Warwickshire Avon - Subconspiratorialism and Seclusionaryness

Well, with the rivers looking less like rivers and more like mobile sections of the North Atlantic that had accidentally taken a wrong turn at Gloucester, fishing had, in the most British understatement possible, been “curtailed somewhat,” which is to say that every stretch of water within sensible driving distance was either the colour of builder’s tea or attempting to annex the nearest towpath, and so when Friday arrived work concluding mercifully at midday like a benevolent headmaster ringing the last bell before summer I found myself faced with that most dangerous of propositions: opportunity. 

The sensible angler inside me, the one who owns far too many rods for a man with only two hands and a slightly unreliable left knee, suggested a speculative wander down the canal for a zander or two, because canals at least have the decency not to rise three feet in an afternoon; but the Avon, swelling faster than my blood pressure when subjected to the six o’clock news and its parade of doom, gloom and men pointing at graphs, was doing its level best to resemble a liquid freight train, and in truth I simply wasn’t feeling it. 

There are days when the piscatorial muse whispers sweet nothings about chub beneath far-bank willows, and then there are days when she shrugs, orders takeaway and tells you to put your feet up, and so it was that I, alone in the house and answerable to no one but the kettle, drew the curtains with theatrical finality, powered up the surround sound system I had installed in a fit of technological optimism back in 2008, and committed myself to cinema rather than cyprinids.

The film in question Sinners, as recommended by my twin brother, who shares both my face, my questionable judgement and well worn liver turned out to be an unexpectedly rich slice of Mississippi-set supernatural mayhem, all juke joints, gangsters and things that go bump in the Delta night, and I must confess it was rather splendid.

The sort of movie that grips you by the lapels and refuses to let go, much like an irate bailiff or a particularly committed barbel; indeed I’d go so far as to say it was one of my favourites in a good long while, and as the bass rumbled through speakers that had previously known only the Shipping Forecast and the occasional overenthusiastic weather bulletin, I felt entirely vindicated in my decision to swap waders for popcorn. 

Outside, of course, the meteorological farce continued unabated, low-pressure systems queuing over the UK as though waiting for discounted pasties, all because a stubborn slab of high pressure had parked itself over Scandinavia like a Volvo abandoned outside a fjord, blocking the usual eastward progress of weather fronts and ensuring that we, down here, received day after day of mizzle, drizzle and full-fat deluge, the rivers remaining emphatically knackered and in no mood to entertain a man with a landing net and misplaced optimism.

And yet, as every angler knows, the soul requires variety, and so it was that Liverpool beckoned, specifically the WAV Garden, where for a solid twelve hours twelve, dear reader, which is roughly the gestation period of a small mammal I found myself enthusiastically rearranging my limbs to the sounds of progressive house DJs, Sasha headlining with the sort of authority normally reserved for monarchs and particularly confident carp, the bass so insistent that one could have navigated to the venue blindfolded, guided solely by the rather large seismic wobble in one’s sternum. 

The covered ground level did its noble best to muffle proceedings for the sake of civic harmony, but even so you could feel it half a mile away, a subterranean heartbeat pulsing through the city, and when proceedings shifted downstairs (Steve Parry one of favourites was playing) into the dark and dingy tunnel club mercifully before the neighbours could marshal their complaints, I was granted a tour of the labyrinthine interior from a well known fella and DJ (Thanks Paul), a temple to rhythm that left me grinning like a newcomer to raving who’d just been transported to a rave in the 1990's. 

It is, I find, a remarkable tonic, this occasional surrender to music and motion; at 53 years of age, when society gently suggests you take up beige hobbies and begin sentences with “back in my day,” there is something gloriously defiant about dancing until the early hours, and the wellbeing boost it provides is not unlike that first savage pull on a rod tip when a fish decides your offering is irresistible proof that one is still, in fact, alive and kicking as is the tinnitus STILL !!

Fishing hovered at the back of my mind throughout, of course it did, because once afflicted we are never truly cured, but I did not miss it that weekend; the rivers would continue their impression of liquid chaos regardless of my presence, and sometimes absence sharpens the appetite better than any groundbait.

Thus it was that a midweek work-from-home day presented itself like a conspiratorial wink from the universe, and I seized the chance for a quick smash-and-grab on the Warwickshire Avon, which, though still high and carrying more debris than a teenager’s bedroom floor, had at least ceased its attempt to relocate entirely to the Midlands. 

With perhaps two viable swims and less than an hour to deploy my dubious cunning and one my slightly off the beaten secret swim, I approached the task with the efficiency of a burglar on a tight schedule, rod assembled in record time, bait introduced with minimal ceremony, every sense tuned to the possibility of a chub lurking behind some crease in the slack water, smug and silver and entirely unaware that a middle-aged man with damp boots and renewed optimism had come calling.

Whether I caught or blanked is almost beside the point, for in truth the joy lay in the opportunism, the snatched hour between spreadsheets and responsibilities, the quiet rebellion of stepping down a muddy bank while colleagues elsewhere refreshed inboxes. 

As I stood there watching the swollen river slide past with deceptive calm, I reflected that life, like angling, is rarely about perfect conditions; it is about choosing your moments, embracing the distractions be they horror films or hedonistic dance floors and returning, when the mood and the river both allow, to the water’s edge with just enough hope to make it interesting.

Anyway, dear readers, there I was hotfooting it like a ferret that’s just remembered it left the gas on towards what I optimistically refer to as the “big slack swim.” Now when I say “big,” I mean in spirit rather than in actual cubic footage of fishable water, because upon arrival I was greeted by a river so full it looked like it had eaten Christmas twice and was contemplating the cheeseboard. 

The water was barely contained within its banks, sulking and bulging like a badly packed sleeping bag, and I quickly realised I’d have to fish it in about a foot of water. A foot. I’ve seen deeper puddles in supermarket car parks.

Still, never one to be defeated by mere hydrological excess, I plopped in a few hopeful nuggets of cheesepaste little yellow parcels of optimism and stood there like a man who has just posted a letter to himself. Nothing. Not a tremor. Not a flicker. The river gave me the cold shoulder. So, with the sort of dignity only an angler can muster when retreating from a terrible decision, I once again set my feet to “brisk embarrassment” mode and hoofed it off to what I call the Secret Swim.

Now, I shall not reveal the location of the Secret Swim. Not because I fear hordes of anglers descending upon it with bivvies the size of small retail parks, but because if I told you it wouldn’t be secret anymore and I’d have to rename it something awkward like “Formerly Secret Swim (Now Ruined).” Let’s just say it doesn’t get fished much. Possibly because it requires a short scramble, a duck under a hawthorn bush, and the sort of commitment usually reserved for assembling Scandinavian furniture.

But oh, what a sight greeted me. The swim looked perfect. You know the large slack away from the main flow that whispers “chub” in hushed, fishy tones, a couple of inviting snags that say, “Go on then, if you’re brave.” The light was beginning to soften into that golden half-hour before dusk when everything looks like it’s been filtered through a nostalgic biscuit tin. 

I hurriedly set up, flicked the large bread flake this time into position, and settled in for what I assumed would be a pleasant, fishless contemplation of life.

Ten minutes later, I was staring at my landing net in mild disbelief.

Two chub. Not just any chub. Two proper, respectable, broad-shouldered river residents, both four-pounders, with the larger tipping the scales at 4lb 10oz. Four-ten! That’s not a chub, that’s a statement. 

The bigger one fought like it had something to prove charging for every snag in the postcode, rod bent properly double, my heart performing percussion in my chest like an overenthusiastic drummer at a village fete. At one point I’m fairly certain the fish looked back at me as if to say, “You’ll have to do better than that, sunshine.”

Eventually, after a brief but spirited disagreement about ownership of the river, I coaxed it into the net. A beautiful fish. Bronze flanks glowing in the evening light, fins pristine, attitude exemplary. The sort of chub that makes you forgive every blank, every tangled rig, every time you’ve accidentally trodden in something unidentifiable and moist.

Naturally, I decided to stick it out. Because when you’ve had two fish in ten minutes, common sense says, “Strike while the iron is hot.” Unfortunately, angling common sense is more of a polite suggestion than an enforceable rule. The swim, having delivered its generosity, promptly shut up shop. I sat there, rod poised, watching the sun melt into the horizon like a pat of butter on hot toast. No more bites. Not even a twitch. The river had gone back to being a picture postcard with delusions of grandeur.

Still, I couldn’t complain. It had been what I like to call a “smash and grab” session—no marathon endurance test, no midnight philosophical crisis, just a quick raid, a brace of quality fish, and home in time to recount it all with unnecessary embellishment. These are the sessions that keep you coming back. Short, sharp, and just chaotic enough to make you feel like you’ve achieved something vaguely heroic.

And the conditions? Mild as you like. Water temperature at 9.1 degrees—practically tropical by winter river standards. The ground’s been soaking up that gentle rain like a sponge in a washing-up advert, then quietly releasing it back into the river, which explains why the levels were climbing faster than my optimism after the first bite. It all felt alive. Moving. Promising.

So yes, a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Two cracking chub, a sunset worth bottling, and only minimal sprinting between swims. I really must do more of these opportunistic little raids. There’s something wonderfully mischievous about slipping down to a barely fished corner of river, whispering a bit of cheesepaste and bread into the current, and nicking a couple of its finest residents before they realise what’s happened.

Until next time, keep your hooks sharp, your secrets secret, and your feet ready for rapid deployment. The river waits for no one especially not a man standing ankle-deep in a foot of water wondering where all the fish have gone. 

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.48

Dry January is now safely in the rear-view mirror, crushed beneath the mud-terrain tyres of February, and I emerge blinking into the daylight with the faint realisation that sobriety, while technically survivable, is not something I would ever choose recreationally. 

Still, it must be said, it passed with suspicious ease. No white-knuckle cravings, no midnight bargaining with myself in the kitchen, just the quiet satisfaction of knowing that I am, above all else, a stubborn old git. Dry January for me is not wellness; it is resistance training. A ritualistic breaking of the festive feedback loop where Christmas becomes a month-long pub crawl lubricated by mince pies and poor decisions.

Naturally, the Wife did not share my monk-like resolve and required taxi services on a couple of occasions. I provided these with magnanimity, smugness, and the faint moral superiority of a man clutching a bottle of sparkling water while surrounded by slurred karaoke. Willpower, it turns out, is hereditary, and sadly she married into the wrong bloodline. LOL, as the youths say, though they say it without irony and usually while being deeply disappointing.

With the calendar flicked over and the seal broken, it was only right to reacquaint myself with the pub, where a couple of pints of 6.6% Exmoor Beast’s awaited a beer that tastes like it was brewed by someone who hates you personally. 

A proper pint and less than 3 quid in spoons. The kind that doesn’t so much refresh as challenge. This was merely a prelude, however, because Sundays in this house are less “day of rest” and more “low-level endurance event”.

By sunrise I was vertical, and from that moment until six in the evening I did not sit down once. There was fishing to do, errands to run, a pub to attend, football to half-watch, and a Sunday roast to cook for six people which in reality means twelve opinions and zero help. 

Sam’s mate Matthew was present, along with his mother, who had been visiting friends the night before and had somehow wandered into this culinary hostage situation. She looked vaguely alarmed but game, like someone who’d accidentally joined a cult but liked the biscuits.

Before all that domestic theatre, though, there was the river. The Warwickshire Avon a river which, of late, has been performing like a pub band that peaked in 1994. Still there, still capable, but mostly going through the motions. I had hopes for chub, real hopes, the kind that make you ignore recent evidence and tie rigs anyway.

The track down to the syndicate stretch was waterlogged, though I didn’t give it much thought until I was already committed. This is where the Jimny comes into its own. 

Narrow all-terrain tyres, selectable four-wheel drive, low ratio if things get biblical, and weighing approximately the same as a family-sized box of cornflakes, it simply doesn’t care. It revels in adversity. Mud? Puddles? Ruts deep enough to lose a Labrador? Excellent. It scampered through like a mountain goat with a mortgage.

At the top of the stretch I parked, mashed some bread like a medieval peasant, and walked the bank depositing freebies into every slack, crease, and fish-shaped suspicion I could find. The river was still high and coloured oddly not the reassuring brown of honest rain, but that unsettling hue that suggests paperwork and a corporate apology are imminent. 

Then came the foam. Suspicious foam. The sort of foam that doesn’t belong in nature unless something has gone very wrong. No doubt a gift from Severn Trent, who recently hiked my water bill to such a degree that I briefly considered whether the neighbour behind me had been siphoning off my supply to top up a duck pond under cover of darkness. 

We are apparently “heavy users”, which sounds less like a billing category and more like a support group. Dishwasher daily, washing machine constantly, two teenage boys who emit smells previously unknown to science —yes, fine, but £100 a month? Jesus wept. Infrastructure investment, they say. Shareholder dividends, they mean.

This stretch doesn’t see much bait, and the chub, when present, are usually a better-than-average stamp. What I didn’t expect was that after five swims without so much as a tremor, the first fish would be… well… disappointing. Not a monster. Not even pretending. A chub that looked like it had been printed on reduced-quality paper. Another followed, same size, as if they were being issued in pairs.

So, plan B. Or rather, plan Z the last-gasp, most awkward, most swear-inducing swim on the stretch. A snag-ridden horror show where fish go to test your mental resilience. I’d caught chub here before, so I switched to cheesepaste, reasoning that if nothing else, it smells like regret and ambition.

Ten minutes in, a couple of plucks on the one-ounce quiver tip. Then it went properly round, pulling left with intent, and I struck… immediately clouting the large branch to my right like a man fencing an invisible opponent. 

The fish, meanwhile, made a determined bid for the roots on the left. What followed was less “playing a fish” and more “hostage negotiation with violence”. I bullied it, unapologetically, because snag fishing is not the time for politeness.

Eventually it rolled, popped its head up, and slid into the net with all the grace of a defeated tyrant. I thought it might scrape four pounds, but it didn’t quite. Still, a proper chub. A fish with shoulders. A satisfying full stop to the session.

Then it was back to civilisation. Pub visit with the rabble. Errands. Home. Apron on. Dave Seaman on the speakers one of my all-time favourites, a man whose sets have soundtracked more questionable life choices than I care to admit. 

Seladoria parties, Seaman and Steve Parry, conversations that wandered everywhere and nowhere. Three hours and forty minutes of exactly my kind of beats, football murmuring in the background, roast aromas filling the house.

By the time I finally sat down, plate in hand, pint poured, the day felt perfectly complete. Fishing, family, food, music, mild outrage at utility companies all the essential food groups.

And that, really, is what Sundays are for.

The River Leam - Quivertipping and Quasi-philosophising

I fancied a change of scenery for this short morning session, which is angler-speak for “I was bored of the usual places and deluded myself into thinking novelty alone might improve my catch rate.” Thus, I found myself once again standing beside the River Leam, a river I’ve not fished for ages, mainly because of a change of job and the inconvenient reality that I no longer finish work, leap into the car like an escapee from a low-security prison, and arrive at the river fifteen minutes later just as the light begins to fade and the fish presumably alerted by some ancient piscine WhatsApp group decide to feed for precisely fifty-eight minutes before going on strike again. 

Back then, nothing of particular note was caught: a few chub with expressions of mild irritation, the occasional roach that looked as if it had been interrupted mid-thought, and a general sense that I was participating in something deeply traditional and profoundly pointless, which of course is the very essence of river fishing.

The plan, if it could be dignified with such a term, was to fish two of the WBAS stretches and stretch my ageing legs, which much like my tackle still function but occasionally make worrying noises. Last year I averaged 10,000 steps a day over the entire year, which isn’t bad at all for someone who spends a significant portion of life welded to a chair, staring at a computer screen and wondering if this is really what evolution had in mind. 

Roving tactics were therefore employed, partly for fish-finding purposes and partly because standing still for too long now results in joints seizing up like forgotten bait tins. A small feeder filled with liquidised bread was deployed, along with a modest piece of bread on the hook a bait that has fooled fish for centuries and continues to fool anglers into thinking it will solve everything.

The river itself was fining down nicely after having recently been in the fields, which is the riverine equivalent of saying it had been out drinking heavily but was now pulling itself together. The Leam, to its credit, drops fast, and on this occasion it was perfectly fishable a phrase that always sounds optimistic but usually just means “not actively impossible.” The slack by the bridge swim, however, was utterly devoid of interest, life, or any indication that fish had ever existed as a concept, so I roved onwards, performing the familiar angling march of quiet hope interspersed with exaggerated care not to fall in.

In the next swim, something interesting almost happened. A chub or possibly a figment of my imagination appeared to grab the bread on the drop, because the feeder refused to settle properly. I struck heroically into absolutely nothing, which is a skill I have perfected over many years, but the very next cast produced a bite in under a minute and suddenly a fish was on. 

Not the biggest fish, not a river-defining leviathan, but a chub nonetheless, and as all anglers know, scores on the doors. There is something deeply reassuring about actually catching a fish, if only to confirm that one has not completely misunderstood the basic premise of angling.

What followed was a sequence of swims that could best be described as extremely quiet indeed. The sun, however, was rather nice, and this is how rivers get away with things. You forgive them everything when the light hits the water just right and the world briefly looks like a brochure. I settled into the big, deep bay swim the very same swim where I once won a syndicate match, an event that now exists mainly as a personal legend trotted out whenever morale is low. 

After twenty minutes without so much as a twitch, I decided that destiny was clearly elsewhere and headed to the other stretch, only five minutes away, because nothing says optimism like repeatedly uprooting oneself.

That’s the thing with the River Leam: it’s a lovely river, moody and understated, but it’s a 25-minute drive for me, and I’m spoiled by the Arrow and the Alne being less than fifteen minutes away and generally more inclined to provide bites rather than philosophical reflection. Still, variety is the spice of life, or at least the mild seasoning of angling disappointment. 

On the next stretch, I managed a nice chub first cast, following a series of tentative nibbles and quivertip tremors that suggest a fish deeply conflicted about its life choices. I struck more in hope than expectation and discovered a chub was indeed on, leading to a spirited battle in which it attempted to bury itself under my feet amongst some dead reeds, presumably in an effort to end the whole affair quickly. Eventually, it was persuaded otherwise, and that, sadly, was my lot.

I fished several more swims, introduced cheesepaste at one point the olfactory equivalent of shouting into the river but the remaining fish were resolutely uninterested. 

Eventually, I packed up, legs stretched, soul mildly soothed, and expectations once again recalibrated to a sensible level. The Leam hadn’t produced miracles, but it had delivered sunshine, movement, and the comforting reminder that fishing isn’t always about catching although it does help. And besides, there’s always tomorrow… or at least somewhere closer.