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.

Warwickshire Avon - Piscatorial Perseverance and Pugnaciousness

Now if ever there were a lesson in listening to one’s body, I chose to ignore it somewhere between shin splints and the third time I drove back and forth over the bridge at River Avon like a man trying to convince himself the water level might drop out of sheer embarrassment. The trip to Glasgow had clearly taken more out of me than I was prepared to admit. 

Shin splints announced themselves the moment I returned to work, my right knee has since been sending strongly worded complaints to head office, and yet there I was, peering at a river the colour of builder’s tea, thinking, “Yes, this looks ideal.” Mrs Newey, saint that she is, had already organised an evening out in Stratford-upon-Avon with the promise of food, wine and most seductively of all waking up without Ben launching himself into the room at 6:02am like a caffeinated ninja. 

The main field was flooded. Not romantically flooded, not artistically misted, but properly, squelch-in-your-soul flooded. The footbridge over the brook was underwater after finding an access point, bugger  !!. “Go home, Mick,” it whispered, in the gentle lapping tones of inevitability. But I pressed on, because I had barbel on the brain and a bag of spam that wasn’t going to disgrace itself by remaining unused

Any sensible man would have put his feet up. I, however, turned right instead of left and effectively volunteered for additional suffering adjacent to the M40 motorway, because nothing says “rest and recovery” quite like a mile’s hobble (yes a mile I've just measure it) with a fishing rod while your knees and legs are screaming.

The river, recently a handsome olive green, had transformed overnight into something resembling liquid chocolate mousse with anger issues. Visibility was non-existent. If you’d dropped a hippo in there it would have vanished without so much as a ripple. Perfect barbel conditions, I told myself. The sort of water that makes them swagger about with their whiskers twitching, looking for trouble and processed meat products.

I began in a swim that had previously gifted me a near double in similar conditions, which of course meant it now behaved like a sulking teenager and refused to acknowledge my existence. A huge lump of spam went out first, backed up by groundbait pungent enough to make a lesser man question his life choices. An hour passed. 

Not a tremor. Not even the polite tap-tap of a curious minnow. The only thing nibbling was my confidence. I moved downstream to a peg that looked so good it practically posed for a calendar. “Here,” it seemed to say, “is where heroic things happen.” Another hour. More spam. Still nothing. The only action came from small fish discreetly trimming the meat in the first swim, which at least confirmed I hadn’t somehow cast into a parallel universe.

Deciding that subtlety might succeed where brute luncheon meat had failed, I scaled down to pellets on the hair with a robin red paste wrap, adding enough aroma to suggest I was marinating the entire river. Fifteen minutes later the rod tip gave a sharp pull. Not the tentative peck of a time-waster, but the sort of tug that makes your spine straighten despite its objections. 

Then another pull, and this one meant business. I struck into something solid. For a split second I suspected a chub, but it pulled with a determined thump that travelled right through my faithful Korum Big River rod and into my already aggrieved joints. 

This was no half-hearted participant. After a spirited scrap in water the colour of cocoa catastrophe, a barbel materialised from the gloom like a whiskered submarine. Not a monster. Not a record breaker. But a barbel. And in those conditions, on that knee, with those shins, it might as well have been a personal best.

I scooped it up first time always a minor miracle and admired the bronze flanks gleaming despite the pea-soup backdrop. A small’un, yes, but as welcome as central heating in January. There’s something deeply satisfying about being the only fool on the bank and being vindicated, even modestly. 

I had braved floodwater, wind chill and my own questionable judgement, and here was proof that sometimes the river rewards stubbornness rather than punishes it. I slipped it back, watched it disappear into the murk, and immediately began feeling chilly enough to question every decision that had led me there since birth.

With one fish safely ticked off, I decided not to push my luck or my ligaments any further. The walk back felt longer, naturally, because gravity only assists when you don’t need it. But there was a quiet glow beneath the top layer of thermals and self-reproach. 

You cannot catch fish sat at home. You also cannot aggravate shin splints sat at home, but that’s a detail we’ll gloss over. Rivers like that up, coloured, full of mystery often bring the best out of barbel. They seem to revel in the chaos, rooting about with cheerful abandon while anglers debate the wisdom of waterproof socks.

So yes, I probably should have turned left. I probably should have elevated my legs and sipped tea while preparing for our child-free sojourn in Stratford-upon-Avon. 

But then I wouldn’t have stood alone beside a chocolate torrent, clutching a rod, muttering encouragement to a pellet wrapped in something that smells faintly illegal. 

I wouldn’t have felt that jolt, that surge, that brief, glorious reminder that even when your body is protesting like a striking workforce, the river can still surprise you. And as Mrs Newey and I later clinked glasses, knowing no small person would burst in at dawn, I could at least say I’d earned it one small, spirited barbel at a time.

Warwickshire Avon - Magniloquence and Marginality (PB Content)

Fishing, I have long suspected, is a sport designed specifically to test the structural integrity of a man’s optimism. It lures you in with pastoral promises and then batters you about the head with wind, rain, rising water and the occasional two-ounce gudgeon that hooks itself in the nostril and looks at you as if to say, “Really? This is what you came for?” And yet we persist. We watch river levels like Victorian astronomers scanning the heavens, convinced that this time this precise alignment of rainfall, temperature and domestic scheduling will produce something magnificent.

The week in question had been one of those dreary, damp sagas where every river within sensible driving distance had decided to impersonate a minor ocean. The Arrow and the Alne were not merely up; they were exploring neighbouring counties. The only sliver of hope lay with the dear old Warwickshire Avon, which was high, yes, but not yet in the sort of mood where it tries to repossess your landing net. It was creeping upward, slow and ominous, like a cat preparing to leap onto a shelf full of heirlooms.

Now, I am not a man prone to gossip, but when Nic of Avon Angling was messaging me 24 hours before and  he'd “bagged up” to the tune of 30lb of chub, including a brace of fives and a four, trotting maggots one listens. One leans in. One abandons all previous life plans and begins reorganising the boot of the car with the urgency of a Formula One pit crew. “Get out there,” he said. “It’s great conditions.” Which, translated from Tackle-Shop Optimism into English, means: “You might catch something memorable, provided you don’t drown.” I tend to fish maggots now rather than bread for chub as it's less messy for starters but it just works when the conditions are right. 

As luck would have it, I finished work at midday on Friday. This is the sort of blessing that should be commemorated in stained glass. However, fishing time was to be rationed like wartime sugar because my wife had yoga at 5:30pm, meaning I needed to be home by 5:15pm to assume control of the household orchestra, conducted entirely in the key of chaos. Thus the window of opportunity was narrow more arrow slit than bay window.

Undeterred, I selected a stretch known for barbel, reasoning that the double-figure temperatures might have stirred them from their winter sulk. It was a 45-minute drive, which in angling mathematics leaves approximately 23 minutes of actual fishing once you factor in faffing, tea-pouring and the ceremonial staring at the river as though it might offer guidance. The upstream gauges were rising at a pace best described as “ambitious,” but hope is a stubborn weed in the angler’s garden.

Upon arrival, the car park resembled a modest trade fair for waterproof clothing. Vans lined up like damp pilgrims. Two of my favoured pegs were already occupied by men who clearly shared my hydrological obsession. I performed the customary wander hands in pockets, nodding sagely at nothing in particular before trudging downstream to a wider, steadier stretch. Here, the river flowed with a lovely, even pace. Upstream looked like it was auditioning for a disaster documentary; down here it was positively civilised.

Trotting it was, and then a go for the barbel at the end.

I fed maggots for a good fifteen minutes, sprinkling them with the reverence of a man sowing the seeds of destiny. A size 20 Guru hook nominally a 20 but in reality something closer to a 16 unless you’re measuring with electron microscopes adorned with two bronze maggots. First trot: nothing. Second trot: the float dipped with purpose and I lifted into a solid, reassuring thump.

A chub of about a pound and a half.

Reader, after a run of blanks that had me contemplating selling my rods and investing in a set of golf clubs (imagine the horror me discussing handicaps rather than hooklinks), this felt like redemption. Next cast: another. Then another. 

The float buried with cheerful regularity, and soon I was in that rare state of angling bliss where you stop thinking about river gauges, domestic curfews and existential dread. In the first hour I landed six or seven chub of similar stamp solid, silvery, obliging creatures with faces that suggest mild disapproval.

And then, just as I was congratulating myself on my tactical brilliance, the float vanished in a manner that suggested something far more serious than another pound-and-a-half specimen had taken an interest. I struck into what can only be described as a moving sandbag. No rattling head shakes, no frantic darting just immense, implacable weight hugging the bottom.

“Barbel,” I whispered to myself, because hope is incurable.

I coaxed it upstream, rod hooped, heart thundering. Inch by inch it came, resisting with the quiet authority of something that has paid its council tax for decades. And then, in the olive-green water beneath the rod tip, it surfaced.

Good grief.

It was a chub. But not the sort one casually swings in while discussing the weather. This was a chub that had clearly made excellent life choices. Long, broad-backed, pale flanks gleaming in the muted light. When it saw me it bolted, as if suddenly remembering an urgent appointment elsewhere. I managed to turn it somewhere between panic and prayer and gradually it conceded. Into the net it slid, vast and magnificent, like a bronzed log with opinions.

On the bank it looked even bigger. The sort of fish that makes you glance around to ensure witnesses are present. Surely this would be a new personal best? The scales were produced with trembling hands. 6lb 1oz.

It didn’t beat my all-tackle PB. But it did nudge past my float-caught best by a 6 ounces. The narrowest of margins it didn't beat my overall PB, but in angling terms that’s the difference between “quite pleased” and “insufferable for at least a fortnight.” I admired it in the rain because of course it had begun raining properly now, the heavens choosing this moment to re-enact the Great Flood before slipping it back to sulk beneath some tree roots.

With the maggots becoming increasingly enthusiastic about escape and the swim beginning to resemble a developing wetland, I switched to the barbel gear. By now the river was rising with alarming enthusiasm. The margin crept closer. The bank grew softer. Each step made a noise like a sponge contemplating its life choices.

I persisted.

A two-pound chub took the barbel bait with surprising gusto, followed by a bream that bit like a steam train and fought like a resigned cushion. 

The water continued its climb. Debris sailed past with increasing frequency twigs, leaves, possibly someone’s garden furniture. 

I fished right up to curfew, glancing at my watch with the anxiety of a man who knows yoga ends promptly and children expect dinner with alarming regularity.

No barbel came to the net.

And yet, as I packed away in the drizzle, boots squelching, net dripping, I felt absurdly content. 

Because fishing is not, in truth, about the relentless pursuit of whiskered leviathans. It is about moments. The float sliding under. The sudden, immovable weight. The sight of a truly exceptional chub materialising from coloured water like a myth made flesh.

The Warwickshire Avon will likely be over its banks tomorrow, strutting about the floodplain like it owns the place. I will no doubt be poring over gauges again, convincing myself that floodwater barbel are not just possible but practically inevitable.

I will probably get soaked. I may blank. I may once again threaten to take up golf.

But somewhere beneath that rising water swims a 6lb 1oz chub that, for one glorious Friday afternoon, made all the damp socks, frantic dashes home and hydrological obsessing entirely worthwhile. 

And that, dear readers, is quite enough to keep a man gloriously, hopelessly hooked.