrrrrrrr... OK then. I was actually going fishing then... bugger." Without missing a beat she replied, "Well why not go now then?" It was one of those rare moments where arguing would have been both foolish and potentially time-consuming, so I simply grabbed the gear and made a tactical retreat before the offer was mysteriously withdrawn, and now I'm fishing late morning.

It wasn't until I was halfway down the road that I realised I'd forgotten the suncream. Fortunately I had a bottle rolling around in the ruckbag somewhere between spare hooks, old receipts and enough loose pellets to start my own fishery. I arrived at the river looking less like an angler and more like someone preparing for a day on Bondi Beach, slapping the stuff on so enthusiastically I probably frightened a passing dragonfly with my amplified 5'oclock shadow. I hadn't even finished rubbing it in before destiny interrupted.

The first swim was one I've always fancied. It's tucked just below the weir providing plenty of oxygen with thick cover hugging one side and a narrow channel that positively screams, "There's a barbel hiding in here." Of course, saying that and proving it are two entirely different things. As I crept into position I managed to disturb a couple of chub that disappeared with all the grace of teenagers avoiding household chores. The water is ridiculously clear at the moment, which is wonderful for fish spotting but absolutely useless when you're trying to sneak up on anything with fins.

The first trundle through with the meat produced absolutely nothing. Not a twitch. Not even the optimistic knock that convinces you a leaf is actually a fish. The second run was different. I couldn't even see the bait anymore, but holding the line gently between thumb and forefinger I felt those unmistakable little taps. Then everything tightened. The rod tip confidently pulled round a couple of feet as though someone downstream had decided to borrow my rod. I struck... and instantly knew this wasn't one of the local chub.

The fish bored off with all the determination of someone late for the last train home. This swim is awkward enough to make a yoga instructor complain, with roots, branches and submerged nasties waiting to claim expensive terminal tackle. Thankfully experience counted for something and after a proper scrap I managed to guide a lovely barbel into the waiting net. Result! Now we're talking. That's exactly why you ignore the sensible option of mowing the lawn.

I didn't bother weighing it because sometimes a good fish is simply a good fish. I'd put it somewhere around seven-and-a-half to eight pounds, give or take the usual angler's optimistic eyesight. It rested quietly in the margins while I grabbed a quick trophy shot before being allowed to recover properly. A few moments later it powered away with a splash that thoroughly soaked one of my boots, which I took as the fish's polite way of saying, "Cheers... now leave me alone." As a certain famous DJ would say... Oh yes! Oh yes!

Buoyed by early success I wandered downstream wearing the smug grin that only anglers understand. You know the one. The grin that says you've convinced yourself today is going to be one of those legendary sessions where every swim contains an obliging fish with poor judgement. Naturally the river immediately reminded me who's actually in charge. Swim after swim appeared to contain absolutely nothing apart from water, optimism and the occasional suspicious-looking stick.

Eventually I reached one swim where curiosity got the better of me. The bankside vegetation was so thick that the only sensible option was to climb a nearby tree for a better look. Nothing says "experienced angler" quite like clambering into the branches clutching a landing net. Thankfully nobody witnessed it because explaining that to passing dog walkers would have been difficult. From my leafy observation platform I finally spotted them... two barbel sitting quietly mid-river.

Neither fish was enormous, probably around the five-pound mark, but they were perfectly respectable and certainly worth pursuing. I carefully rolled meat down towards them. Nothing. Another run. Nothing again. Then another. Eventually I swear one of them actually glanced at the other as if to say, "Honestly Dave, does he think we're idiots?" Moments later both fish casually drifted upstream into thick cover where they remained hidden behind what was probably the underwater equivalent of drawn curtains.

Being stubborn, which is a fairly essential quality in fishing, I returned later to find they'd wandered back into exactly the same position. Brilliant! This time I'd outsmart them with a couple of pellets. Except I hadn't. They reacted as though I'd thrown house bricks into the river, disappearing into cover again with complete contempt for my carefully crafted masterplan. I suspect they'd already uploaded my photograph to the local Barbel WhatsApp group under the heading "Avoid This Bloke."

The next swim looked promising enough but after several careful trundles I succeeded only in alarming another unsuspecting chub. Then, as if someone had flicked a switch, a proper lump of a barbel materialised from nowhere. It wasn't just big... it was one of those fish that immediately makes you stand up straighter. Double figures without question. It casually swam almost beneath my feet before disappearing towards a sunken tree with all the confidence of something that has successfully embarrassed anglers for many years.

I gave that swim absolutely everything. Rolling meat. Holding back. Fishing static. Different angles. Different presentations. Quiet optimism followed by louder optimism. The fish, meanwhile, displayed all the interest of a tax inspector at a birthday party. It had clearly survived every bait, every rig and every hopeful speech from passing anglers. It wasn't joining my landing net today, but I walked away smiling because at least now I know exactly where the old warrior lives. We'll meet again.

One more swim remained before sensible responsibilities called me home. It was shallow, weedy and looked more suited to ducks than decent fish, but rivers have a funny habit of rewarding persistence. Sure enough, a beautifully coloured summer chub darted out from its little interception point and absolutely nailed the rolling meat. It wasn't a giant, but it fought with all the enthusiasm of something twice its size and rounded the afternoon off perfectly.

By this point the invisible domestic curfew alarm had begun ringing inside my head. Every married angler knows exactly what I mean. There's a point where "just one more swim" quietly transforms into "Why are you home so late?" and experience teaches you not to discover where that line is. So I reluctantly packed away, gave the river one last look and headed back towards civilisation.

Looking back, it was one of those sessions that almost never happened yet somehow turned into a cracking few hours. One lovely barbel safely returned, one handsome chub, a pair of suspicious middleweights that completely outfoxed me and a genuine river monster now firmly lodged in the memory bank for another day. Not bad considering the whole adventure only existed because Sarah fancied a catch-up with the Wife.

If every rushed session turned out like that, I'd happily race out of the house wearing half-dried suncream every weekend. Mind you, next time I'll try to remember putting it on before leaving home. The steering wheel is still greasy.

Warwickshire Avon - Brouhaha and Befuddlement

I'd not fished this stretch for a good while, and as I walked down the field with the rod over my shoulder, it felt like I was visiting an old mate I'd somehow neglected. 

The river had that familiar look about it, clear enough to show every crease and shallow, yet carrying just enough pace to make you believe something decent could turn up at any moment. 

In winter the place screams chub, proper old warriors that sit in the steady glides and only betray themselves with the odd swirl under a drifting crust. 

Summer can be even more exciting, because when the bread starts travelling downstream untouched and then suddenly disappears in a confident sip, you know you've found fish that have forgotten how cautious they're supposed to be.

Of course, the trouble with chub is that they rarely give you many chances. One fish slips up, the rod hoops over, and the rest of the shoal seem to hold an emergency meeting before vanishing into thin air. I've lost count of the times I've thought I'd cracked it only for the river to fall silent after a single capture. It's often one fish and you're done, and that's part of what keeps you coming back.

This trip, though, wasn't really about chub. I knew there were barbel in the area and I'd had it in my head for weeks that I ought to have a proper dabble for them. One swim kept coming back into my thoughts every time I looked at the map or drove over the bridge. The weir had my name on it.

I rolled into the car park down the neglected track around eleven in the morning and immediately spotted another angler's car. That told me all I needed to know because if you're after barbel on a stretch like that, the weir is usually the first place you look especially in the early season summer months. Sure enough, a bloke and his young son were already set up there, having started at dawn and showing far more commitment to the cause than I'd managed. They looked tired in that happy sort of way anglers do when they've already had a bit of action.

We got chatting and they told me they'd lost a couple of fish, one to a hook pull and another to an underwater snag. The chap was still replaying the lost fish in his head, waving his arms around to show how hard it had pulled before everything went solid. They also mentioned a group of kids had been wild swimming earlier and causing a bit of a nuisance, so in their view I'd arrived at exactly the right time. After a few more minutes they packed up and left me to it.

With the swim finally free, I settled in with no great expectations beyond maybe a barbel if the stars aligned. Truth be told, a decent chub would have done me just fine. I was determined not to rush around this time, but to sit it out, watch the river and actually relax for once. Sometimes the best fishing happens when you stop trying to force it.

The first thing I noticed was just how clear the water was. Looking into the margins I could see boulders scattered about like someone had emptied a builder's yard into the river, which immediately made me suspicious of what lay farther out. I was effectively fishing blind, so I spent a while leading around carefully until the lead finally landed with a satisfying donk on a cleaner patch. That sound alone can lift an angler's confidence by a good twenty percent.

The weather helped too. The brutal mid-thirties heat had finally eased and the air felt comfortable again, warm enough for a T-shirt but not so hot that you spent the whole session hiding in whatever shade you could find. A light breeze occasionally rippled the surface and carried the smell of summer riverbanks. It felt fishy, as we always say, even though none of us can properly explain what that means.

About half an hour in, the rod tip gave a proper thump that had chub written all over it. Not a timid tap or a line twitch, but a confident bang right on the tip that made me grab the rod immediately. Oddly, the fish didn't come back for a second go. Whether it felt the resistance or simply changed its mind, I never found out.

For the next couple of hours the river settled into that hypnotic rhythm that makes river fishing so addictive. Paddleboarders drifted past, kayakers bounced through the faster water and the occasional dog walker stopped for a chat. The weir carried enough pace that nobody came too close to the lines, and I found myself simply enjoying being there. Even without a fish, it was hard to complain.

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, the rod tip rattled again. One sharp knock, then another, and before I could fully process it the rod pulled round in a full-blooded meltdown. Anyone who has spent time chasing barbel knows that four-foot twitch of the rod, that unmistakable savage nodding that seems to travel through the entire setup. In that instant I knew exactly what was on the other end.

I lifted into a solid fish and immediately felt that heavy, determined weight that only a good barbel seems to produce. It hugged the bottom and powered upstream, taking line while I tried to apply as much side strain as I dared. For a few glorious seconds it felt like the sort of battle you replay in your head for years. The rod was bent, the reel was ticking and my heart rate was somewhere near sprinting pace.

Then the fish revealed its real intentions. The pressure changed, the line angled awkwardly and suddenly everything locked up solid. Boulder, root, snag, whatever it was, the barbel had found it with the precision of a guided missile and buried itself there. I knew the likely outcome immediately, but hope makes fools of all anglers.

I gave it time. Sometimes a fish will panic, swim free and give you another chance, so I stood there with the rod held high, willing it to move. Nothing happened. The fish had done me over properly and there was a grudging part of me that almost admired it.

Eventually the inevitable happened and I was left staring at a motionless line and thinking a few words that wouldn't make it into a family fishing magazine. Still, that's barbel fishing. You can do everything right and the river will still find a way to remind you who's in charge. Some days you land them, and some days they teach you a lesson.

The interesting thing was that I now knew exactly where one of the snags lived. Information like that is never wasted on a river, and often a lost fish tells you more than an easy capture ever could. I started thinking about different angles, lighter leads, maybe fishing slightly farther downstream and steering a hooked fish away from trouble. The cogs were already turning.

 I gave it another hour after that, but the swim had gone quiet. No more knocks, no more savage lunges, not even a suspicious line bite. The light began to soften and I found myself packing away with that mixture of frustration and satisfaction that only fishing seems capable of producing. I'd lost the battle, but somehow the session still felt like a success.

Walking back to the car, I realised how much I'd enjoyed simply sitting by the river again. The conversation with the father and son, the drifting paddleboards, the clear water over the stones and that single electrifying barbel take had all combined into the sort of day that sticks in the memory. 

You don't always need a fish on the bank to feel that a session was worthwhile. Sometimes one unforgettable bite is enough.

And really, is there anything quite like a full-on barbel bite? One moment the river is silent, the next the rod is trying to leap into the water and every nerve in your body wakes up at once. 

It's violent, sudden and completely addictive. Lose a few, land a few, get outwitted more often than you'd like, and somehow you still find yourself planning the next trip before you've even driven home.

So the weir and I aren't finished yet. There's a snag mapped in my head now, a fish somewhere out there that got the better of me, and a feeling that the next visit might be very interesting indeed. The river has a habit of keeping a few stories unfinished. That's probably why we keep going back, still the pint later was nice, very nice !!!