Mill Cottage Eardiston - Teme Time and Therapy

Mill Cottage on the banks of the River Teme has become less a fishing destination and more a decompression chamber. You arrive carrying the invisible rucksack of life deadlines, expectations, minor irritations about supermarket self-checkouts and by the time the kettle’s boiled you’re discussing river levels as if they are matters of national importance. The door shuts, and with it shuts the world of diary makers and “just circling back” emails. Out there it’s all terribly urgent. In here it’s simply, “Yorkshire Tea or something stronger?”

Now this time it wasn’t young Sam bounding about with November optimism and frostbitten fingers. No, this was old Simon’s shift. Sixty this year, which seems frankly outrageous given that in my mind we are both still roughly thirty-five and indestructible. 

Simon is what I describe as a high flyer. Not the budget airline type, but the corporate variety. His phone usually vibrates with the urgency of global consequence. I still don’t truly understand what he does. He’s explained it. I’ve nodded. There were graphs mentioned. Possibly stakeholders. All I know is it commands a large salary, larger expectations and even larger tax bills. At Mill Cottage, however, his greatest responsibility was not dropping the bait tub lid into the margins.

We’d roll up late Friday afternoon at Mill Cottage on the banks of the River Teme, unload the mountain of “essential” tackle (half of which never sees daylight) and have a proper go for a barbel into dark. No messing about, rods out, eyes on the tips, that hopeful last-light feeling where every knock could be the one. Once fully convinced we’d given it our best tactical effort, we’d pack down and head into Tenbury Wells for a curry and a pub purely for recovery purposes, obviously before retreating to the cottage to put the world to rights over a nightcap or two.

Saturday would begin with Simon producing a full English of such substance it required a sit-down afterwards. Then a full day on the river, no distractions, just us, the flow, and whatever the Teme fancied offering up. Saturday evening? No plan whatsoever. That was the beauty of it. We’d see where the mood took us more fishing, more food in the town, or just more solving of global issues from the comfort of a cottage sofa.

Simon would head off sometime Sunday as he had other engagements important ones, no doubt involving words I don’t understand and I’d stay on, fishing as long as it felt right. If it was fishing well, I might linger into dusk. If not, I’d pack up and head home to gently disturb the wife and pretend I hadn’t enjoyed every minute of the escape.

Loose plans, basically. And like all loose plans on a fishing weekend, entirely subject to change over the course of it.

The river was fining down nicely, which for anglers is the equivalent of a chef announcing the oven is at exactly the right temperature. When Sam and I fished it back in November it had more colour than I prefer and the air temperature could have preserved meat it was baltic. This time it was milder, almost civilised, and I dared to hope for a bit more clarity in the water. You don’t ask for miracles on the Teme. You ask for half a foot of visibility and a fighting chance.

There was, of course, an outside chance of a barbel. There is always an outside chance of a barbel. It is that outside chance which justifies packing like you’re relocating permanently. So along with the barbel rod went the usual trotting gear because if the river invites you to run a float through a glide, you accept politely and the lighter feeder rod with the maggot feeder, purely on the sensible basis that catching something is preferable to catching nothing. I have reached an age where I appreciate pragmatism.

The joy of these trips isn’t measured in bites per hour. It’s measured in conversation per kettle boil. Simon and I have known each other for many years now, the sort of years that slip by at an alarming rate. We’ve both been busy in our own ways, him flying high in whatever stratosphere he inhabits, me navigating my own currents. These weekends are scarce. That scarcity makes them valuable. There is something medicinal about standing side by side, watching a river move at its own pace, neither of you needing to be anywhere else.

We talked about work, of course. You can’t entirely empty the rucksack without unpacking it a bit. But the Teme has a way of shrinking problems to a manageable size. A missed opportunity sounds less dramatic when you’re retying a hooklength. A looming meeting loses its menace when a robin is inspecting your bait tray. 

Simon, who normally operates at a tempo somewhere between brisk and frantic and is probably up there with the biggest carbon footprint, visibly slowed. 

His shoulders dropped. His sentences shortened. He began to comment on the light on the water rather than the volatility of markets.

The cottage itself played its part. Good food, better drink, and that pleasant tiredness that only fresh air can manufacture. 

There is a particular satisfaction in eating heartily after a day outside, even if the fish have not exactly queued up to meet you. 

We laughed about November’s baltic conditions, about numb fingers and the complex tasting notes of a 15 year old malt, and agreed that this milder spell felt like a generous concession from the weather gods.

We approached the river with quiet optimism. The barbel rod stood there like a promise. The trotting rod offered rhythm and involvement. The maggot feeder sat ready as the dependable option. Nothing extravagant. Nothing forced. Just two old friends doing what they have done for many a year: watching, waiting, occasionally striking, often reflecting.

There is a peculiar magic in temporarily stepping into that “other world.” No traffic noise. No relentless ping of notifications. Just the steady push of current against gravel and the occasional plop that may or may not mean anything at all. Time stretches differently by a river. An hour can feel like five minutes, or five minutes like an hour, depending entirely on whether your tip has twitched.

And as always happens on such trips, the scoreboard becomes secondary. The true haul is measured in laughter, in the shared silence of a long glide, in the understanding that although life grows busier and birthdays gather pace, you can still carve out a pocket of stillness if you try.

So we fished. We talked. We unwound. We let the river do what rivers have always done while we remembered, briefly, how to do the same.

Well, how did we do ?

There are weekends on the river when everything goes to plan, and then there are weekends on the Teme when the fish appear to have held a committee meeting and unanimously agreed to ignore you. This particular outing fell firmly into the latter category. 

The river was so clear you could probably have read the date on a coin at the bottom, which is wonderful for scenic photography but about as useful for catching fish as a chocolate teapot. Still, armed with blind optimism, a feeder full of groundbait and a lobworm that had clearly not signed up for this adventure, I lobbed out and waited like a man expecting miracles.

After a fair while of staring at the tip and contemplating life’s big questions — such as why fish seem to develop PhDs in angling avoidance the moment you arrive  the rod finally nodded. Lo and behold, a barbel! One single, glorious, probably slightly confused barbel that had clearly taken a wrong turn at Worcester and ended up eating my worm. I’d love to say it was pure skill, but in truth I suspect luck, divine intervention, or possibly a momentary lapse in judgement by the fish.

Simon, meanwhile, endured what can only be described as a character-building session. He managed the odd grayling, which fought gamely enough, but at one point hooked something considerably more interesting which promptly made its escape in a manner best described as “emotionally damaging.” There was a brief moment of silence, followed by the universal angler phrase: “That was a decent one that was.”

I had a little wander into a very nice looking swim on the BAA section and had a dabble with the maggot feeder. The swim looked perfect. The sort of swim you stare at and think, “Yes… fish definitely live here.” Unfortunately the fish seemed to have moved house, gone on holiday, or simply decided they had other commitments. Not even dusk  normally the grand opening ceremony of the evening feeding frenzy bothered to produce so much as a twitch.

In hindsight the gin-clear water probably didn’t help. The fish could see absolutely everything. Hooks, line, feeders, and quite possibly the mild desperation in my facial expression. Still, I did employ a cunning tactic by baiting the swim and leaving it to rest for a while, which either encouraged the barbel or simply gave it enough time to forget what a hook looks like.

Despite the fishing being what scientists would classify as “a bit tricky,” the weekend itself was a roaring success. There was excellent food, even better grog, and plenty of the sort of laughter that usually begins with someone saying “Do you remember when…” before descending into total nonsense.

Perhaps most impressively of all, Simon didn’t mention work once all weekend, which is roughly as rare as catching three barbel before breakfast on the Teme in low clear water. There were tunes playing, stories flowing, and the general feeling that even when the fish aren’t cooperating, being beside a river with good company is still a pretty fine way to spend a couple of days.

So yes, one barbel, a handful of grayling, a bonus dace, and a story about the one that got away. Not exactly the stuff of record books but certainly the sort of weekend that reminds you why anglers keep coming back for more punishment.

Warwickshire Avon - Carnage and Carboxyhemoglobinopathy

I arrived at the fabled 'Piccadilly Circus' with the gear still in the car and the rod and landing net on the roof for another after work session before curfew. Now I’ll be honest, it isn’t my favourite place to dangle a pellet, but when you’ve got limited time and a dangerous addiction to catching things with whiskers, convenience trumps romance every time. Besides, it would’ve been downright rude not to have a quick smash-and-grab session while the gear was already in the motor.

As I pulled into the car-park another vehicle rolled in behind me and out stepped the youngish match lad who’d popped down previously for a nosey. After the usual angling pleasantries —“Any luck yesterday?” and the traditional fisherman’s translation of the truth I admitted I’d had “only a couple of chub, but a nice one.” That’s angler-speak for “I’m still dining out on it three days later.” He asked where I was heading and I told him I fancied a peg a hundred yards upstream from where I was before, mainly because I like the idea of walking just far enough to look committed.

During this tactical discussion we noticed a van had driven straight into the field and parked right by the gate like it had been abandoned by someone who’d mistaken fishing for a drive-through service. Now parking on the field is only allowed on match days, and this definitely wasn’t one of those unless the match was called “Laziest Parking of the Year.” Naturally we assumed there was either a rogue poacher about or someone whose sat-nav simply gave up.

The match lad went ahead on a reconnaissance bailiff mission while I sorted my tackle out at the pace of a man who knows he’ll forget something important if he rushes. Once I’d lugged everything riverside and dumped it in the peg I’d chosen, I wandered over to join them. It turned out the mystery van belonged to a club member a friendly enough chap who had just casually dropped the bombshell that he’d caught a double-figure barbel from the exact swim I’d earmarked.

He even showed us the photo, which revealed the poor fish had clearly had a run-in with an otter because half its tail looked like it had been trimmed by a very angry hedge trimmer. The fish had been returned safely and the angler had decided he’d done enough from that spot and was now roaming about like a wandering monk of the riverbank.

Despite this revelation I stubbornly stuck to my guns. If someone has just pulled a double from a swim, common sense says you should probably fish there immediately before the barbel realise what’s happened and move house. The match lad stayed for a quick natter while I baited up and then headed back to his car, leaving me alone with the river, my rod, and a suspiciously optimistic feeling.

Ten minutes later the rod nearly launched itself into the county next door.

After a few teasing plucks on a chunky 15mm robin red pellet wrapped in paste, the rod tip slammed round so hard I briefly wondered if I’d hooked a passing submarine. 

The Korum bolt rig with a 2.5oz lead did its job perfectly the fish had basically hooked itself and was now extremely cross about it. Moments later I was playing a barbel from the exact swim the double had come from.

It fought like a caffeinated torpedo despite not being enormous. Smaller barbel seem to think they’re auditioning for the Olympics, whereas the big ones just sulk like grumpy old landlords. 

Still, after a cracking scrap I slipped it into the net, admired it briefly, took a quick trophy shot and slipped it back into the slightly green water where it swam off no doubt muttering about lawsuits.

Then the carnage began.

And when I say carnage, I mean the sort of fishing madness where you start to suspect someone upstream is tipping buckets of fish into the river when you’re not looking. 

I could barely keep a bait in the water because the chub had clearly held an emergency meeting and decided to launch a full-scale assault.

Five chub later I realised they were practically hooking themselves out of sheer enthusiasm. Each time I recast I pinged a few pellets into the shallow water after returning the netted fish downstream, which apparently acted like a dinner bell for every greedy chub within postcode range.

Every bite was ridiculous. With the bolt rig set properly and the 2.5oz lead doing the anchoring, the rod tip would twitch about three feet like it had been electrocuted. No delicate taps, no subtle indications — just full-blown “HELLO I AM A FISH AND I’VE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE” lunges.

The chub ranged from a couple of pounds up to well over four, all of them clearly determined to audition for the role of “Most Reckless Fish in the River.” It was one of those sessions where you start laughing out loud on your own because it’s so absurdly busy.

Sadly curfew arrived far too quickly, as it always does when the fish are behaving like lunatics. I packed up reluctantly, convinced that if I’d had another hour I might have needed a second landing net and possibly counselling.

On the walk back the other angler had already climbed into his van and was heading off, so I never found out if he’d added anything else to his tally. But honestly, after the chaos I’d just experienced, I half expected him to say he’d caught a carp, a salmon and a confused duck.

All in all it was one of those sessions you remember for ages the kind where you only nip out for a quick hour and end up witnessing absolute aquatic bedlam. Proof, if it were ever needed, that sometimes the humble smash-and-grab trip turns into something far dafter and far more entertaining than you ever planned. Anyway get on the Robin Red, it just works !!

Warwickshire Avon - Chubulence and Contemplation

The annual River Teme trip is creeping up on me at a rather uncomfortable pace and, if I’m honest, I’m nowhere near as organised as I should be. Every year I promise myself I’ll have everything sorted well in advance, neatly tied rigs, bait prepared, tackle checked and ready to go. And every year I find myself a few days before the trip rummaging through the garage like a man searching for buried treasure.

This year due to the lack of time I even went as far as buying maggots from Willy Worms, which is something I rarely bother with. To be fair they arrived well packaged and were a decent size, proper healthy looking specimens. The only problem was they needed riddling big time, which meant I had to dig out the maggot riddle for the first time in what must be at least fifteen years.

I’m fairly certain the last time I riddled maggots was sometime around 2010. The riddle itself was buried in the garage under a layer of dust and various bits of tackle that I don’t even remember owning. Once located, it felt less like fishing preparation and more like an archaeological dig. Still, after a bit of shaking and a small carpet of wriggling escapees, I eventually ended up with a respectable tub of clean maggots. Which, in my world, probably counts as being very well prepared indeed for a trip to the Teme.

Anyway there is a very particular type of fishing trip that exists somewhere between “carefully planned angling expedition” and “accidental loitering with fishing equipment.” This particular outing firmly belonged to the second category. The plan, if we can use such an ambitious word, was simple: finish work, drive to the river, chuck a bait in, and attempt to extract a fish before the curfew descended like an overenthusiastic nightclub bouncer who’s had three red bulls and a clipboard.

Now in a perfect world I’d arrive hours earlier, stroll along the riverbanks like some contemplative Victorian naturalist, and select my swim based on watercraft, fish movement, and subtle features in the flow. In reality I arrived like a man late for a dentist appointment, slammed the car door, grabbed the rucksack, and waddled down the path while trying to remember whether I’d actually packed any hooks. This is what I call “efficient angling.” Some might call it chaos. I prefer efficiency.

The river itself still carries the faint air of a soap opera following the infamous oxygen crash incident a couple of years ago. Prior to that event the place was positively brimming with barbel (15 years ago), chub, and the sort of fish that made you walk back to the car grinning like you’d just discovered a forgotten tenner in an old coat pocket. Afterwards things became a bit… contemplative. Fish catches dropped, anglers scratched their heads, and the local tackle shop owner developed the haunted expression of a man watching his regulars buy fewer pellets. 

To be fair, rivers are resilient things. Fish move about like aquatic commuters, stocking has occurred, and every now and then someone lands a fish that reminds you the river hasn’t completely packed up and moved to France. A few proper barbel have appeared during floods, some cracking chub have shown themselves, and every angler within fifty miles immediately starts muttering, “Ah yes… they’re coming back now,” while secretly hoping to be the next person holding one.

On this particular evening I had roughly sixty minutes to fish, which in modern life is actually quite luxurious. Sixty minutes without emails, traffic lights, or someone asking if you’ve “seen the latest update on the group chat.” 

Just a rod, a river, and the faint hope that something with fins and questionable judgement might take an interest in a pellet wrapped in paste.

Travelling light was the order of the day. One rod, one net, a few pellets, and the vague confidence that if I forgot anything important I could simply pretend it was part of the strategy. 

Anglers are very good at this. Forget the landing net? You’re now “practicing hand-landing techniques.” Forgot the scales? You’re “not fussed about weights these days.” Forgot the rod entirely? You’re birdwatching.

The rig itself was simplicity incarnate: a 2oz lead, a long hair rig, and a 15mm Robin Red pellet wrapped in matching paste like a delicious spicy dumpling for fish with refined culinary tastes. 

Alongside it went a small PVA bag of freebies, which I like to imagine drifts down to the riverbed like a tiny underwater care package accompanied by a polite note reading, “Dear Fish, Please Consider Eating This.”

I flicked the rig out into the flow, settled down, and prepared myself for the traditional period of staring intensely at a rod tip while convincing myself that every tiny vibration is definitely a fish and not the river doing river things. The rod had barely stopped wobbling when the tip gave a little twitch.

Ten minutes.

Now bites that happen that quickly are rarely from large, wise, bearded fish with PhDs in avoiding anglers. More often they involve something small, enthusiastic, and possessing the decision-making skills of a Labrador confronted with a sandwich. Sure enough after a brief but energetic scuffle a small chub appeared in the margins looking like it had just completed the aquatic equivalent of a bar fight.

It wasn’t exactly going to make the headlines of the angling press, but it had performed the most sacred service a fish can offer an angler: preventing the dreaded blank. There is a special psychological relief that occurs when you avoid a blank. You instantly become a far better angler in your own mind. You stand taller. Your casting becomes smoother. You start nodding knowingly at the river as if you and it have some kind of professional arrangement. The chub was slipped back with thanks for its cooperation, the hookbait was refreshed, and another PVA bag was attached. Back out it went into the current like a tiny edible missile aimed at the dinner table of some unsuspecting river resident.

Then came the waiting, which is the bit of fishing where the mind begins to wander into increasingly strange territories. Some anglers use this time for quiet reflection. I use it to mentally reorganise tackle boxes that are not currently present and to wonder whether otters ever look at anglers and think, “Honestly lads, you’re making this far more complicated than it needs to be.” The only drawback to this particular swim is that it’s about as peaceful as a bus station during a rail strike. Rather than open countryside and birdsong you’re treated to the gentle ambience of suburban life: dogs barking, distant televisions, and the occasional mysterious clattering noise that nobody ever investigates. 

On this evening the entertainment arrived in the form of a father and daughter performing yoga on the roof of a garden room upstream. Now I’m not against yoga. It seems like a perfectly healthy activity. But when you’re trying to concentrate on rod tip movements, watching someone attempt a rooftop downward dog introduces an unexpected level of distraction. At one point the father attempted what I can only describe as a manoeuvre involving one leg, two arms, and a level of balance that suggested he had perhaps watched half a tutorial video and decided that was sufficient training. I briefly wondered whether I might end up landing both a chub and a falling yogi before the evening was out.

Eventually dusk began doing its magical thing where the river turns slightly mysterious and every shadow feels like it might contain a fish with serious intentions. The rod tip gave a few delicate taps the classic chub plucks that make you lean forward like a suspicious pigeon.

Pluck.

Pluck, pluck 

Pause.

This is the moment where anglers stare so hard at the rod tip that it becomes a battle of wills. Somewhere down there a fish is inspecting the bait like a detective examining evidence. Meanwhile above the water a man is whispering encouragement at a piece of carbon fibre.

“Go on… have it… you know you want it…”

Then the rod absolutely slammed over.

Not a polite bite. Not a suggestion. This was the aquatic equivalent of someone grabbing the bait and legging it down the street with your wallet in San Antonio. My setup includes the Korum Bolt and Run system in bolt mode, which basically means the fish hooks itself against the lead. When it works it produces bites that resemble a small explosion at the rod tip. The rod lunged forward repeatedly and I grabbed it with the enthusiasm of someone trying to stop their phone falling into a canal.

The fish immediately started that unmistakable nodding fight that screams “chub.” Not the long, dogged plod of a barbel, but that punchy, darting, slightly argumentative battle where the fish behaves like it’s deeply offended by the whole situation. With the current still pushing through nicely the fish used the flow to its advantage, zig-zagging around like a drunk shopping trolley before eventually rolling in the margins. When the net slipped under it I could see straight away it was a proper chunky specimen the sort of fish that looks like it spends its spare time doing resistance training with gravel.

Out came the scales, which is always a slightly ceremonial moment accompanied by the silent hope that the needle swings just a tiny bit further than expected.

4lb 4oz.

Not a monster by any means, but a cracking chub and one of those solid river fish that looks like it’s been eating well and avoiding gym memberships because the river current provides all the exercise it needs. A quick photo later and the fish was slipped back into the water where it disappeared with the calm dignity of something that had just briefly humiliated a human being. By this point the curfew had arrived and there was no point pushing my luck with another cast. The rod was packed away, the rucksack zipped up, and I made my way back to the car feeling quietly satisfied.

Not bad for what was essentially a fishing drive-by.

And sometimes that’s the beauty of these short little sessions. No grand expedition, no elaborate plan, just a quick visit to the river, a couple of bites, and a reminder that even on a busy weekday evening the river is still quietly doing its thing.

Also, somewhere upstream, a man was probably still attempting yoga on a roof.

Which, if nothing else, proves that rivers aren’t the only places where balance can occasionally be lost.