Warwickshire Avon - Bouillabaisse and Bouncebackability

Keiran had won the match the other day, which, as far as I could make out, had immediately elevated him to the position of Professor of River Fishing, with a specialism in telling other people how to catch fish. He'd drawn this particular peg and apparently given the fish such a memorable feeding experience that they'd practically been climbing over one another to get at his maggots, which was all very encouraging, although I couldn't help wondering whether he'd actually caught them or merely exaggerated their enthusiasm over a pint afterwards.

Still, a match win is a match win, and I was prepared to listen carefully to his advice, especially as it involved a peg I'd never fished in anger and fish that, according to Keiran, had practically been eating out of his hand. His instructions were beautifully uncomplicated: feed, feed, and more feed, until the fish arrived in sufficient numbers to make the place resemble a particularly badly organised school dinner queue. I was all for it, although experience has taught me that the moment somebody tells you a swim is full of fish, you can usually expect to catch a rusty bicycle and a shopping trolley.

The peg itself required a little commitment, as fishing it properly meant getting into the river and donning the waders. Now, I have always enjoyed getting intimate with a river, particularly when trotting a float, although I generally prefer the intimacy to be consensual and the water to remain on the outside of my clothing. Nevertheless, there was fish to be caught, apparently, and if that meant standing in cold water like a man who'd lost his trousers in a particularly unfortunate boating accident, then so be it.

There is something wonderfully appealing about wading into a river with a fishing rod, provided you ignore the temperature, the current, the possibility of finding a hole deeper than expected, and the fact that everybody on the bank is perfectly comfortable while you're slowly losing the feeling in your lower extremities. The fish, naturally, have no appreciation of these sacrifices, being far too busy deciding whether the maggot you've carefully presented is worth eating or whether they'd prefer to leave it there until you begin questioning your entire existence. It's all part of the sport, apparently, although I suspect that if fish had to stand waist-deep in freezing water to catch their dinner, they'd have evolved a more sensible arrangement.

My tackle for the occasion was a fifteen-foot Daiwa trotting rod, a stick float, and a couple of maggots on the crude size 16 hook. Nothing extravagant, nothing complicated, and certainly nothing that required a second mortgage, although the amount of money anglers spend on equipment in pursuit of fish that can be caught with a worm and a bent pin remains a subject best avoided at family gatherings. The Daiwa was ready, the float was attached, the hook was baited, and I was prepared to put Kieran's masterclass into practice.

Feed, trot, feed, trot, and then feed some more.

That was the prescription, and I intended to follow it with all the discipline of a man who'd been promised a decent day's fishing and had already mentally spent the proceeds. Keiran reckoned he'd drawn the fish right up to his feet through persistent feeding, so I began imagining shoals of hungry fish gathering around my boots, jostling for position like shoppers outside a supermarket on Christmas Eve. It was a pleasant picture, although I suspected the reality might involve one suicidal gudgeon and a roach with commitment issues.

The important thing, apparently, was not to be tight with the feed. This was excellent news, because I've always thought that if you're going to spend your hard-earned money on maggots, you might as well throw them into the river with the enthusiasm of a man scattering confetti at a wedding, particularly if there's a chance that some of the guests might be edible. Of course, there is a small drawback to this philosophy: if the fish don't arrive, you can end up feeding the entire aquatic population of the county without receiving so much as a thank-you card.

The swim, I have to admit, wasn't much to look at. Had I been strolling along the riverbank in search of somewhere to fish, I might well have passed it by without a second glance, perhaps stopping a little further along where the water looked more promising and the bank offered somewhere comfortable to sit. But then I've walked past plenty of good swims in my time, usually in favour of somewhere that looked absolutely magnificent and subsequently produced nothing except a numb backside and a profound sense of disappointment.

Match anglers, however, have memories like elephants when it comes to pegs that have produced a decent weight. They might struggle to remember where they've left the car keys, their wedding anniversary, or what their wife asked them to pick up from the shops, but mention a peg that produced twenty pounds of roach three seasons ago and suddenly they're quoting the exact date, the river level, the wind direction, and what the winning angler had for breakfast. At the weigh-in, these otherwise ordinary stretches of water become the subject of intense scrutiny, with matchmen mentally filing away every detail for future reference.

It's rather like property investment, except instead of studying house prices and calculating rental yields, you're watching another chap weigh in a net of fish and thinking, I'll have a bit of that next time. The peg acquires a reputation, the reputation becomes folklore, and before long there are anglers prepared to sell a kidney for the chance to stand in a patch of river that, to the untrained eye, looks about as promising as a puddle behind a bus shelter. Naturally, the fish are under no obligation to honour this reputation, but that has never stopped an angler developing a theory.

I slipped into position with the waders on, checked the float, pinched a couple of maggots onto the hook, and prepared to begin the process of feeding the fish until they either arrived in numbers or applied for a change of address.

The first feed went in, followed by the first trot, and for a few glorious moments everything looked wonderfully promising. The float travelled down the swim with all the confidence of an express train, although it failed to stop at any fish stations, and I retrieved it ready to go again, reminding myself that even the best anglers must occasionally endure a little patience.

Feed, trot, feed, trot.

I settled into the rhythm, sending the float down the current and introducing another helping of maggots as it returned. Somewhere beneath the surface, I imagined the fish gathering for their banquet, spreading the word through the local roach community that the catering was excellent and the portions unlimited, although I did wonder why nobody had thought to invite the two idiots standing in the river who were paying for it all.

Keiran had caught them by feeding heavily, and there was no reason to suppose that the fish had suddenly developed a dislike of maggots or a newfound appreciation for fasting. 

On the other hand, they might have been there yesterday, gorged themselves silly, and spent today lying on the riverbed with their fins behind their heads, regretting their excesses and promising never to eat another maggot again. Fish, I've discovered, can be remarkably inconsiderate when it comes to following a perfectly reasonable plan.

Still, there is a great deal to be said for a day spent trotting a float, even when the fish aren't playing ball. 

The rod is a pleasure to use, the current does most of the work, and there is something hypnotic about watching that little float travel downstream, provided you can resist the urge to interpret every tiny wobble as a bite from a specimen roach that will eventually require its own photograph in the local newspaper. It's a wonderful way to spend a morning, and considerably cheaper than therapy, unless you count the tackle purchases required to recover from a blank.

If the fish arrived, splendid; if they didn't, I could at least console oneself with the knowledge that we'd given the local maggot population a thorough workout. Sadly I had a curfew though, but around 2.5/3 hours fishing we were hoping for a few bites. And that, of course, is the trouble with fishing. You can receive the best advice from a match winner, choose a proven peg, use the right tackle, feed like there's a national shortage coming, and still find yourself wondering whether the fish have all moved to another river. Keiran had worked his magic here, but whether the spell would survive a change of angler remained to be seen.

For now, the float continued its journey downstream, the maggots continued their journey into the river, and I continued our determined efforts to justify the whole ridiculous business. Somewhere out there were fish that had apparently been queuing around Keiran's feet, and I was increasingly keen to have a word with them about their customer service.

After all, we'd come prepared to feed, feed, and feed some more.

The least they could do was turn up for dinner, ?

Well, they certainly did, although only for the first couple of hours till the sun buggered it, when the river decided that the best way to entertain me was to provide a bite a chuck. And when I say a bite a chuck, I mean a proper, no-nonsense, barely-had-time-to-put-the-kettle-on sort of bite a chuck. The chublets were particularly keen to get involved, those little head nodding hooligans that seem to possess an appetite entirely disproportionate to their size, with the odd decent chub putting in an appearance just to remind me that there were, in fact, some grown-ups in the river. 

There were also gudgeon, small dace, perch and a few roach, so the swim was beginning to resemble a village fete, with every species in attendance and all of them apparently expecting a free lunch. I had barely time to contemplate the mysteries of the universe, or indeed whether I had remembered to put the car keys somewhere sensible, before the float was disappearing again.

The real stars of the show, however, were two barbel that arrived with all the subtlety of a pair of hungry accountants discovering an expense account. I had been feeding maggots rather generously, regularly depositing an entire pouch into the swim, which is an astonishing quantity of little wriggling creatures when you stop to think about it. Most anglers might have considered this excessive, but the fish clearly regarded it as a perfectly reasonable breakfast provision. 

One of the barbel weighed in at a very respectable 5lb 8oz, and it was obvious that the maggot banquet had attracted the attention of something considerably more substantial than the chublets that had been mugging my hookbait all morning. The fish were hovering around in the feed, hoovering up maggots with the enthusiasm of a vacuum cleaner at a biscuit convention, and I could hardly blame them. If somebody had been throwing entire pouches of breakfast into my front garden, I suspect I would have been inclined to investigate myself.

Naturally, I had arrived at dawn, because that is what a dedicated angler does. He rises at an hour when normal, sensible people are still enjoying the warm embrace of their duvets, stumbles around in the half-light, loads the car with enough tackle to supply a small military expedition, and heads off to secure a swim as though the entire angling population of the county is poised to descend upon it. Except, of course, on this occasion, when I arrived to discover that the riverbank was deserted. Not another soul in sight. 

I could have stayed in bed, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and still wandered down later with plenty of room to choose from. But then I would have missed the pleasure of getting up in the dark for absolutely no reason whatsoever, which is an important part of the angling experience and something that non-anglers will never understand. We do not merely go fishing; we sacrifice sleep, comfort and occasionally our sanity in pursuit of fish that have absolutely no appreciation of our efforts.

For the first two hours or so, though, it was all thoroughly worthwhile. The float was rarely still, the maggots were disappearing at an alarming rate, and the fish seemed determined to make the most of my generosity. The chublets kept coming, punctuated by the occasional better chub, with the smaller species adding variety to the proceedings. 

Then, just as I was beginning to wonder whether I had stumbled upon some previously undiscovered piscatorial feeding station, the two barbel appeared and elevated the session from a pleasant morning's fishing to something rather more memorable. There is something deeply satisfying about watching a swim come alive when you get the feeding right, even if you do begin to wonder whether you should have taken out a second mortgage to pay for the maggots.

And then, as suddenly as it had all begun, the river switched off. The bites stopped, the float settled into an almost suspiciously peaceful existence, and the swim that had been behaving like a fishmonger's shop on Christmas Eve became as lively as a churchyard at midnight. I gave it a little time, naturally, because anglers are an optimistic breed and we are always convinced that the next bite will be the one that makes the entire session worthwhile. 

But the river had apparently decided that it had served its allotted quota of entertainment and that I had enjoyed quite enough excitement for one morning. There was little point in arguing with it. Rivers, like cats, are perfectly capable of making their feelings known, and neither is especially inclined to explain itself.

All told, I managed over 20lb of fish in around two and a half hours before the swim finally went dead, which was a thoroughly enjoyable result by anybody's standards. There had been a constant procession of chublets, a supporting cast of gudgeon, dace, perch and roach, and two barbel, including one of 5lb 8oz, which provided the sort of memorable interlude that makes all those early starts seem vaguely sensible. The maggots had been dispensed with the generosity of a lottery winner, the fish had responded magnificently, and I had enjoyed a cracking session without another angler in sight.

So, was getting up at dawn necessary? Absolutely not. Could I have stayed in bed? Almost certainly. Would I do it all again? 

Without the slightest hesitation. Because that is the peculiar magic of fishing. You can spend half the night preparing, rise at an ungodly hour, carry enough tackle to sink a barge, feed half a river with maggots and then discover that the fish have gone home for their afternoon nap. Yet somehow, you return to the car smiling, already thinking about the next session. And if the river happens to provide a bite a chuck, a couple of barbel and over 20lb of fish in a morning, well, that is merely the icing on the cake.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a maggot bill to recover from and a bed to apologise to.

Warwickshire Avon - Methods and Methylenedioxymethamphetamine

The clocks going back is one of those annual events that looks perfectly innocent on the calendar but is, in reality, a coordinated attack on the mental health of the river angler. One minute you’re wandering around in glorious evening sunshine pretending you know what you’re doing, and the next you’re commuting to work in pitch black, returning home in pitch black and beginning to suspect that you’ve been sentenced to a life underground with the moles.

This is when the old SAD disorder kicks in, although I prefer to call it Seasonal Angling Deprivation because, frankly, I know what the cure is and it certainly isn't a mindfulness app. What I require is a river, a barbel, several hours of daylight and preferably some form of waterproof clothing that doesn't make me look like a man who's escaped from a recycling facility.

 There is something thoroughly soul-destroying about leaving the house in darkness, spending the entire day in a building under artificial lighting and then driving home in darkness, wondering if the sun still exists or whether it has finally given up and emigrated to Spain. 

You start to question the whole concept of employment when you realise you could have spent the same number of hours beside a river achieving absolutely nothing and at least had the decency to be outside.

Consequently, I have been hitting the Warwickshire Avon like a maniac, desperately trying to hoover up every remaining scrap of daylight before winter slams the door in my face and nails it shut. 

I know what's coming because I've seen it before: swollen rivers, freezing temperatures, flooded meadows and rod rings that require the services of a small plumber before the line will pass through them.

The last two winters have hardly inspired confidence either, with the Avon seemingly unable to decide whether it wants to be a river, a reservoir or a minor tributary of the North Sea. 

In a few weeks I’ll be reduced to looking out of the office window at a grey sky at four o’clock in the afternoon, wondering whether sticking a rod into the photocopier would constitute a fishing session.

So I’ve been getting out whenever I can, trying to squeeze in a few more proper barbel sessions before the annual great extinction of enjoyable midweek fishing. This particular outing saw me heading back to the poaching swim, which thankfully had received the blessing of the land frequenter from the opposite bank.

It is always reassuring to have permission, particularly when your alternative strategy involves pretending you have accidentally wandered onto private land while carrying two rods, a landing net, a bait bucket and enough pellets to feed a small herd of cattle. I was therefore particularly grateful for the green light and set off feeling like a legitimate member of society rather than a suspicious bloke trespassing with fishing tackle.

First stop was Nic's place at Avon Angling, where I collected the bait bucket I had abandoned at the parking spot on the previous visit. Nothing says professional angler quite like arriving at someone's house to retrieve equipment you've forgotten in a field, especially when your previous visit had ended with a blank.

Nic wished me tight lines as I headed off, which was kind of him. I needed all the assistance I could get because the previous trip had produced precisely nothing, unless you count fresh air, a slightly damp landing net and the gradual deterioration of my emotional stability, oh and suspected Pike that picked up the luncheon meat. This time, however, I had a plan.

An old-school Drennan method feeder was going to be the weapon of choice, loaded with scalded Severn Valley Ambush pellet and accompanied by a short hooklink with a banded Ambush cushion tucked tightly beside the hook. The thinking was to create a concentrated little parcel of temptation rather than the more traditional approach, because the water was clear and I wanted the fish to encounter something resembling a five-star takeaway rather than a motorway service station.

The Avon was up slightly, carrying more flow and looking absolutely bang on. You know those moments when a river looks so perfect that you immediately become convinced you're about to catch something enormous, despite absolutely no evidence whatsoever to support the theory?

This was one of those moments.

The feeder went in and almost immediately there were little signs of interest. Not exactly the sort of interest that makes you reach for the landing net, but enough to keep me staring at the rod tip with the intense concentration normally associated with bomb disposal.

Time slipped away and dusk began creeping across the valley. The light was disappearing at an alarming rate, and I was rapidly approaching that horrible period of an evening session where every minute of daylight becomes more valuable than a winning lottery ticket.

I was staring at the LED on the rod tip when I spotted a head torch approaching across the field. There are few things more exciting to an angler than seeing another human being approaching after dark, because you immediately assume they have either come to talk about your fishing, arrest you, or tell you that you've accidentally pitched up in their garden.

I'd already had to negotiate the cows on the way in, so I was hoping the approaching figure wasn't some sort of livestock-related vigilante.

It turned out to be a dog walker.

He stopped and, after looking at the glowing rod tip, announced, “Oh! An angler, did think what that light was.”

And then the rod went absolutely mental.

Not a polite little pull. Not a couple of nods followed by a contemplative pause. No, this thing went into full-scale meltdown, the rod arcing over as if somebody had attached a tow rope to it and driven a tractor into the river.

The timing was impeccable. There I was, standing in darkness having just been identified by a member of the public as an angler, and within approximately three seconds I was wrestling with a barbel while attempting to operate a head torch, rod, reel and my rapidly deteriorating nervous system.

I knew immediately what it was. The initial surge was pure barbel, heading straight for the cover with the sort of enthusiasm normally displayed by a teenager who has just been told there's a party at the other end of the village.

Thankfully the tackle held and I managed to turn it. For a brief moment I thought I had everything under control, which was obviously the cue for the fish to make another run.

It battled brilliantly, and just when I thought I was getting it anywhere near the net, it saw the landing net and apparently interpreted it as an invitation to begin the fight again. Two additional runs followed, accompanied by me making noises that probably sounded considerably more panicked than I would have liked in front of the dog walker.

Eventually the barbel slid over the net.

There are few better sights in fishing than a proper Avon barbel lying in the folds of a landing net, especially when five minutes earlier you'd been convinced you were going home with nothing more than a cold backside and an unhealthy hatred of British winter.

The dog walker wanted a good look at it and seemed genuinely amazed. I was equally amazed, although for entirely different reasons, chiefly that I'd managed to land the thing without falling in, breaking something or accidentally shining the head torch directly into my own eyes.

After a short chat and a decent rest for the fish, I took the trophy shot and slipped it back. The barbel swam away strongly, leaving me standing there with that ridiculous grin that makes non-anglers wonder whether we've all suffered some form of head injury.

There was still around twenty minutes left, so naturally I set everything up again.

Because apparently catching a barbel wasn't enough.

The feeder went back out into the darkness and I settled in for the final few minutes, feeling like a man who had just won a battle and was now hanging around the battlefield to see if anyone else fancied a go. The swim was now properly dark, although there was still a trace of light in the sky, which was just enough to convince me that packing up would be cowardice.

The next fish was a decent bream.

Naturally.

After all that excitement, the Avon had decided to send me a large, slimy envelope containing a bream as a thank-you note. It had obviously heard about the Ambush cushion and decided that if the barbel were going to get involved, it wasn't going to miss out on the buffet.

And that, as they say, was that.

Curfew arrived, darkness had completely swallowed the swim and common sense finally returned sufficiently for me to pack up. The cows were thankfully further up the field this time, meaning I could make my escape without having to negotiate a bovine security checkpoint while carrying several kilos of fishing tackle and looking suspiciously pleased with myself.

So there it was: one lovely 7–8lb Warwickshire Avon barbel from the poaching peg, a decent bream and another small victory against the rapidly approaching forces of winter. Quest completed, box ticked and sanity restored, at least temporarily. The poaching peg isn't very pleasant to fish as the cows use it to access the river for drinking and the banks are steep, so thankfully a barbel has been caught. 

The drive home was pitch black, naturally, but it somehow didn't seem quite as depressing. I'd spent the evening beside a river, watched a barbel try to dismantle my tackle in front of a dog walker and successfully survived another encounter with the Warwickshire wildlife.

For a few precious hours, the winter blues had been beaten back.

The sun might have gone to bed at four o'clock, the cows might be plotting their next ambush and the river might soon resemble the Amazon after a biblical rainstorm, but for now I had a barbel in the memory bank.

And that, frankly, was enough to keep the lights on in my head for another week.

Warwickshire Avon - Saboteurs and Sagaciousness

Now there was a time when discovering where the barbel were hiding required proper reconnaissance. 

You might walk miles of riverbank, peer through bushes, speak to other anglers in hushed tones and, if you were particularly dedicated, actually go fishing and find out for yourself. Those were simpler times. 

Now, apparently, all you need is an internet connection and the ability to type “Warwickshire Avon barbel” into YouTube.

Within seconds, the picture of the swim, the state of the river, the size of the fish, the weather conditions, what bait was used, what rod was used, which tree was being sat under and, quite possibly, what the angler had for breakfast can be available to anyone with a phone and absolutely no intention of keeping anything secret.

The Americans spent billions developing spy satellites capable of photographing objects from hundreds of miles above the Earth. Meanwhile, the local bait peddlers and the users of the next best barbel bait have discovered that a bloke with a GoPro and a YouTube account is considerably cheaper.

There is no need for orbital reconnaissance, covert surveillance or some highly trained intelligence operative peering through a sophisticated satellite camera. Just sit at home with a cup of tea and watch Dave from Nuneaton catch three barbel from exactly the same tree stump.

TARGET IDENTIFIED.

It rather reminds me of the old fishing tradition of telling somebody where you caught a fish by saying, “Up there somewhere.”

That used to be considered a reasonably good security system.

Now the modern equivalent appears to be standing in the swim, filming yourself catching a succession of barbel, panning slowly across the river to reveal the exact tree opposite, showing the distinctive bush behind you, announcing the nearest car park and then finishing with, “Anyway, hope you enjoyed the video.”

Enjoyed it?

I've practically got the Ordnance Survey map out.

And naturally, once the video is online, the information doesn't exactly remain classified for long. Within a few hours the usual suspects have probably watched it repeatedly, paused it at strategic moments, zoomed in on the opposite bank and identified the swim using nothing more sophisticated than Google Earth and a worrying amount of spare time.

The bait peddlers must be rubbing their hands together.

Forget traditional advertising.

Just get somebody to catch a half decent barbel on camera with your bait and the location conveniently visible in the background especially when opposite the small night fishing syndicate is a club water. Suddenly the entire fishing population knows precisely where they need to be on Saturday morning, preferably arriving at 4.17am with enough bait to feed a small village.



The problem is you see, Dr Uy Hoang a 51-year-old statistician working at the University of Oxford has mapped so many watercourses especially here in the Midlands, you can literally be on the bank with a click of the mouse button.

Of course, there is nothing particularly wrong with sharing a fishing video. We all enjoy seeing someone catch a good fish, and a well-made film can be hugely entertaining. But there is a slight difference between “I caught a nice barbel on the Warwickshire Avon” and “Here is a twelve-minute, 4K, drone-assisted geographical survey of the exact swim, including satellite-style aerial footage and a helpful description of the nearest lay-by.” 

The latter is less fishing report and more National Security Briefing.

Somewhere, presumably, there is a poor satellite operator sitting in a control room wondering why the latest intelligence request isn't for troop movements in Eastern Europe but instead reads:

“Please obtain high-resolution imagery of the Warwickshire Avon between Stratford and Wellesbourne. Suspected concentration of large barbel. Possible involvement of pellets.”

Frankly, they needn't bother.

YouTube has already done it.

And if the Red Hot Garlic Boilie bait boys haven't found your syndicate yet they soon will, so sign them up at you peril.

No satellite required.

Anyway enough waffle, I found their hot peg anyway so it would be rude not to try it out I suppose. Good mate Nic from Avon Angling was with me as well and he was fishing just upstream to also try and winkle out a chub or barbel. For this short session I fancied trying some spam as I've not used it for a while and if the swim has been filled in with the same bait, maybe a change bait is the way to go. 

The evening had started with all the promise of a particularly optimistic fishing catalogue, the sort where everything is golden, the river is sparkling and the angler apparently knows exactly what he is doing. Nic was already hunkered down in a swim, while I was preparing for the serious business of fishing, which in my case mostly involved standing about looking purposeful and wondering where I had put the bait. 

Meanwhile the cows were milling around with absolutely no intention of complying with the Government’s dispersal order, although politically they were clearly aligned with Andy Pandy because there wasn’t an Animal Control Officer in sight.

Thankfully the bovine protestors kept themselves to themselves, although their mooing provided a sort of rural soundtrack that made the whole affair feel considerably more civilised than it actually was.

I wandered down to the poaching peg and immediately began visualising a personal-best barbel lying majestically in my landing net, which was obviously a sensible and entirely proportionate expectation given that I had only just arrived. The swim was ridiculously clear, so clear in fact that I could see the bottom right up to the cover, which is exactly what you want when fishing for barbel because they clearly enjoy being watched.

I trickled a little bait into the swim and slowly baited the hook, taking care to adopt the sort of concentration normally reserved for defusing explosives or assembling IKEA furniture without the instructions. 

A sizeable lump of Spam went onto the long hair because I wasn't there to catch chub and, having caught plenty of good barbel on luncheon meat before, I decided there was absolutely no reason whatsoever to change a winning formula. By this point my chest had taken on the unmistakable appearance of a pigeon and my name was apparently Philip Smythe-Smith, but if you cannot beat them then you might as well join them and hope nobody notices. (Waves to the opposite bank syndicate members ) 

The light faded remarkably quickly and, within about fifteen minutes of the bait going out, the first tentative indications began, consisting mainly of little pulls and plucks that suggested something in the swim had discovered dinner but wasn't prepared to commit to the relationship. 

This continued for around twenty minutes, during which I managed to experience every possible emotional state available to a fisherman without actually catching anything, before dusk finally arrived and the curfew began looming ominously. Then, completely out of the blue, the rod pulled round properly and for one glorious moment I thought the barbel of my dreams had finally decided to make an appearance.

I lifted the rod and could actually feel the bait being stripped from the rather enormous pellet stop, followed almost immediately by that horrible grating sensation transmitted directly through the line and into the pit of my stomach. 

Then everything went slack, leaving me holding a rod connected to absolutely nothing and wearing the facial expression of a man who has just discovered that his lottery ticket expired yesterday. I reeled in to find the hooklink severed cleanly in the middle, which immediately led me to conclude that a pike had grabbed it because blaming a pike is much more satisfying than admitting that a rock might have outsmarted me.

I am fairly convinced it was a pike, mainly because something very similar has happened to me before and because the alternative would mean spending the rest of the evening wondering whether I had somehow managed to lose a fish to geology. 

There was, however, no realistic time to set everything up again, and the barbel gods clearly weren't prepared to extend opening hours merely because I had finally got something interesting happening. So I packed up my wounded dignity and headed over to see Nic, who had sensibly avoided all this nonsense and was actually catching fish.

Nic had managed a chub, followed by a rather splendid bream that briefly impersonated a barbel with such conviction that even I was prepared to believe it for several seconds. It was, in fairness, exactly the sort of performance you want from a bream when there is an audience, although I suspect the fish was merely enjoying the opportunity to make another angler look foolish. I watched the proceedings with the quiet satisfaction of someone whose own session had just ended in a severed hooklink and therefore had absolutely nothing left to lose.

So the grand introduction to the mysterious poaching peg had ended rather differently from the heroic barbel adventure I had visualised on arrival, although in fairness the evening had delivered cows, Spam, a possible pike attack and a bream with theatrical ambitions. 

There is probably a lesson in all this, although I have yet to identify one that doesn't involve carrying more hooklinks, blaming pike and lowering my expectations considerably. Perhaps the real secret of keeping a good peg secret is simply to fish it badly, because after tonight nobody in their right mind would believe there was anything worth catching there anyway, I'll be back !!