Warwickshire Avon - Gingers Growlers and Gourmandizers

The rumours had been swirling around Westminster for weeks, but now it was official. Andy Burnham had somehow ended up as Prime Minister, and quids in Angela Rayner was installed alongside him and others in his cabinet, and before anyone had even found the tea bags in Number 10 they'd already discovered a fresh collection of ways to relieve the taxpayer of his hard-earned cash. 

As I stood beside the Warwickshire Avon, I couldn't help wondering whether the Chancellor had somehow managed to put VAT on optimism.

Being someone who tried to do the right thing over the years these days feels remarkably similar to fishing a snag-filled weir pool. Every time you think you've made a bit of progress, something unseen grabs hold and strips another few yards off the spool before you've even realised what's happened. You don't actually see where the money goes either, much like my favourite packets of pellets, they simply disappear and you're expected to smile politely while thanking everyone for the privilege.

Still, politics can do one !!. I'd arrived at one of my favourite weir pools on the Warwickshire Avon, a stretch that has the remarkable ability to make grown men forget mortgages, inflation and whichever minister has just announced another "necessary adjustment" to the nation's finances. Water thundered over the concrete lip, throwing oxygen into the pool below like someone had emptied a truckload of fizzy water into the river.

Everywhere else the Avon looked like someone had forgotten to refill it. The river was low and as clear as a freshly cleaned pint glass, hardly ideal conditions for pursuing a barbel that possess the paranoia levels of international spies. Thankfully, the turbulence below the weir transformed the swim into an oxygen-rich sanctuary where the fish could pretend August wasn't trying its hardest to boil them alive.

I've always had unfinished business here. The last visit still wakes me up occasionally, usually around three in the morning, when my subconscious enjoys replaying the exact moment disaster unfolded in glorious high definition.

I'd barely settled into the session when the rod absolutely hooped over. Not twitched. Not nodded. It tried to make a break for Stratford-Upon-Avon before I even got my hand on the cork handle. For a split second I genuinely believed the rod was about to launch itself into the river in search of a more competent owner.

I eventually managed to intercept it, mostly through panic rather than skill. The fish powered downstream with the confidence of a government minister explaining why your taxes definitely aren't going up while simultaneously introducing six brand-new ones.

Whatever was attached to the other end felt absolutely like a big barbel. It hugged the bottom, ignored side strain, ignored persuasion and generally behaved like it owned the river. Then, just as I'd convinced myself this was going to be the barbel that would dominate every future fishing conversation, the line suddenly sprang back towards me.

Gone.

The silence afterwards was deafening. Even the gulls looked disappointed. Somewhere down in that emerald-green pool swam a barbel that had almost stolen my rod before casually stealing a little piece of my soul instead.

Fortunately, the Avon occasionally throws you a sympathy card. 

A succession of decent chub arrived to cheer me up, each one putting up the sort of spirited scrap that reminds you why they remain one of Britain's most underrated fish. They weren't the monsters I'd hoped for, but they certainly stopped me feeling completely robbed. Then, just before packing up past curfew, redemption arrived wearing bronze scales.

 A lovely Warwickshire Avon barbel eventually found the net, and although it wasn't the mythical river monster from earlier, it somehow stitched together enough of the emotional damage to make the drive home bearable. That's fishing in a nutshell. It kicks you in the shins before offering you a biscuit.

Returning now, I couldn't help wondering whether the giant was still lurking beneath the frothing white water, probably several pounds heavier and infinitely wiser. Fish have an annoying habit of learning from our mistakes while anglers continue making exactly the same ones every single season.

The weir itself remained wonderfully theatrical. White water crashed relentlessly into the pool below, creating seams, eddies and mysterious dark holes where anything with whiskers could be hiding. If barbel designed luxury apartments, this would surely be the penthouse suite.

As I recast for what felt like the fiftieth time, my thoughts drifted back to Westminster. Andy Burnham was no doubt unveiling another bold vision for Britain which will be headlines and bluster. Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating how many bags of pellets, pints of maggots and tanks of petrol quietly vanished every time another percentage point disappeared from my payslip.

Those like me do occupy a fascinating position. Apparently we're wealthy enough to keep contributing ever larger chunks, but not wealthy enough to notice that the bank account resembles a neglected keepnet after a difficult match. Every announcement seems to conclude with the comforting phrase that "working people will be protected," moments before my wallet receives another enthusiastic uppercut.

Perhaps they should spend an evening barbel fishing instead. It teaches patience, humility, resilience and the uncomfortable reality that sometimes you can do absolutely everything right and still lose the biggest opportunity of the day. Admittedly, it also teaches colourful language, but Parliament already seems to have mastered that one.

Despite all the grumbling, there are moments beside a river that effortlessly reset your perspective. Kingfishers flash like electric darts across the surface. Swallows skim inches above the water. The constant roar of the weir drowns out rolling news channels, political debates and economists predicting precisely how much poorer everyone will feel by Christmas.

That's probably why I keep returning. Rivers don't care who's sitting in Downing Street, what tax band you're in they simply carry on flowing, rewarding persistence just often enough to keep us hopelessly addicted.

One day that barbel which nearly emptied my rod rest will make one mistake too many. Hopefully it'll happen before my next tax bill arrives, because I'd quite like to experience the feeling of actually winning something for a change. Until then I'll continue feeding the swim, feeding the Treasury and wondering which one is currently taking the biggest bites.

So anyway enough waffle, Mick get fishing !!!

Now some swims require a two-mile hike, three gates, a bramble assault worthy of Gladiators and a sat-nav. This one, however, is so convenient that passing dog walkers, cyclists and random members of the public can all enjoy the spectacle of me talking to fish that clearly aren't listening. Such is life at the weir pool.

The constant roar of the weir is one of those things that either drives you quietly insane or somehow becomes nature's own white noise machine. On this short evening session I found myself firmly in the latter camp, happy to let the sound drown out both the traffic and the little voice in my head reminding me I'd forgotten the flask.

Joining me were Nic and Tess from Avon Angling, who quickly discovered that watching someone fish can be surprisingly entertaining when there's a reasonable chance they'll accidentally launch a rod into orbit. They'd barely settled in before the action started, and thankfully it wasn't me falling over the boulders for once.

The chub had clearly missed the memo about being cautious. Robin Red hookbaits, sometimes with a delightfully antisocial paste wrap, were disappearing faster than my wages after payday, with six fish gracing the net between two pounds and comfortably over four.

Every cast was accompanied by a little PVA bag of 6mm Robin Red pellets, and almost every cast was rewarded with a bite. Not polite little plucks either... proper barbel-esque whacks that nearly resulted in me removing Nic's head with what can only be described as an enthusiastic strike. He survived, although I suspect he'll stand slightly further back next time.

As daylight packed its bags, Nic and Tess headed home, leaving me alone with the roar of the weir, a rapidly darkening sky and that dangerous thought every angler has: just one more cast. Fishing history has been written on worse decisions.

Then, around half an hour after dusk, it happened. The rod tip lunged forward, the clutch protested loudly and all subtlety disappeared as something on the other end decided it had absolutely no intention of meeting me. This wasn't a chub throwing its toys out of the pram; this was a fish with attitude.

There were no trademark head shakes, just heavy, determined lunges hugging the riverbed like it owned the place. After the third or fourth run, the fish finally accepted that perhaps this wasn't its evening either and slid into the landing net with all the grace of a nightclub bouncer finishing his shift.

Curfew was looming, so there was no time for a photoshoot worthy of Angling Times. The fish enjoyed a well-earned breather in the net while I packed away the tackle I'd somehow managed to spread across a swim barely bigger than my garden shed.

A quick trophy shot later and the barbel powered back into its watery lair without so much as a backwards glance. It wasn't a monster, it won't trouble the record books, but after an evening packed with hard-fighting chub, near-decapitations and a proper weir-pool scrap under fading light, it felt like exactly the sort of session that reminds you why we keep coming back.

Because let's be honest, Piscatorial Quagswagging has never really been about chasing records. It's about enjoying ridiculous evenings by the river, laughing at yourself, terrifying your fishing mates with over-enthusiastic strikes, and occasionally being rewarded with a cracking Warwickshire Avon barbel before sensible people are tucked up in bed.

Warwickshire Avon - Benevolence and Benification

Seventeen. How? Honestly, if you'd asked me yesterday I'd have sworn Ben was still an emerging teenager leaving socks in impossible places. Yet here we are. Seventeen years old. Time flies when you're repeatedly asking, "Whose plate is this then?"

Ben still in his own delightful little universe, orbiting somewhere between his reality and the next slice of pizza. But if there's one thing that can cut through the cosmic fog, it's the promise of molten cheese on dough.

So the family descended at the restauran . Every last one of the rabble. It looked less like a birthday meal and more like a UN summit for people who shout over each other. There was enough pizza to feed a Roman legion, or at least Sam after "just one more slice."

Now, I'm not exactly chairman of the Pizza Appreciation Society. Left to my own devices I'd probably be happier with a decent pie that once had feathers. But lashings of chilli and garlic oil transformed the whole affair into something rather agreeable. Amazing what happens when you aggressively season mediocrity.

Ben was happy, the pizzas vanished at an alarming rate, nobody came to blows over the last slice, and the washing-up fairy made an appearance this time, the wallet quite a bit lighter !!

All in all, a successful seventeenth. God only knows how he got there so quickly. Mind you, judging by the speed that pizza disappeared, I suspect he's been growing purely on mozzarella and pepperoni. There are certain moments in angling where common sense quietly packs its suitcase, waves politely from the gate and leaves you entirely to your own devices. This latest trip to the Warwickshire Avon was one of those occasions. 

After my recent success trotting a banded 6mm pellet—an approach that looked about as subtle as eating soup with a garden spade I found myself wondering whether lightning could strike twice or whether I'd simply been granted a temporary fishing licence by the gods of daft ideas.

You see, the smaller roach absolutely loved it. Every run through the swim was like the last helicopter out of Saigon, with silver fish piling over one another to grab yet another freebie before their mates could get there first. They had all the caution of Labrador puppies in a butcher's shop, which suited me just fine.

The bigger roach, however, are a completely different kettle of fish. They're not daft. They sit somewhere beneath a raft of streamer weed with their fins crossed, watching the youngsters charge around like teenagers at an all-you-can-eat buffet, muttering, "Go on then, Derek... you eat it first."

Those old warriors have seen absolutely everything. They've survived pike that look like crocodiles with anger management issues, perch built like nightclub bouncers, zander with eyes like they've been on a three-day stag do, along with otters, cormorants, goosanders and enough anglers to fill Wembley Stadium twice over. By the time a roach reaches two pounds it's probably got a pension plan and a list of things it no longer trusts, which includes suspicious pellets drifting naturally downstream.

Talking of suspicious pellets, blog reader Jon Pinfold and his lad have had some absolute clonkers while targeting barbel. It's always the way, isn't it? You spend half a season chasing a specimen roach and catch dace with delusions of grandeur, then somebody fishing two 12mm drilled pellets for a barbel suddenly rings you to say, "You won't believe what's just turned up!"

It's enough to make a grown man chew through his landing net. One minute they're waiting for a three-foot twitch from a barbel, the next the rod tip merely nods politely, almost apologetically, before a magnificent roach waddles off with the bait. The barbel rods suddenly become precision specimen roach gear, entirely by accident of course, which is generally how the best captures happen.

Now, being incapable of leaving well alone, I naturally convinced myself I'd cracked the code. Somewhere deep inside my brain lives a tiny engineer who constantly whispers, "You know what this needs? More components." Before long I was rummaging through boxes of terminal tackle like a pensioner searching for a receipt from 1987.

Out came a scaled-down ledger rig. Nothing outrageous, mind. Just a neat little inline lead, a short hooklength and a pair of delightfully squishy 8mm Robin Red pellets mounted on a quickstop, positioned at the tail of the swim like some undercover operative waiting patiently for the proper villains to arrive.

It was, in effect, a sleeper rod. Yes... I know. There, I've admitted it. Somewhere, several float purists have just dropped their centrepins into the river in disgust and are currently writing strongly worded letters using fountain pens.

Still, every scientist needs a control experiment. That's what I kept telling myself anyway. It sounded far more respectable than saying, "I've got another daft idea and fancy seeing if it works."

Meanwhile, the float rod received a complete makeover. The Avon was running as clear as bottled spring water, meaning every fish could probably count the freckles on my nose. So everything came down a size a slimmer float, a lighter olivette, finer fluorocarbon hooklength and enough delicacy to make a Swiss watchmaker nod approvingly.

Of course, tying fluorocarbon of that diameter in a stiff breeze is one of life's lesser discussed challenges. At one point I genuinely couldn't tell whether I'd tied a knot or accidentally knitted myself a tiny hammock. I spent five minutes talking encouragingly to the hooklength before finally convincing it to behave.

The swim itself looked absolutely perfect. The sort of place where you instinctively lower your voice despite nobody being within half a mile. Even the wagtails seemed to tiptoe around, as if aware that somewhere beneath the ranunculus lurked a roach capable of making grown anglers weak at the knees.

I began feeding steadily with the pellets. Not loads. Just enough to keep the conveyor belt ticking over without creating an underwater version of an all-inclusive holiday buffet. Before long the familiar procession started roach, dace, another roach, a chublet with more confidence than talent and one perch that looked permanently offended by everything.

The float travelled beautifully. Every run through looked exactly how angling books say it should, which immediately made me suspicious because fishing rarely follows the script. The smaller fish queued up with admirable enthusiasm, each one convinced it had discovered buried treasure.

Meanwhile the ledger rod remained motionless. Completely still. The tip was so lifeless that spiders began considering it suitable real estate. I found myself staring at it with the intensity of a man trying to boil a kettle through positive thinking alone.

Then came the tiniest movement imaginable. Not a pull. Not a wrench. More of a thoughtful nod, rather like somebody agreeing that yes, perhaps another biscuit wouldn't hurt. I picked the rod up almost absent-mindedly, expecting a nuisance chub.

Instead the rod hooped over beautifully.

For a glorious few seconds my imagination completely lost the plot. Perhaps it was the mythical Avon roach of three pounds. Perhaps I'd discovered the greatest specimen fish since Richard Walker frightened the nation with Clarissa. Perhaps the Angling Times photographer was already warming the camera up somewhere behind the hedge.

It was, naturally, a chub.

Not a monster. Not even a particularly impressive one. Just large enough to remind me that fish have a wonderful sense of humour and mine is apparently very expensive to maintain. It charged about the swim scattering every roach into neighbouring postcodes before eventually sliding into the net looking immensely pleased with itself.

As I released it, I couldn't help laughing. There I was trying to outwit elderly specimen roach with a cunning tactical masterplan and instead I'd managed to catch exactly what I wasn't really aiming for. Typical fishing, really.

The float fishing continued to produce fish but nothing big, all crimson fins and polished silver flanks that positively glowed in the morning sunshine. Magnificent creatures that remind you why the humble roach still deserves far more admiration than it often receives.

Did the adjustments work? I honestly didn't think they did. The lighter tackle certainly brought more confident bites in the crystal-clear water but oddly I got more bites last time, my suspicion was an angler might have filled it in overnight. I remain convinced that little ledger rig has plenty more chapters left to write. Whether it eventually tempts one of those old red-eyed ghosts lurking beneath the weed is another matter entirely.

Because that's the thing about specimen roach. They're like retired bank robbers. They don't make mistakes very often, they trust nobody and they always seem to know something you don't. Every blank session simply convinces you they're still there, quietly laughing into their gills while you invent another ingenious contraption.

Will I be back? Of course I will. Anglers possess the remarkable ability to mistake stubbornness for optimism, and nowhere is that more obvious than on the banks of the Warwickshire Avon. Besides, I've already got another ridiculous idea brewing, which almost certainly means the fish are one step ahead already.

Warwickshire Avon - Argentocracy and Argy-Bargy

Now some itches can be ignored. A mosquito bite, perhaps. The urge to reorganise the tackle shed, if you've finally admitted you're never going to use that bent bankstick again. 

But the itch to spend an evening chasing a mythical Warwickshire Avon weir-pool barbel? That's the sort of thing that keeps you staring out of the window every ten minutes while convincing yourself the weather forecast has probably changed since you last checked it.

Unfortunately, England had a World Cup semi-final to play. Or, as it turned out, ninety minutes proving that football managers can overthink things even faster than anglers choosing between three perfectly good hooklengths. 

I should have known better. Hope has caught out more fishermen than badly tied knots ever have. There was, however, one bright spot. I'd treated myself to a couple of bottles of McEwan's Champion, which, in my entirely unbiased opinion, remains one of the finest beer ever brewed. 

Rich, well-being boosting and full of character, it did everything asked of it. Sadly, it couldn't inspire eleven blokes in white shirts to remember the opposition's goal was still at the other end.

If anything, the beer showed more ambition than England did after taking the lead with Anthony Gordon's 55th-minute cracker. Every sip promised excitement, while every backwards pass suggested someone had mistaken a semi-final for a pre-season friendly. 

Even the Wife looked as though she wanted someone to have a shot. By the final whistle the bottle was empty, England were out and I was left wondering whether I'd enjoyed the beer more than the football because at least one of them had gone forward all evening. 

McEwan's Champion finished strongly. England finished like a bloke arriving at the pub to discover the lights are on, the chairs are upside down and the landlord's already counting the till.

The first hour wasn't bad. England looked lively despite the scrapy argy-bargy nature, and moved the ball well and almost gave the impression they fancied winning the thing. 

As every angler knows, that's usually the moment you reach for the landing net before the float's actually gone under. Then someone clearly shouted, "Right lads... that'll do." Not behind the bus. Not near the bus. Properly parked it, switched the engine off, folded the mirrors in and settled down with a flask while Argentina wandered round the outside looking only mildly inconvenienced.

Watching it unfold was like spotting the biggest barbel you've ever seen feeding confidently under your rod tip, only to reel in because you didn't want to disturb it. Football calls it game management. Anglers tend to use slightly stronger language. As if that wasn't cautious enough, Tuchel then decided the answer was to send on three defenders. That's rather like hooking the fish of your dreams before swapping your size 8 hook for a paperclip because it looks less intimidating. You half expected the fourth official to hold up a sign reading, "No more attacking."

By this point England looked less interested in scoring another goal than preserving one they hadn't quite finished scoring in the first place. You half expected them to ask the referee if they could just keep possession until penalties became available.

It reminded me of every helpful soul who's ever appeared behind you on the riverbank. "You won't catch one from there." Curiously, they're normally carrying an empty landing net and wondering why they haven't had a bite since breakfast. Advice, like cheap groundbait, is usually available in generous quantities.

Meanwhile the itch to fish was becoming unbearable. Every sideways pass was another nudge from my conscience saying, "You could be sitting beside that weir pool with a flask, a barbel rod and absolutely no idea what's about to happen." Which, when you think about it, still sounded like a better tactical plan than passing backwards until everyone forgot where the goal was.

The mythical Warwickshire Avon barbel has one enormous advantage over England. It doesn't spend half an hour protecting a lead it hasn't actually got yet. Mind you, if barbel employed football managers they'd probably insist on shoaling in the slack water until dusk before deciding feeding was too risky.

By now I'd mentally packed the car twice. The rods were assembled in my imagination, the bait was prepared in my head and I'd almost convinced myself I'd remembered everything. The only thing actually happening in the living room was another backwards pass and a commentator explaining why it was all very sensible. At least barbel are honest. They either make a fool of you or they don't. They don't spend thirty minutes passing the pellet backwards before disappearing into the reeds while someone tells you it's all part of the plan.

Next time the itch arrives, I'm going fishing. If I blank, I'll still have spent the evening watching flowing water instead of watching a manager turn England into the footballing equivalent of a bivvy with the zip firmly done up. Blanking somehow feels less disappointing when nobody interviews the chub afterwards. Now some places have a habit of getting under your skin. This weir pool is one of them, quietly nagging away until eventually you stop pretending you're going somewhere else and simply give in. Rivers can be remarkably persuasive without saying a word.

For all the years I've wandered this stretch, I've probably fished this swim no more than a handful of times for a Barbel. Strange really, because every visit convinces me there's a proper fish living there. Every visit also convinces the fish that today would be an excellent day to remain somewhere completely different.

The river slipped over the weir with that steady, reassuring murmur that persuades anglers to believe all sorts of unlikely things. It looked every inch a barbel swim. Mind you, so have plenty of others where I've carefully introduced two pounds of bait to a family of very grateful minnows.

There was enough pace, enough depth and enough mystery to keep the imagination busy. If confidence alone caught fish, I'd have needed a bigger landing net years ago. Sadly, rivers insist on introducing reality into the conversation. So, were there any barbel willing to sample my offerings? There was only one way to answer that question, and it certainly wasn't by standing on the bank looking thoughtful. Anglers call that watercraft. Everyone else calls it standing about.

Sadly there are evenings when the angling gods smile upon you... and there are evenings when they point, laugh, and nick your rig. I rocked up at 20:45 to find a couple of anglers cars at the stretch, but the weir was gloriously vacant, as if Neptune himself had reserved it under my name.

The place had changed since my last visit too. A tree had spectacularly folded itself in half, kindly dropping a leafy penthouse over the crease that positively screamed, "Big barbel live here!" Naturally, the first cast into paradise found a snag so committed it was probably paying council tax, and I was soon waving goodbye to lead, hooklink and a small chunk of confidence.

Plan B, a cast just to the right, landed with that beautiful donk every river angler dreams about. Within half an hour the tip gave the unmistakable chub clang, enough to get the pulse up before reality politely tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me I wasn't the guest of honour tonight.Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening than sitting beside a weir with its endless hiss washing the nonsense of the day downstream. Ten minutes from my front door, a cracking little hideaway, and exactly the sort of place built for cheeky smash-and-grab in to dusk sessions.

Mrs Barbel avoided the rendezvous this time, no doubt claiming she'd already washed her hair. Never mind, my dear... I'll be back, and next time you might not be quite so camera shy.