“Well, Sam, the plan is to don the waders, find the best peg on the stretch, as Keiran put it, and drown these five pints of maggots. We’ll fish the way he won the match, and hopefully persuade a decent chub or barbel to make an appearance.”
“Okay, a chance of a barbel, you say?”
“Yup, apparently so.”
And there we had it, a father-and-son fishing expedition armed with a bucketful of optimism, enough maggots to sustain a small village through a famine, and a plan so carefully constructed that it was almost certain to go wrong before we’d even got the landing net wet.
Sam was off school thanks to one of those marvellous teacher training days, which meant that once I’d finished work at lunchtime, we could hotfoot it to the river. The opportunity was too good to miss, as a few hours trotting a float down a Warwickshire river sounded like an excellent way to spend a Friday afternoon. Add the possibility of a chunky chub or a hard-fighting Avon barbel, and I was practically packing the camera for a commemorative photograph.
Naturally, I’d spent the previous evening thinking about it far too much. There’s something about a forthcoming fishing trip that allows a perfectly sensible adult to abandon all rational thought. I’d mentally caught several chub, lost a barbel of biblical proportions, and returned home with a fishing story that would have required only a modest amount of embellishment to become genuinely impressive.
The reality, as usual, was likely to involve cold fingers, tangled line and a fish that looked as though it had been raised on a diet of gravel. Still, the conditions looked promising, and we had five pints of maggots, a suitable stretch of river, and a swim that I’d earmarked for our lunchtime session. All we needed to do was turn up, get fishing, and allow nature to take its course.
What could possibly go wrong?
We arrived at the club stretch to find the official car park completely empty. Not a soul was in sight, and I immediately began imagining pristine, untouched banks and fish queueing up to inspect our offerings. Wonderful, I thought, the riverbank was ours, and the only interruption to our afternoon would be the occasional kingfisher flashing past or a dog walker shouting at an animal with absolutely no intention of returning.
Then we peered over the hedge into the neighbouring field. Two cars sat there, glinting beneath the midday sun like a pair of warning beacons signalling the imminent collapse of our carefully laid plans. Oh, for goodness’ sake.
We trudged down to the river, already beginning to suspect that our intended swim might have encountered a minor administrative difficulty. Sure enough, there they were, occupying our prime piece of riverbank: two anglers who had clearly decided that the club car park was an optional facility rather than an actual place to park a motor vehicle. Perhaps they'd simply misunderstood the rules, or perhaps they possessed a special exemption granted to anyone carrying enough tackle to establish a small fishing village.
Now, I’ve nothing against a fellow angler getting to the river early. Far from it, as the early bird catches the worm, although in fishing terms the early bird usually catches the best swim, empties three kilos of bait into it, and leaves the latecomer wondering whether there’s any point bothering to assemble a rod. These two chaps had certainly come prepared, and prepared hardly covers it. They appeared to have brought everything short of the kitchen sink, and I wouldn’t have ruled out the possibility that the kitchen sink was tucked away in one of the seat boxes.
There were enough tackle boxes, bait buckets, rod rests and assorted bits of scaffolding to suggest that they were either planning a serious fishing session or constructing a small extension to the river. They gave us that familiar, slightly guilty nod that anglers exchange when they know perfectly well that they’ve occupied the swim someone else was hoping to fish. It’s a remarkable expression, somewhere between a friendly greeting and an admission of minor civil disobedience.
“Any joy?” I asked, deploying my finest public relations smile. It was the sort of smile normally reserved for awkward conversations with neighbours or people who have just informed you that your car alarm has been going off for the last forty minutes. I was doing my best to look like a reasonable, well-adjusted human being rather than an angler mentally calculating the number of maggots required to bury an entire swim.
“I haven’t started yet,” came the cheerful reply.
Of course you haven’t, old chap. Why would you have started when you’ve merely spent the morning establishing a fully equipped forward operating base on the very piece of river we were hoping to fish? I glanced at the water and tried to imagine what lay beneath all the commotion, perhaps a few chub sheltering beneath the far bank and wondering whether the circus would ever leave town.
Maybe the barbel had packed their bags and emigrated to another county. Whatever the case, our intended swim was no longer available, and the prospects of quietly trotting maggots through it had diminished somewhat. Sam looked at me, I looked at Sam, and the grand piscatorial master plan lasted approximately three minutes.
There are occasions when fatherhood requires wisdom, patience and the ability to turn disappointment into a valuable life lesson. This was one of those occasions, so I explained that fishing was all about adapting to circumstances, thinking on your feet, and making the best of whatever the river throws at you. What I actually meant was that two blokes had beaten us to the swim, and we were going to have to walk somewhere else.
And so we did.
With no obvious alternative, we headed downstream, negotiating the bankside vegetation and searching for a suitable spot that hadn't already been claimed by someone with enough equipment to supply a small fishing exhibition. It was the sort of walk that makes you question your footwear, your life choices and whether the bloke who invented barbed wire ever spent an afternoon trying to get through a riverside thicket in waders. Still, there was fishing to be done, and we weren't about to let a little undergrowth stand between us and our five pints of wriggling ambition.
We eventually found ourselves at another swim, a little less convenient and considerably more intimate in its relationship with the local shrubbery. This, incidentally, was an official wading swim, which was fortunate because Sam had apparently decided that the best way to begin the session was to get into the river before I'd even put the gear down. There are few things quite so reassuring as arriving at a fishing spot and immediately discovering that your son has assumed command of the operation.
“Can I have the rod then?”
I'd spent the previous evening preparing for this trip, sorted the tackle, organised the bait, planned the swim and entertained grand ambitions of catching a decent fish. Sam, meanwhile, had arrived at the river and immediately assumed that my services would be best utilised elsewhere. Apparently, my role had been reduced to that of unpaid ghillie, maggot dispenser and general provider of fishing-related support services.
I handed over the rod.
Sam was straight into the water, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, while I took up my position on the bank and began the important business of feeding maggots. If there was a management structure to our fishing partnership, I was now firmly at the bottom of it. Somewhere along the line, I'd managed to organise an afternoon's fishing in which my son would do the fishing and I'd do practically everything else.
He trotted the float down the swim, holding back gently and allowing the bait to travel through the current. It all looked very promising, as the float bobbed along nicely, the maggots disappeared downstream at regular intervals, and I began to think that perhaps the change of swim might actually work in our favour.
After all, the river didn't owe us a fish from the original spot, and perhaps the chub were all gathered here waiting for somebody to discover their secret lair.
Perhaps a barbel was sitting beneath a crease in the current, watching our maggots tumble towards it with increasing interest. Or perhaps the fish were all at home watching television, which, judging by their enthusiasm for our bait, seemed an equally reasonable possibility. Fishing has a marvellous way of making you consider both outcomes equally plausible.
The first couple of trots passed without incident, followed by another few dozen. Sam remained enthusiastic, I continued feeding maggots, and the float kept disappearing downstream without producing anything particularly exciting. Then came the first bite, and naturally it turned out to be a small fish.
It was the sort of fish that looks as though it ought to be returned to the water with a written apology for disturbing its afternoon. A little dace, perhaps, or one of those diminutive perch that seem to exist primarily to remove maggots from hooks and test the patience of anglers everywhere. Still, a fish is a fish, and I wasn't about to complain, not yet anyway.
We carried on, with Sam trotting the float through the swim and me maintaining a steady supply of maggots. It wasn't long before we discovered that the river was absolutely teeming with fish, provided you weren't particularly interested in catching anything of a respectable size. Small perch were clearly running the operation, having established a highly efficient maggot interception service throughout the swim.
They appeared to be positioned at strategic points, ready to deal with any bait that came within reach. Every so often, an ankle-biter would oblige, providing just enough encouragement to keep us going. The chub, however, remained conspicuous by their absence, presumably attending a secret meeting at which they'd unanimously agreed not to participate in our afternoon's entertainment.
I'd been imagining a chunky three-pounder, broad across the shoulders and full of that familiar river strength. Something that would make Sam's rod bend properly, put a decent curve in the afternoon and give us a photograph worth keeping. Instead, we were catching fish that would probably struggle to make the minimum height requirement for a fairground ride.
To be fair, Sam was enjoying himself, and that was the main thing. He was concentrating on the float, learning to control its passage through the swim and getting to grips with the little adjustments that can make such a difference when trotting a river. There was something rather satisfying about watching him work it out for himself, even if I was standing behind him dispensing maggots like a man employed to feed an exceptionally fussy colony of aquatic mice.
Then, just as the afternoon threatened to settle into a routine of tiny fish and diminishing expectations, Sam hit a little flurry of dace. For a few minutes, things became rather more interesting, as the rod bent, the float behaved itself, and we had enough action to remind us why we bother with this fishing business in the first place. The dace weren't monsters, of course, but they fought gamely enough and provided a welcome distraction from the steady procession of miniature perch.
I found myself becoming optimistic again.
This is one of the great weaknesses of the angler, as you can spend two hours catching fish that wouldn't fill an average-sized sandwich, yet the moment the float dips twice in quick succession, you begin imagining that the next fish will be the one that changes everything. Perhaps the dace had been sent ahead as scouts, and perhaps the chub were gathering in the deeper water in preparation for a feeding frenzy. Maybe a barbel had just heard the dinner bell and was charging upstream with all the enthusiasm of a man who'd discovered that the pub was offering free beer.
We kept at it, another trot, another handful of maggots, and another hopeful glance at the float. Nothing of any size appeared, and the afternoon gradually began to draw to a close. It became increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that our grand ambitions had failed to materialise, despite our best efforts and a bait bill that would have supported a small invertebrate community for several weeks.
We'd travelled to the river expecting the possibility of a proper chub or perhaps a barbel, only to spend the session catching small fish and wondering whether the larger residents had all booked themselves a day off. There was no dramatic final bite, no last-minute barbel, and no chub making a heroic appearance just as we were packing up. The river remained stubbornly indifferent to our hopes, as rivers have every right to be.
We left with a few fish to remember the session by, some fresh air in our lungs, and a healthy appreciation for just how much difference a little water can make. Because, like so many rivers at the moment, this stretch could certainly do with some rain. The water was in need of a decent lift, and I couldn't help feeling that a bit of extra flow might have made all the difference.
More water, a little colour, and perhaps a fresh flush of oxygen could have encouraged the fish to feed with a little more enthusiasm. Of course, that's what we always say when the fishing is difficult, as if the weather has personally conspired to ruin our afternoon. If the river is low, it needs rain; if it's high, it needs to drop; if it's coloured, it needs to clear; and if it's clear, it needs a bit of colour.
And if it's fishing perfectly, we're probably in the wrong swim.
Still, there are worse ways to spend a Friday afternoon than wandering along a Warwickshire river with your lad, even if the fish haven't read the script. Sam had enjoyed his time on the rod, we'd managed to get a few fish, and we'd escaped the usual distractions of work and school for a couple of hours beside the water. I suppose that's what matters, although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed.
Five pints of maggots had been purchased, prepared and deployed with the sort of commitment normally associated with a military campaign. We'd changed swims, adapted our tactics and persevered in the face of adversity, only to finish with a handful of small fish and absolutely no sign of the barbel I'd been dreaming about. Had we been operating a commercial fishing enterprise, I'd have been speaking to the accountant about the possibility of voluntary liquidation.
But fishing isn't always about what ends up in the net. Sometimes it's about spending time together, learning a little more about the river, and discovering that your carefully constructed plans can be undone by two chaps with a questionable parking strategy and enough tackle to equip an entire branch of Angling Direct. There's a certain charm in the whole business, even when the fish refuse to cooperate and your carefully nurtured expectations end up floating downstream alongside the maggots.
And, of course, there's always next time.
Next time, we'll check the swim before setting off, hope for a little more water, and perhaps find the chub feeding confidently and the barbel queueing up to inspect our maggots. Next time, the conditions will be perfect, the fish will be hungry, and the river will surely reward our persistence with something worth writing home about. Next time, I might even get to hold the rod.
Although, knowing Sam, I'd better bring my own.
