Warwickshire Avon - Bombast and Balderdash

There are two things the Midlands does exceptionally well. One is roundabouts that lead to more roundabouts, and the other is Indian restaurants. Every village, town and trading estate seems to have one these days, which is marvellous really because it gives me an endless list to work through before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Now last week's victim... sorry, destination... was the recently opened Nura Indian Restaurant in 'literally' the Heart of England. According to the website it's "award-winning," although it wasn't immediately obvious whether that was for the food, the décor or surviving without air-conditioning during the hottest week since Noah started looking at boat plans.

My old mate Phippo came along for the ride. He'll eat absolutely anything providing somebody else recommends it first, then spends the next hour telling you why he should've ordered something different.

The menu landed with a thud that nearly bent the table. I reckon there were close to sixty different main courses which is wonderful if you enjoy choice but slightly terrifying when you've already spent twenty minutes deciding whether to have a lime and soda, or as it's bring your own, nipping to the local shop for a Cobra. 

Eventually I homed in on the "Home Style Curries" section. The Khasia Lamb caught my eye immediately; melt-in-the-mouth lamb, fresh diced bullet chillies, green peppers and Madras hot... exactly the sort of sentence that makes me ignore all common sense and any concerns my digestive system may have lodged.

Naturally, I couldn't stop there. The Nura Special Kebab also found its way onto the order because, let's face it, if you're going to make questionable decisions you may as well commit properly.

Across the table, Phippo chose the Garlic Butter Shrimp followed by the Aloo Gosht Bhuna. The menu described it as a cherished homestyle classic packed with flavour in every bite, which sounded lovely until reality wandered in wearing muddy boots.

Before the food even arrived we'd noticed one slight issue. 

It was thirty degrees outside and approximately the surface temperature of Mercury inside, with a couple of industrial fans valiantly attempting to cool the place in the same way you'd tackle a forest fire with a Super Soaker. 

Was there aircon in the other bit of the restaurant ? well all I know is no cold air reached us just the pleasant waft of another sizzling dish being brought to the table. To be fair, the restaurant itself looked smart. Nice décor, pleasant atmosphere and friendly staff especially one called Elvis, but after half an hour my polo-shirt had become so attached to my back that we were practically in a civil partnership.

Then the food arrived.

My kebab was perfectly acceptable without being anything I'd be boring the grandchildren about in years to come. Pleasant enough, nicely cooked, but hardly the culinary equivalent of discovering buried treasure. The Khasia Lamb, however, was rather enjoyable. The lamb was beautifully tender, the chillies gave it a proper kick and it delivered exactly the level of heat I'd been hoping for.

There was just one observation and it's hard to unsee once you've seen it.

You see there appeared to be enough ghee and oil floating on top of my curry to keep a struggling third-world country's electricity grid ticking over until Christmas. If someone had dropped a wick into the bowl we'd probably still be able to see the restaurant glowing from space.

Phippo wasn't quite so fortunate. His Bhuna apparently lacked the rich depth and comforting punch promised by the menu and instead arrived somewhere between "quite pleasant" and "is that it?"

That's the funny thing about Indian restaurants. Two people can sit opposite each other eating supposedly similar dishes and leave with completely different opinions, rather like supporting England at football.

Would I go back?

Actually... yes.

Not because it was perfect, but because that menu is simply ridiculous in size and curiosity usually gets the better of me. There are still another fifty-odd dishes waiting to either delight me or separate another few quid from my wallet.

Phippo, on the other hand, won't be returning. That's fair enough because if we all liked the same restaurants there'd be queues longer than the NHS waiting list. No matter. My brother is due up from Devon before too long and I suspect he'll happily volunteer as my next accomplice. Besides, it's always easier blaming someone else when you've ordered enough food for six people.

Whilst all this culinary excitement was unfolding, the wife pinged me a photograph.

There she was dangling her feet in the swimming pool with the accompanying message, "We should have done this sooner."

Easy for her to say.

She's not the one who winces every time the water meter spins faster than a fruit machine, knowing full well the turd slingers at Severn Trent's finest accountants are already calculating how much they'll be relieving me of next month. Judging by recent bills, I'm fairly sure they're filling Rutland Water from my back garden.

Still, when I got home there was only one sensible course of action.

Pool.

"Fancy a gin and tonic, dear?" she asked.

Now there's a question with only one correct answer. Saying no would've been like refusing free bacon or turning down a winning lottery ticket. Before long we were sat beside the pool watching the sun disappear with condensation dripping down oversized sunglasses and not a care in the world. Sometimes the simple evenings end up being the best ones.

As I floated about trying not to think about the next water bill, my mind wandered somewhere infinitely more dangerous.

Fishing !!

It always does, and with the evening temperatures so much cooler as I type this, in-fact 10 degrees less at 9.00pm than the same time last week post curry I fancied a quick smash and grab session. 

The other week you see I'd wandered over to a local weir pool for a nose about. No rods, no bait, no net... just a quiet mooch while pretending I wasn't already planning another session. Standing above the water, I was peering down hoping to spot a decent chub or two. They were there all right, swaggering about the place like the local school bullies who've never been told no.

Then I saw them.

Two glorious barbel.

Those unmistakable deep bronze flanks and bright crimson fins gliding effortlessly through the oxygenated water. They moved together so closely they could've been joined by an invisible piece of elastic. 

Every now and then a chub would muscle in as though it owned the place before the pair casually drifted aside, completely unbothered by the aquatic hooligans.

I stood there for ages simply watching.

It's amazing how quickly a ten-minute stroll turns into forty-five minutes when fish are involved. 

Dog walkers probably assumed I was conducting important environmental research rather than staring into a river muttering, "Go on... just one more lap."

Unfortunately I'd brought absolutely no tackle with me.

Not a rod.

Not a landing net.

Not even a crust of bread.

Just me, my stupidity and two magnificent barbel swimming around completely unaware they'd just been promoted to the top of my hit list. They'd escaped this time purely because I'd arrived hopelessly under-equipped.

But don't you worry, lads.

Your cards have most definitely been marked.

Or have they?

Because if fishing has taught me anything over the years, it's that the moment you become convinced you've got a fish's number, (Barbara the Barbel epic fail anyone ?) it promptly reminds you who's really in charge. But you have to try don't you !!

Now France and Spain had been knocking it about for the best part of half an hour by the time I wandered down to the weir. The roar of the water was drowning out the commentary, so the trusty little JBL speaker earned its place in the rucksack once again. Priorities and all that.

There was already someone in residence, a young lad called Mikey, fishing the tail end of the weir. I'd recognised him from a YouTube video catching some proper barbel, but thought it best not to start with, "Aren't you off the internet?" Instead, I quietly slipped into the main pool where I'd seen a couple of barbel mooching about on an earlier visit.

Mikey told me this was his third crack at the swim and so far it'd only surrendered chub, although they weren't exactly tiddlers. He wasn't filming this time and was more than happy for me to fish a little way upstream. Always nice when common sense wins over elbows.

Nothing fancy on the business end. Homemade paste wrapped around Robin Red pellets, a little PVA bag of freebies and a cast into the steadier water away from the main boil. There's another swim that just screams rolling meat, but getting to it without an acrobatic qualification is another matter altogether.

About fifteen minutes later the rod tip gave a proper whack before springing back. Then it nodded again and this time stayed bent. Straight away it had all the hallmarks of a decent chub, plenty of head shaking and just enough attitude to remind me why they can still be good fun on a Harrison 1.75lb rod.

As I slipped it back, Mikey wandered over for a look. "Barbel next," he said with a grin. I liked his optimism, even if the fish hadn't read the script yet.

Ten minutes later all hell broke loose. The rod went from standing politely to looking like it'd been attached to a passing tugboat. It felt every inch a barbel... for about four glorious seconds... before everything went slack. That's not something Mr Rubber Lips does very often, so I stood there muttering a few words that definitely wouldn't make the editor's cut.

Mikey packed up shortly afterwards, leaving me to fish into dusk. Before he disappeared he said, "At least you know they're there. It'll come good." I hoped he wasn't just being polite.

The chub, meanwhile, were doing their level best to keep me occupied, with another couple deciding that homemade paste was simply too good to refuse. Fine fish, but they do have an uncanny knack of turning up exactly when you're waiting for something with whiskers.

Then, a good half hour after darkness settled in, it finally happened. That slow, deliberate three-foot pull after one big thump that every barbel angler dreams about. No violence, no theatrics, just pure confidence. I lifted into it and this time everything stayed firmly attached.

What followed was a cracking fight under the beam of the head torch, with the fish using every bit of flow it could find. Eventually the net slipped underneath a lovely barbel that looked remarkably like the size of the fish I'd watched cruising the pool before. Target achieved, I'd say.

After a quick trophy shot and a good ten minutes resting in the margins in the oxygenated weir pool now guarded by bats, it powered back into the darkness as though nothing had happened. Funny old things, barbel. They can make you question every decision you've ever made one minute, then have you planning the next trip before you've even packed the landing net away.

That's why I enjoy these short sessions so much. A few hours by the river, a couple of greedy chub, one proper barbel and a head full of fresh air does far more good than sitting indoors watching the mad mad world 🤯 tie itself in knots. I still can't sit behind motionless rods for long, but when they finally pull round like that, it's worth every minute.

The River Arrow - Gonktastrophication and Gobbledegook

There are people who go to spas, there are people who meditate on mountain tops, and then there are anglers. Personally, I find that two hours sat next to a river that most people would mistake for a drainage ditch does far more for my wellbeing than someone waving scented candles under my nose while whale music plays in the background. The fish are almost secondary; it's the glorious silence between casts where life's endless nonsense packs its bags and wanders off for a bit.

Even thinking about fishing works wonders. Half the therapy comes from sorting tackle the night before, convincing yourself you've finally cracked it, only to spend twenty minutes the following morning wondering where you put the disgorger that was definitely in the side pocket yesterday.

This particular adventure centred around a new club ticket and a tiny section of the River Arrow just down from a weir that I'd never fished before. Tiny really doesn't do it justice either because you could probably stand on one bank, throw an 18mm Robin Red pellet with enough enthusiasm and collect it off the opposite bank before it had chance to sink.

Still, it's a river. Rivers have fish. That's the sort of flawless optimism that keeps anglers buying bait, tackle and memberships despite decades of overwhelming evidence suggesting fish often have other ideas.

The plan was wonderfully simple. A couple of hours after gudgeon with the trusty Cadence Wand and maggots on a size 20, while keeping the light barbel rod assembled with a lump of bread because you never know when a suicidal chub might turn up with absolutely no sense of self-preservation.



One thing that immediately caught my attention was the enormous road bridge looming overhead. Normally that would mean endless traffic noise, but somehow it was remarkably civilised, almost as if the engineers had actually known what they were doing rather than just drawing lines on the back of a Greggs sausage roll bag.

Perhaps it was advanced computer modelling. Perhaps there were acoustic specialists involved. Or perhaps one bloke simply stood underneath during construction, had a finger in the air and declared, "That'll do," before everyone went to the pub. Whatever happened, it worked. 

I found myself perched in an elevated swim peering into water so clear you could probably read a fish's thoughts. That's when the comedy really began because out from beneath some cover drifted a chub with all the caution of a Labrador in a butcher's shop.

Now chub usually possess the survival instincts of someone carrying state secrets. They'll inspect a bait from seventeen different angles, hold committee meetings with other chub and eventually reject it because your float twitched half a millimetre too enthusiastically.

This one, however, had apparently skipped every lesson at Chub Academy. It surfaced and calmly hoovered up four or five enormous pieces of floating bread as though somebody had just announced an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I almost felt sorry for the poor thing. The first cast with a hooked crust landed and before I'd even settled into my best "I've definitely got this all planned out" pose, it absolutely inhaled it without so much as filling in a risk assessment.

The fight itself was less of a battle and more of a polite escort towards the landing net. My barbel rod was complete overkill and the fish seemed fully aware that resistance would merely delay the inevitable and waste everyone's valuable morning.

Still, a chub is a chub and I'll never complain about catching one, particularly when it's volunteered for the experience. If every fish behaved like that, tackle shops would go bankrupt because nobody would ever need to upgrade anything.

Naturally I assumed there must be others. There never are.

The upstream stretch looked equally inviting, with plenty of cover and enough fishy-looking features to make you start inventing imaginary double-figure specimens. Sadly, the only thing hiding there appeared to be disappointment wearing camouflage.

With the bread experiment over, it was time for the real target species. Out came the Cadence Wand fitted with a delicate 0.25oz tip, a setup so enjoyable to use that even catching leaves feels mildly entertaining. I settled beside a darker swim shaded by overhanging branches and a few scruffy reeds. The sort of place that whispers, "There's definitely something decent in here," before immediately proving itself to be full of creatures roughly the size of your little finger.

Minnows. Endless minnows.

I've genuinely seen fewer people queueing outside a garden centre café than the number of minnows attacking my bait. They arrived in such quantities I briefly wondered whether I'd accidentally stumbled into the annual Minnow Olympics.

Every cast resulted in another frantic tap, another microscopic silver flash and another reminder that evolution occasionally produces fish with absolutely no understanding of personal space. It was like lowering a sausage roll into a school playground.

Then, at last, everything changed. Instead of the frantic machine-gun rattles came a proper clonking bite that made the tiny rod nod with genuine purpose.

Ah yes... a gudgeon.

Or as they're affectionately known in certain circles, a proper little gonk. Nothing enormous by any stretch, but chunky enough to put a smile on my face and confirm that I'd accidentally located the deepest hole in the river.

When I say deepest, let's not get carried away. If I'd fallen in I'd probably have bruised my kneecaps and mildly dampened my socks, but on this stretch of the Arrow that's practically offshore fishing.

A few more gudgeon followed and mission accomplished. Sometimes success isn't measured in pounds and ounces but by finding exactly what you came looking for without accidentally ending up in a tree.

Curiosity got the better of me though and I carried on fishing. Predictably the tiny chub turned up to audition for the role of "Future Maybe," while the minnows continued behaving like unpaid extras in a disaster movie. I trickled a few pellets downstream hoping something with shoulders might appear. Instead the river erupted into what can only be described as minnow soup, with hundreds of tiny fish charging around as though somebody had announced free parking.

The water clarity certainly wasn't helping. It was proper gin clear; not just clear, but the sort of crystal clarity where even the kingfisher probably books appointments rather than risking embarrassment.

Any sensible larger fish would wait until darkness before venturing out. Broad daylight in water like that is basically standing in the middle of Tesco wearing a fluorescent vest labelled "Please Chase Me."

Eventually I packed up and wandered over to investigate another section of the Arrow included on the new ticket. Exploring unfamiliar water is always exciting because every bend promises hidden treasures, forgotten swims or, more commonly, fresh opportunities to question your life choices.

This stretch came with a public footpath. Not just any public footpath either, but seemingly the headquarters for every dog walker within a twenty-mile radius.

Honestly, I've seen quieter high streets on Christmas Eve. Labradors, cockapoos, spaniels, terriers, things that looked suspiciously like animated mops and at least one creature that may actually have been half sofa.

One particularly enthusiastic XL Bully wannabe decided another passing dog simply had to become its best friend immediately. Its owner was rapidly disappearing into the distance while loudly inventing entirely new ways of pronouncing the dog's name.

At that point I was reminded of the old saying about only mad dogs and Englishmen going out in the midday sun. The phrase originated from British India, poking fun at the tendency for sensible locals to seek shade while stubborn Brits marched around melting like forgotten candles.

Standing there with several dozen panting dogs, blazing sunshine and dog walkers dressed in enough waterproof clothing to survive the Arctic, I began to suspect the saying remains alarmingly accurate. We really are a peculiar bunch. At least these walkers were walking their dogs early doors before it got proper hot again. 

The fishing itself may never trouble the record books, but mornings like this are exactly why I keep returning. A daft chub, a handful of gudgeon, a million minnows and enough riverside comedy to last until the next outing are worth far more than sitting indoors worrying about things that can wait.

Besides, every tiny river has another mystery waiting around the next bend. Whether it's a hidden shoal of fish, a forgotten swim or another dog called Dave refusing to come back when shouted, I'll happily go and investigate... eventually.

The River Wye - Barbelification and Bewilderment

Now there are moments in life when you think you've absolutely nailed it. Booking a father-and-son trip to the River Wye seemed like one of those moments, right up until the Wife wandered past, looked over my shoulder and casually reminded me that I'd also managed to book it on our eighteenth wedding anniversary. Eighteen years. That's not one you can pretend slipped your mind because of "river conditions."

Apparently disappearing off fishing while your long-suffering wife celebrates nearly two decades of marriage on her own isn't considered acceptable behaviour. I briefly considered explaining that barbel don't understand calendars, but experience has taught me that wives are remarkably resistant to angling-based excuses. It's almost as if they've heard them all before.

Fortunately, diplomacy prevailed. "We'll go out for a nice meal on Saturday," she said. "Okay," I replied, sensing I'd somehow escaped with only minor injuries. Then came the knockout punch... "You can pay."

Well played.

Now, regular readers will remember Glynn Purnell's old place, The Mount in Henley. Well that's all changed because it's now a Thai restaurant, run by the same people behind The Bulls Head at Wootton Wawen, and if first impressions count then they're onto a winner because the place was absolutely rammed.

We kicked things off with three starters to share because apparently that's what civilised adults do rather than ordering enough food to feed a stag party. They were superb, but the real star of the evening was my main course, a Panang curry proudly displaying a five-chilli warning like some sort of legal disclaimer.

Now I do enjoy my spicy food. I like a curry that makes your forehead glisten slightly and encourages you to question some of your life choices. This thing, however, was operating right on the upper edge of my personal pain threshold and I absolutely loved every fiery mouthful.

The thick coconut sauce somehow managed to calm the inferno whilst simultaneously encouraging it to burst back into life about thirty seconds later. It was like being repeatedly slapped around the face by a very friendly Thai chef. Outstanding.

To make matters even stranger, the Wife volunteered to drive home. I wasn't about to question this miracle and instead concentrated on ensuring most of the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc didn't go to waste. It would've been rude not to.

It was genuinely lovely seeing such a busy restaurant. The pub garden was absolutely packed with people making the most of the warm evening, proving that good food and decent service still draw the crowds. Funny that.

Earlier in the day we'd met friends at The Fish in Wixford where the conversation inevitably drifted towards fishing. It always does. Give anglers five minutes and someone will either produce photographs of fish or directions to somewhere that definitely contains fish.

During a completely unplanned detour into Angling Direct in Redditch for "just a few bits"—those four words responsible for emptying more wallets than inflation—I somehow managed to leave with a £15 book for a club on the River Arrow. I hadn't gone in for a book. I never intended buying a book. But there it was, in my permit wallet whispering sweet nothings about undiscovered swims and mysterious barbel.

As it happened, someone I know had recently spotted a few decent barbel in one particular stretch. That's all it takes with anglers. Mention the word "barbel" and we're halfway out the door before you've even finished the sentence.

Now poor Sam had spent the previous day at school sports day where, according to him, a lad weighing "about 100 kilograms" decided the best way to celebrate athletics was by body-slamming him. Whether the lad actually weighed 100kg or whether he'd simply swallowed another Year 11 remains open to debate, but Sam's wrist certainly wasn't happy about it.

At precisely 5.45am I poked my head around his bedroom door expecting eager excitement. Instead I was greeted by a rather miserable-looking teenager apologising because every now and then shooting pains were racing through his wrist. Fair enough. Fishing can wait, wrists are quite useful.

 So for the first time in a while, my usual partner in crime wasn't making the journey. Shame really because he'd have absolutely loved this place. Then again, perhaps he wouldn't have appreciated what came next.

Getting to the best swim is less of a walk and more of an audition for SAS: Who Dares Wins. First there's a steep hill that reminds you you're no longer twenty-five, followed by two stiles specifically designed to catch landing nets, then a metal bridge, another gate and finally...

...a very large bull.

Now I'm no expert on livestock but when your route to the river involves crossing a field occupied by something that looks capable of towing tractors for fun, you suddenly become remarkably respectful of personal space. 

I perfected a walking pace somewhere between "calm countryside rambler" and "Olympic speed walker pretending not to panic."

Thankfully the bull looked at me, looked at the rod holdall and seemingly concluded that anyone voluntarily carrying that much fishing gear clearly had enough problems already. Crisis averted.

Eventually I reached the river and immediately noticed the water felt deliciously cool. Gone was the warm bathwater we'd endured previously. 

The plan was straightforward: fish hard through the morning, enjoy some lunch, fish a little longer and escape before the afternoon heat started turning anglers into human puddles.

Before leaving home I'd noticed Angling Direct had virtually no method feeders left apart from their own-brand versions. They're cheap enough and, to be fair, on a snaggy little river that's probably a blessing because feeding expensive tackle into submerged branches is a hobby I can live without.

I started with five feeders.

That detail will become important later.

The first cast had barely settled before the tip bounced round like it had been connected to the National Grid. Fish on. Lovely chub.

Second cast.

Another chub.

Third cast.

Believe it or not... another chub.

It became utterly ridiculous. The robin red pellet wasn't even getting chance to introduce itself before another greedy chub inhaled it. I reckon if I'd cast out an old sock soaked in curry sauce I'd probably have caught one on that as well.

Within about an hour I'd landed ten chub. Not bites. Not missed opportunities. Ten actual fish. The smallest looked offended to be there while the better ones were proper lumps that filled the landing net nicely.

Normally when chub are feeding like this you'd expect the barbel to gatecrash the party eventually. Not today.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The river was low and clear, the ranunculus weed was looking magnificent and from my elevated perch I could see all sorts moving below. The trouble was every single shape eventually turned into... another chub.

I messaged Nic from Avon Angling UK for moral support. He suggested the barbel might be lurking in the deeper hole off to my right. Excellent thinking.

So naturally I cast over there.

Chub.

Again.

Some of these fish were proper footballs with fins. Not quite five-pounders but certainly giving it serious consideration, and every single one was carefully unhooked in the water before swimming away looking vaguely annoyed that breakfast had ended so abruptly.

By lunchtime I'd already lost count of how many times I'd said, "Surely the next one will be a barbel."

It never was.

After lunch I fancied a change and wandered downstream to a faster glide for a bit of trotting. Because there wasn't anywhere sensible to stick a bankstick I wedged the rod and landing net into my waders with all the grace of someone attempting advanced yoga while dressed as a scarecrow.

The float travelled beautifully.

Then disappeared.

Chub.

Obviously.

By now I was starting to suspect I'd accidentally wandered onto the River Chub rather than the River Wye. If there had been a competition for catching species that weren't barbel, I'd have been lifting the trophy with both hands.

Eventually I wandered back to the original swim where the chub welcomed me back like old friends. They were still feeding with exactly the same enthusiasm they'd shown first thing that morning, which was both brilliant and faintly ridiculous. Trotting meat again just chub. 

Meanwhile my method feeders were disappearing into underwater snags with alarming regularity. Remember those five feeders I started with?

By home time...

I'd successfully reduced the population to precisely zero.

Somewhere beneath that swim lies an impressive collection of terminal tackle, enough to start a small underwater tackle shop. If fish ever learn to open businesses, they'll be trading by next spring.

As tempting as it was to stay until dusk, there didn't seem much point. The barbel clearly hadn't read the script and either weren't feeding or had already stuffed themselves senseless the previous day. Sometimes rivers simply decide today's not your day.

Did I mind?

Not one bit.

I'd spent the day surrounded by glorious countryside, watched kingfishers flash along the river like tiny feathered missiles, listened to buzzards calling overhead and caught well over a hundred pounds of wonderfully obliging chub. There are definitely worse ways to spend a Sunday.

The climb back up Heart Attack Hill after the over half a mile walk was surprisingly manageable too. Either someone's secretly reduced the gradient overnight or all this river walking is actually improving my fitness. Personally I suspect it's the latter, although I'm keeping an eye on that bull just in case he's been flattening it out between visits.

So no barbel, no fishing partner, no method feeders and an unexpectedly expensive wedding anniversary weekend. Yet somehow it all worked out rather nicely. The Wife got her anniversary meal, I got my curry-induced near-death experience, Sam gets another trip once his wrist behaves itself and somewhere on the River Wye there's a gang of exceptionally well-fed chub wondering when that daft bloke with the robin red pellets is coming back.