Warwickshire Avon - Synchronised and Subterfuge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warwickshire Avon - Salt-Guns and Salamandroids

Well, if the Met Office are to be believed, Stratford-upon-Avon could be nudging 40 degrees this week. Forty! That's not weather for Warwickshire; that's weather for lizards, tourists with regrettable sunburn, and blokes who insist on wearing socks with sandals. I spent most of the morning wondering whether to fill the bird bath or simply climb into it myself.

The talk everywhere seems to be air-conditioning. A few years ago, buying an air-conditioning unit in Britain felt about as necessary as owning a snowplough in the Sahara. Now I'm finding myself browsing appliance websites with the same urgency normally reserved for bait orders and discounted fishing tackle. The nation's gone from discussing drizzle to comparing BTU ratings in the space of a fortnight.

As for the fishing, common sense may have to prevail. When the river feels more like the warm shallow seas of Ayia Napa than a flowing watercourse, it's hard to justify chasing barbel around. They fight like demons at the best of times, and in these conditions with lower oxygen levels you can't help but wonder who's really enjoying the experience. Probably not the fish. Probably not the angler either once he's melted into a puddle on the riverbank.

So, for now, the rods may remain in the garage after this session while I seek refuge in the shade, clutching a cold drink and keeping one eye on the thermometer. If this carries on much longer, Shakespeare's birthplace will need palm trees, and I'll need that air-conditioning unit after all.

Now ordinarily, I’m a man of absolute peace. Give me a lukewarm flask of tea, a pack of maggots that are crawling suspiciously faster than they should, and a quiet swim on the Warwickshire Avon, and I am content. But during a recent heatwave session on a sneaky stretch of the canal, I wasn’t just doing battle with the local zander. I was the primary target for a merciless, bloodthirsty squadron of Warwickshire mosquitoes. 

I’m talking about the kind of airborne pests that laugh at insect repellent. After stopping counting at about 35 bites, I sat on my chair, scratching like a dog with fleas, and thought: there has to be a mechanical solution to this biological warfare. Enter an engineer mate of mine. Engineers don’t look at bugs the way normal people do. They don’t see an annoyance; they see a ballistics deficit.

“Mick,” he said, eyes gleaming with the manic energy of a man who spends his lunch breaks analysing stress-strain curves. “You need a laser guided Bug-A-Salt 3.0. It leverages compressed spring kinetics to atomise standard sodium chloride crystals. It’s pure mechanical genius.” Naturally, I was sceptical. As an angler, I’m used to precision mechanics the buttery click of a high-end centrepin reel, the perfect taper of a carbon Avon rod.

But watching an engineer examine this plastic fly-swatter alternative is a different sort of entertainment altogether. 

When it turned up a few days later I was practically drooling over the tolerances of the pump-action mechanism and the fluid dynamics of the salt hopper.

“Look at the safety cross-bolt engagement,! Look at the elevation on the Patridge sight!”

Then a massive horsefly landed squarely on my bait box, eyeing up my red maggots like a hungry Brummie at a kebab van. 

I racked the pump a satisfying clack-clack that felt like closing the breech on an expensive piece of kit sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

Pfft!

No toxic spray. No chemical stink to ruin my hookbaits. Just a tiny puff of table salt and one very neutralised horsefly dropped onto the towpath without a single splatter.

Clean execution.

If I can’t bait-boat my way out of a mosquito frenzy, at least I can anti-air weapon my way through it. It leaves a pinch of salt on the grass, but frankly, if a few grains land in the water, I’ll just call it pre-baiting for the next incoming shoal. I might even try loading it with fine garlic salt next time give the canal roach a bit of seasoning before they even see the hook.

Tight lines, and keep your hopper dry.

Anyway over a week now into the river season and, as is traditional, I found myself undertaking what sounded far grander than it actually was: a reconnaissance mission. In reality this involved driving around Warwickshire in a Suzuki Jimny looking for somewhere nice to sit and occasionally throw bits of fish food into a river.

This new venue (to me)  in question came recommended by a blog reader whom I've bumped into on a couple of occasions. Hi Baz !!

This is hardly surprising as we both seem to suffer from the same affliction: an overwhelming desire to avoid other anglers. 

If there were a syndicate called "The Society for the Preservation of Peace, Quiet and Not Being Bothered" we'd probably both be committee members.

The stretch itself ticked all the important boxes. It was less than nine miles away, fifteen minutes from home and involved a route consisting mainly of country lanes narrow enough to make you question whether modern vehicles were a mistake and be thankful the Jimny is unconventional . 

Most importantly, it offered that rare combination of solitude, wildlife and the realistic possibility of not hearing somebody else's bite alarm rendition of a submarine emergency.

What had really piqued my interest though was the untapped zander potential. The thought of improving my personal best had lodged itself firmly in my mind. This is dangerous because anglers are remarkably skilled at convincing themselves that fish they've never seen definitely exist and are probably enormous.

Google Maps only tells you so much, but what I could see looked promising. Better still, the entire 600-metre stretch was accessible by vehicle. The little Jimny would be in its natural habitat. Some people buy four-wheel drives to conquer mountain ranges. Mine spends most of its time transporting pellets, flasks and unrealistic expectations, but unlike many 4x4 users these days, it often does what it is designed to do.

Being able to park virtually on top of the swim is a massive advantage for short sessions. The older I get, the more I appreciate a fishing venue where the walk from car to river doesn't require expedition supplies, sherpas and a farewell letter to loved ones.

There was no rush. Dusk wasn't until after 10.00pm and with the heat wave kicking in soon about the best opportunity I had all week for a dangle, leaving plenty of time for a proper look around. I checked the water temperature which was 23 degrees 😯 I wandered from swim to swim, peering into the water with all the confidence of a man who was largely making things up as he went along. Every crease looked fishy. Every glide looked fishy. Every snag looked fishy. In fact everything looked fishy, which was fortunate considering it was a river.

I scanned the deeper in a few areas and it's a fairy uniform depth with lots of character, lily pads and weed in lots of area but clean gravel also which was nice to see.

Eventually I settled on a swim that looked suitably fishy. I can't adequately define what "fish" means but experienced anglers will understand. It's a bit like house hunting. You walk in, look around and immediately decide whether you'd live there despite having absolutely no logical basis for the conclusion. Well, ok I confess I had a few swims to try from Baz. 

Tactics were kept pleasingly simple. A concentrated patch of bait delivered via a PVA bag, some homemade paste making its appearance again and, on the hair, an ever-reliable Robin Red pellet. It had served me faithfully last season and I see no reason to abandon a successful partnership. Unlike several football managers, the pellet has never let me down.

To get things started I introduced a bait dropper full of hemp and small pellets before allowing the swim to rest. This sounds wonderfully tactical and scientific. In truth it mainly gave me an excuse to sit down, drink cold water and stare at the river whilst pretending important things were happening beneath the surface.

The jungle drums on the WBAS WhatsApp group had been beating loudly since the start of the season. Rumours suggested the barbel were preoccupied with spawning activities when the drawbridge came up on the 16th and therefore maybe less interested in my carefully prepared offerings. They may well have more pressing matters on their minds than helping me improve my catch reports, but to be honest with the water temp as it is, they can wait for a while. 

It's difficult to compete with romance.

Still, I remained optimistic. If sure the barbel still could well be engaged in their annual bout of bukkake despite waiting over a week since they had been spotted on various rivers, that or chilling in the weirs because of the heat, perhaps a bream might wander past or a nice bream, Chub are wonderfully accommodating creatures. While barbel often behave like celebrities surrounded by security staff, chub are more akin to that bloke in the pub who'll happily stop for a chat with anyone.

Anyway as the evening settled and the shadows lengthened, I sat quietly beside a stretch of river I'd never fished before. Not that much traffic noise. No crowds. No distractions. Just birdsong, flowing water and the comforting knowledge that somewhere beneath the surface there might be a specimen fish, absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Which, when you think about it, is one of the many reasons fishing remains such a splendidly ridiculous pastime.

With the heat of the day finally ebbing away, it was surprising just how quickly the water temperature dropped. Over a couple of hours it shed more than two degrees, helped no doubt by the steady rain that accompanied the first part of the session. Despite looking promising, very little happened early on and the river remained stubbornly quiet.

Things livened up when the bats emerged. For the best part of half an hour they seemed intent on colliding with the line, rattling the rod tip often enough to keep me guessing. More than once the tip flicked round in a way that would have convinced anyone a fish was attached. Eventually dusk deepened and the bats moved elsewhere, leaving the river to settle once more.

Not long after came a proper whack on the rod. The tip sprang into life with a series of sharp knocks, though nothing really committed itself. A strike connected with something, but the culprit proved to be a tiny chublet whose ambition far outweighed its size. It was quickly swung to hand and admired before being returned.

Another fifteen minutes passed without further action, so that was that. Even so, the stretch looks full of promise, particularly for predators, and I'm keen to spend more time exploring it when conditions improve. For now, with the heatwave set to tighten its grip again, it's a case of sitting it out and looking ahead to a cooler weekend.

Warwickshire Avon - Piscatoriality and Perplexification

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

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

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

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

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

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

The remarkable thing was what happened next.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

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

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

It didn't.

The river looked identical.

The swims looked identical.

I looked identical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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