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.

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.