Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.50

Back at the syndicate stretch again, embarking on that most noble of late-season quests: winkle out a half-respectable chub before the curtain comes down. I’d grand plans of sneaking into Piccadilly Circus for a cheeky afternoon-into-dusk session rod tips trembling with anticipation, the kettle working overtime, and me settling in like a man with absolutely nowhere else to be.

Alas, domestic life executed one of those last-minute pirouettes wives seem professionally trained in. Suddenly the dream of riverbank reverie evaporated and I was back on dad duties instead of watching the tip for that tell-tale knock.

To be fair, the Wife had endured what can only be described as a Vag Cam appointment 24 hours earlier (yes, exactly what it sounds like). Mercifully it hadn’t been too grim, and by Friday afternoon she’d decided she was perfectly fine to head off to yoga  despite having a uterus reportedly filled with enough water to make even a grown man wince in sympathy.

So off she went, limbering up, while I stayed home performing my own form of advanced flexibility: bending my fishing plans around family logistics. Bugger.

The weather was doing its best impression of a wind swept and damp flannel and my knee was still staging a protest after that Glasgow jaunt. Over sixty thousand steps in two days what was I thinking? At my age that’s practically an ultramarathon. 

The shin splints have migrated north and taken up residence on the inside of my right knee like an unwelcome squatter. Still, between ice packs and a liberal smear of Voltarol, I’m hobbling along well enough to pursue matters piscatorial. 

Roving the swims was the plan, dodgy knee or not, because sometimes the chub don’t come to you, you have to go knocking on their door like an overly persistent Jehovah’s Witness with a landing net.

Tactics were simplicity itself: bread in the feeder, cheesepaste on the hook, and faith in the river gods. Proper chub fishing none of this space-age nonsense.

Word had reached the grapevine that fellow syndicate member Ade Busby author of Barbel Under the Bridge and part-time tormentor of lesser anglers like myself had recently bagged a 6lb 6oz chub on this stretch. 

Daylight had produced nothing for him, mind you, and then the moment the light dipped… bang. Typical chub behaviour really: sulking all afternoon like teenagers and then suddenly deciding they’re ravenous once you can barely see your rod tip.

The river was rising, which I greeted with cautious optimism. A bit of extra colour can be a chub angler’s best mate like fishing behind frosted glass where the fish can’t quite see you fluffing the cast. Sadly, it wasn’t quite the rich, chocolatey broth I’d been hoping for. More of a piss weak tea job. Still, hope springs eternal when there’s cheespaste in the bag and time on the clock.

I ambled onto the stretch with all the confidence of a man who had absolutely no evidence to support it. George Burton and Dave Williams were already stationed along the bank like two thoughtful garden gnomes contemplating the mysteries of the universe or more accurately, why the river looked so perfect yet so completely unwilling to give up a fish. 

After a brief riverside conference (which mostly consisted of scratching chins and saying “they’ve got to be here somewhere”), I decided to go on the rove, which in fishing terms means wandering about pretending you have a plan.

Off I went, creaking my way from swim to swim like an elderly heron that had done one yoga class too many in the 1980s and never quite recovered. The feeder plopped into crease lines, slid under suspicious looking bushes, and landed in those delightfully “chubby” swims where you just know a fish the size of a small sausage dog should be lurking with bad intentions. Each cast had that wonderful moment where the rod tip quivered ever so slightly and the imagination instantly leapt ahead to the weigh-in speech: “Well lads, I did say they were having it…”

Alas, the river had other plans. Swim after swim looked magnificent  the sort of swims that appear in glossy magazines with captions like ‘Guaranteed Chub Holding Area’ yet contained absolutely nothing except water, mild disappointment, and the distant echo of my own optimism quietly deflating. I switched to bread at one point, which felt like a tactical masterstroke until several tiny fish arrived to nibble it like pensioners sampling free cheese at a supermarket. Encouraging, yes. Useful, no. Meanwhile, the chub whom I shall now refer to as “Me Chub” had clearly taken the day off.

Eventually curfew crept up the bank like a bailiff with a clipboard. I packed up and left George and Dave to it, wishing them luck in the sort of tone usually reserved for people about to assemble flat-pack furniture without the instructions. As it turned out, they fared exactly the same as me. Three anglers, a lovely river, decent rising river conditions… and not a single fish among us. A perfect blank. Still, tomorrow is another day the final day of the river season. Which of course means the chub will almost certainly decide to feed like piranhas five minutes after we’ve all packed up for the year. 🎣

Warwickshire Avon - Bailiffs and Bedlam

There is, I’m often asked, a reason why I remain gloriously absent from the glowing circus tent that is social media. The answer is quite simple really: self-preservation. Many moons ago back when phones were for ringing people and a “stream” meant something with water and trout in it I decided I didn’t particularly want my existence narrated in real time to strangers who felt the need to comment on it while eating toast in their pants. 

From the outside looking in it all appears rather… consuming. Facebook, Tik-Tok, Instagram an endless digital village green where everyone is shouting, nobody is listening, and somewhere in the corner a man is angrily arguing about the correct way to hold a carp.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely immune to the odd pang of jealousy. Some of the fish that appear on these platforms are the sort that would make a saint swear. 

Huge great slabs of whiskered magnificence that look like they’ve been fed on protein shakes and small livestock. Of course I’m jealous any angler with a pulse would be. But attached to these aquatic triumphs is always a curious side order of vitriol. 

Perfect strangers furiously debating rigs, baits, ethics, lunar cycles and the moral integrity of a landing net. It’s a bit like watching a pub argument except everyone is typing and nobody has spilled a pint yet.

And then there are the dietary announcements. For reasons known only to the internet, people now feel compelled to inform the world about their digestive relationship with the “carnivore diet”. I do not wish to know this. I barely wish to know this about close family members, let alone Trevor from Doncaster who has been eating nothing but steak since February and would like to discuss the consequences. Angling used to involve fish, rivers and the occasional thermos of tea. Now it appears to involve gastrointestinal updates and motivational quotes over pictures of kettles.

Instagram, of course, is a different kettle of filtered fish entirely. A magical land where everyone lives a flawless life, owns immaculate tackle, and appears permanently bathed in golden evening sunlight even at half past eleven on a Tuesday morning. Reality, as we know, is rather less glamorous. I remember once while zander fishing on the canal, quietly minding my own business and contemplating a sandwich of questionable freshness, when a young woman arrived at the aqueduct car park with the sort of purpose normally reserved for bomb disposal teams.

Out came a paddleboard. Out came a wetsuit. Out came a phone attached to a stick that probably cost more than my first rod. She paddled precisely fifty yards into the middle of the aqueduct, posed heroically against the skyline for several photographs, and then paddled straight back again, packed everything into the car and drove off. I can only assume that somewhere online a caption appeared reading something along the lines of: “Morning paddle — five miles of peaceful canal vibes ✨.” Meanwhile the only witness, a slightly baffled angler with a flask and a couple of Zander rods, was left wondering if he’d just watched Cinderella arrive at the ball and leave before the buffet opened.

Still, each to their own. The world is a broad church and some of its members apparently enjoy photographing themselves pretending to exercise. Personally, I prefer fishing.

Which brings us neatly to another smash-and-grab sortie down at what I affectionately call Warwickshire Avon’s Shanghai Pudong an industrious little stretch where curfews are obeyed, barbel occasionally make questionable life choices, and the river seems to have recovered somewhat from the dreaded oxygen crash that knocked things sideways for a while. Word from the match yesterday was that a few barbel had shown themselves again, which is always encouraging. Rivers heal in their own time, and with the rain we’ve had lately the fish tend to shuffle about looking for nicer accommodation. Bit like anglers really, only with fewer folding chairs.

Last time I visited, things kicked off gloriously as the light faded, the sort of frantic spell where rods thump, reels complain and you begin to suspect the fish have collectively agreed to ruin your evening in the most delightful way possible. Naturally I returned armed with exactly the same cunning plan.

A 15mm robin red pellet. A paste wrap. A little PVA bag of freebies for good measure. The angling equivalent of ordering the same meal at a restaurant because it didn’t poison you last time.

Anyway I rolled into the car park just as the bailiff was hauling his dog out the motor, ready for its evening patrol like some sort of furry fisheries enforcement officer. We had a quick natter, the usual exchange of fishing wisdom (and mild exaggeration), before both of us wandered up toward the river. I plonked myself into one of the pegs opposite the houses. Not exactly my dream swim you know the sort, where you feel like you’re fishing in someone’s back garden but the fish clearly hadn’t read my preference list because that’s where they were hanging about.

The bailiff let the dog stretch its legs while I got the rods sorted and a bait in the drink. It was one of those slow starts where the river looks suspiciously innocent, like butter wouldn’t melt in its flow. Eventually, just as the bailiff wandered back up the bank toward me, the rod gave a proper whack and folded over like it had just remembered an unpaid electricity bill. A chub had absolutely nailed it. After a short but lively scrap a very respectable fish slid into the net. Job done !!

With that fish returned and the bailiff heading back toward his car, I glanced at the clock and realised I had less than 45 minutes before curfew. On this stretch that means rods out half an hour after dusk, which is normally about the time things actually start happening. Typical fishing logic really. Luckily the fish hadn’t read the rule book either because the swim suddenly switched on like someone had flicked a light switch.

What followed was one of those glorious little feeding spells where you barely get settled again before the rod tip tries to launch itself into the river. In the space of that short window I managed another four chub, with the final one tipping the scales at a very tidy five pounds. Proper river scrap merchants too  the sort that make you wonder if they’ve been secretly lifting weights in the margins.

One odd thing though: after every fish the hair rig seemed to be getting longer. At first I thought I was imagining it, but no the chub were hitting the bait so hard they were actually stretching the hair. By the end of the session it must have grown nearly two inches. Not that it mattered much, because the bites were so ridiculous the fish were practically hooking themselves while I stood there grinning like an idiot.

No barbel graced the net this time, but honestly I wasn’t too bothered. It was one of those classic smash-and-grab sessions where everything just comes together for a short burst of action. Add in a howling wind that looked like it was trying to relocate half the riverside trees to the next county and it somehow made the whole thing even more enjoyable.

It’s a real shame the season’s nearly done because the fish are clearly in the mood for a proper feed. Still, if this session was anything to go by, they’re finishing the season exactly how anglers like it  slightly chaotic, wildly entertaining, and just long enough to leave you wishing you had another hour.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.49

It was one of those clear Warwickshire evenings when the Avon moves like a thoughtful old philosopher, slow, green, and apparently pondering the meaning of worms. I had settled into my usual swim just below the bend where the reeds droop into the current like bored spectators at a county cricket match. The target, as always, was barbel those whiskered torpedoes of the riverbed, equal parts muscle and mischief.

Traditionalists will tell you that barbel fishing requires little more than patience, luncheon meat, and a spiritual acceptance that the fish are almost certainly laughing at you from beneath a snag.

But the modern world moves on.

Recently, while enjoying a cup of tea of such heroic strength it could have stripped varnish, I stumbled across news of the Royal Navy's 300 million Dragonfire laser system a device capable of striking objects with extraordinary precision using concentrated light.

Apparently it costs about £10 to fire the laser to shoot down a drone, which is rather remarkable when you consider that the usual solution involves launching a missile that costs something in the region of one million quid.

Naturally, my first thought was not of naval defence. (boy we need it)

My first thought was: I wonder if that would help with barbel.

Consider the possibilities.

You’ve located a proper Avon specimen one of those great bronze-backed fellows that sits beneath the far-bank roots like a nightclub bouncer who’s seen it all before. Normally the process involves a careful cast, a well-placed lead, and a quiet prayer to the patron saint of anglers.

But imagine instead a discreet tripod-mounted laser array beside the tackle box.

A gentle beam across the water… just enough to illuminate the precise feeding lane of His Whiskered Majesty. No splashing leads. No tangled rigs. Just pure, scientific piscatorial persuasion.

One could even imagine several practical applications.

• Precision bait warming gently heating a cube of luncheon meat to release maximum aroma into the glide.
• Snag trimming a tidy zap to that one offending twig that eats every rig you send downstream.
• Barbel encouragement—a polite flash of light to suggest that yes, dinner is indeed served and located conveniently near your hooklink.

Of course the purists would object.

They always do.

“Next you’ll be fishing with satellites,” they’ll mutter, while threading yet another heroic cube of cheese paste onto a hook roughly the size of farm machinery. 

But anglers have always embraced technology. Carbon rods, braided lines, bite alarms that scream like startled smoke detectors, and bait boats, bait boats FFS, The slope has been slippery for years.

And somewhere down that slope there may one day be a man on the Warwickshire Avon quietly adjusting the targeting optics on a portable directed-energy platform.

Not to harm the fish, you understand.

He simply wishes to highlight the exact patch of gravel where a twelve-pound barbel is about to pick up his bait. And when the rod finally hoops over magnificently, violently, gloriously he will play the fish in the time-honoured fashion: bent rod, slipping clutch, and a grin wide enough to concern the herons. 

Because whether you’re armed with a tin of luncheon meat or the latest in directed-energy technology, one truth remains constant on the banks of the Avon.

The barbel are still in charge.

And they know it.

Enough of that Mick, to the fishing !!!

I rolled out of work at half-four with the sort of optimism only an angler can possess—namely the belief that tonight, tonight, the river would reward my persistence instead of laughing at me like it had done for the previous forty-odd attempts. 

My destination was the stretch affectionately known as Piccadilly Circus, which in fishing terms means “good pegs” but in reality usually resembles the M25 at rush hour with rods. 

As I trundled closer, hopes high and kettle in mind, the car park appeared on the left… full. To the right, a field… also full. Cars everywhere. Blokes everywhere. Trolleys stacked so high with gear they looked capable of surviving a three-month Arctic expedition. The match had clearly just finished. I muttered something polite and respectful like “Bugger.”

Plan B it was then. Not far away, thankfully, though the riverbank field resembled a sponge that had recently fought a losing battle with the Atlantic Ocean. The track was non negotiable. 

I parked the car just inside the gate and began the usual angling ballet: rod out, bag on shoulder, bait tub under arm, trying to look like a man who absolutely meant to step in that puddle. The swim I fancied was the one that had kindly produced a cracking 5lb 10oz chub at the end of last season. A proper swim it is too features everywhere, cover down the right, a tidy crease and a little slack close in that screams “fish live here, mate.” Or at least whispers it politely.

Now with dusk less than an hour away and my curfew looming like an over-enthusiastic bailiff, I went straight in with the good stuff: a 15mm Robin Red drilled pellet, paste wrap, and a PVA bag of little pellets for company. The sort of bait package that either catches a fish or at the very least makes you feel like you know what you’re doing. Out it went, plopping nicely into the crease. Then I sat back to “chill”, which in reality meant slowly turning into an icicle while pretending the wind was refreshing. The water was a positively tropical 9.4 degrees however, decent if you ask me. 

The evening looked perfect in that picturesque sort of way clear sky, sun dipping, everything glowing beautifully. Unfortunately, the fish hadn’t been consulted. The rod tip remained as still as a taxidermy exhibit. Not even a cheeky chub pluck. Just me, the river, and the creeping suspicion I’d once again driven somewhere purely to sit in the cold. Then, about half an hour in, there was a twitch. Maybe a line bite. Maybe a fish. Maybe the river simply mocking me again. Still, it was activity, and after fifty sessions where I have tried for barbel in and amongst them you learn to celebrate even theoretical fish.

A short while later the rod tip gave two sharp bangs, the rod hooped over, and suddenly everything went into what anglers like to call “melt-down mode.” I lifted into the fish and immediately knew it wasn’t a chub. This was a barbel, and a lively one at that. The smaller barbel seem to fight like they’ve had three espressos and an argument with a swan, and this one tore about the swim, and taking line with admirable enthusiasm. Given the number of times I’d fished this stretch without so much as a polite sniff, I suspect I was more surprised than the fish.

Eventually after much puffing, muttering, and pretending I was in control the fish slid over the net cord. “A fish! A fish!” I may or may not have said out loud like a Victorian naturalist discovering a new species. And not just any fish either: a barbel, and my first from this stretch after what felt like roughly seventeen geological eras of effort.

With darkness closing in and my curfew ticking loudly in my head, I conducted the world’s fastest photoshoot. The phone flash did well, though the riverbank lighting could generously be described as “mysterious gloom.” The barbel was returned after resting, the tackle sorted, and I legged it back across the soggy field like a man who had finally achieved redemption, whilst leaving Nic from Avon Angling a voice message. 

Nearly Fifty sessions it had taken. Fifty. But as I drove home, smug grin firmly attached, I realised something important: sometimes persistence pays off… and sometimes it just makes the eventual barbel taste even sweeter. Figuratively speaking of course. The barbel was fine. I, however, was absolutely buzzing. 🎣another smash and grab session that went to plan. Only a few days left, why the heck is it always the same every season, the bigger fish seem to show themselves just as the drawbridge goes up.