Warwickshire Avon - Trots and Transtubstantiationalists (Barbel content)

Now there are wellness retreats costing thousands of pounds where earnest people sit cross-legged beside scented candles attempting to discover inner peace. Personally, I prefer a stick float, a pint of maggots, and a slightly damp meadow somewhere along an English river. The beauty of trotting a float is that absolutely nothing much happens. 

In modern life, this is a rare luxury. Emails don't trot downstream. Meetings don't trot downstream. Utility bills certainly don't trot downstream. A stick float, however, drifts away with the current carrying all worldly concerns towards the next county.

The process is gloriously simple. Cast upstream, mend the line, watch the float. Repeat until tea time or darkness, whichever arrives first. It is difficult to feel stressed when concentrating on a tiny painted tip wobbling through a crease beneath an overhanging willow. 

Summer is the finest season for it. The river shrinks into polite proportions, dragonflies patrol like miniature helicopters, and every cow in the county appears determined to supervise proceedings from the opposite bank. The scent of warm grass drifts through the air while swallows skim the surface collecting insects with outrageous efficiency.

Then there are the fish. Most of them are not famous. The average trotting session produces a cast of modest performers. Dace arrive in cheerful shoals. Small chub dash about with the confidence of fish three times their size. Roach gleam briefly in the sunshine before returning to their watery affairs.

Yet every run through contains possibility.

That is the great secret.

The next trot might produce exactly the same four-ounce dace as the previous twenty-five trots. Or it might produce something rather more substantial. A proper chub could emerge from beneath the far-bank nettles. A surprise barbel may lumber into the swim. Occasionally the float vanishes with such determination that one's heart immediately attempts to leave via the throat.

This possibility transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary.

For hours nothing remarkable occurs. Then suddenly something remarkable occurs.

Life, if we're honest, works in much the same way.

The float itself becomes a companion. After several hours together you begin to recognise its habits. You know how it behaves in the fast water, how it hesitates over gravel, how it nods politely through the deeper glide. You watch it with the affection usually reserved for elderly Labradors and reliable kettles. Lunch tastes better by a river. 

Nobody knows why. A slightly squashed cheese sandwich consumed on a grassy bank somehow rivals restaurant cuisine. The tea from a flask acquires medicinal properties. Even a biscuit retrieved from the bottom of a tackle bag seems entirely acceptable.

Of course, there are occasional setbacks.

A tree may intercept a cast despite standing in exactly the same place all morning. A swan may decide your swim is ideal for a lengthy inspection. A cow may stare at you continuously for three hours, apparently attempting to solve a complex mathematical problem involving anglers.

These things merely add character.

By the end of the day the catch may amount to a dozen small fish and one respectable specimen. Yet the real harvest is something less tangible. The shoulders relax. The mind quietens. The endless chatter of modern life fades into the background hum of flowing water.

You leave the river convinced that next time the big one will certainly arrive.

It probably won't.

But then again, it might.

And that possibility is enough to send a stick float trotting downstream all over again. 

Now there comes a point in every angler's life when he stops listening to experts and starts listening to his own aches and pains. For me, that moment arrived when I could no longer see a No.8 shot without assistance from modern science. Once upon a time I happily copied complicated shotting patterns from magazines. The diagrams looked less like fishing tackle and more like blueprints for a suspension bridge.

Nowadays I look at tiny shot with deep suspicion. If I can't see it without squinting, there's a fair chance it isn't going on my line. My answer is simple. A small stick float, a 1-gram olivette and a couple of float stops solve most of life's problems. The olivette sits neatly where I want it. It doesn't slide about, it doesn't tangle and it doesn't require the eyesight of a peregrine falcon to install.

Being a design engineer, I like things that are tidy. If a component stays where it should and performs its function properly, I'm generally happy. This is why shirt-button shotting patterns make me slightly uncomfortable. I fully accept that they work brilliantly, but my engineering brain starts asking awkward questions. Every pinched shot looks like another potential weak point. While other anglers are catching fish, I'm conducting an imaginary failure analysis.

The experts, of course, know better than I do. That's why they write books and articles while I spend half my time looking for things I've dropped in the grass. John Allerton back in the day could probably glance at a swim and instantly know the perfect shotting arrangement. I glance at a swim and wonder whether I packed enough biscuits. The fish themselves seem wonderfully unconcerned. They have never once asked for a detailed breakdown of my shotting pattern.

A dace has never refused my bait because it disapproved of my loading arrangement. Nor has a chub suggested improvements to the presentation. So I'll stick with my olivette system. It suits my eyesight, suits my temperament and keeps the whole rig refreshingly simple.

Will it catch every fish in the river? Probably not. Then again, neither will I.

What it does provide is confidence. And confidence catches far more fish than a packet of microscopic shot I can't actually see, anyway enough of this nonsense I'm down the syndicate stretch with some maggots to drown I better get fishing without the waffle. 

Now there are fishing sessions, and then there are fishing sessions. This one started with me splashing about knee-deep in a swim kindly prepared by fellow syndicate member George, who had clearly decided that if I wanted fish, I ought to work for them first. Waders on, dignity off, and into the river I went. The swim itself was a masterpiece of inconvenience. 

Reeds lurked everywhere, seemingly with a personal grudge against floats. Every cast felt like threading a needle whilst riding a bicycle. Thankfully, an olivette down the line allowed the rig to slip free often enough to keep me from launching the rod into the nearest hedge.

The fish, however, were in a cooperative mood. Maggots rained in and dace, roach and the occasional ambitious chublet queued up as if tickets were being handed out. 

Bites arrived in manic bursts before vanishing completely, only to return twenty minutes later as though they'd all gone for a committee meeting.

At one point I connected with something considerably larger. Unfortunately, the fish had clearly read a different script. It headed for some tree roots to my left with alarming purpose. I attempted to stop it. The fish disagreed. The hook pulled and I was left staring at the water whilst inventing several new theories about what it might have been. 

The swim did at least provide shelter from the blazing sun. While sensible people were roasting elsewhere, I was comfortably hidden away, looking every bit like a riverbank hermit who'd lost track of both time and personal hygiene.

By half past nine I packed away and prepared to head home. The session had been enjoyable enough and common sense suggested calling it a day. Fortunately, common sense has never played a major role in my fishing. With dusk approaching, I wandered into another swim where Sean had thoughtfully trimmed back some branches. 

A few robin red pellets were dispatched alongside a PVA bag with freebies, with a 15mm robin red with a subtle paste wrap on an hair, and within fifteen minutes the rod erupted in a full-scale meltdown. The fish had practically hooked itself and was heading off with my tackle at alarming speed.

 For a brief moment I felt in control. Then the fish found a snag. The snag found the fish. I found despair. Despite briefly feeling the fish still attached, the inevitable happened and everything went solid. 

Game over. At that point many anglers would have gone home. I nearly joined them. The car was parked nearby. The evening was fading. The fishing gods had apparently spoken. Then again, they often mumble, so I decided to ignore them and cast out once more, this time well away from the snag.

The evening settled into one of those magical river moments where everything feels possible. 

Birds chirped, the river glided past and I began mentally rehearsing my drive home. Naturally, that was the exact moment the rod tip gave two unmistakable bangs before wrenching round with authority.

This was no chub.

This was a barbel.

The fish charged off on three powerful runs, each one reminding me that barbel possess approximately twice the horsepower nature intended. 

Eventually it surfaced and immediately my heart rate doubled. It was a proper fish. Seeing the landing net, it decided one final escape attempt was necessary and tore off again.

Thankfully, after that last effort the fish seemed to accept that negotiations were over. Moments later it slipped over the net cord and into the mesh.

What a fish.

After resting it in the net, I convinced myself it might scrape double figures. Anglers are optimistic creatures by nature. The scales eventually settled at 9lb 8oz. Not quite the magical ten, but a cracking opening-season barbel by any sensible measure. The funniest part? Three syndicate members had been there the previous evening targeting bigger fish at dusk and all blanked. Meanwhile I was halfway to the car before changing my mind and stumbling into success.

As ever, fishing remains the only pastime where poor decision-making can occasionally be rewarded with a personal triumph. Had I gone home when common sense suggested, I'd have missed the fish of the session. Sometimes it really is a case of right place, right time and just enough stubbornness to stay for one last cast.

Warwickshire Avon - Chubberificity and Conspiratorialism

Now here are few things in angling more baffling than a shoal of chub in full feeding frenzy. One moment they are charging about like shoppers on the first day of a closing-down sale, hoovering up every crust of bread that lands on the water. The next, they have collectively decided that bread is a dangerous conspiracy and should be avoided at all costs.

I have often suspected that chub hold emergency committee meetings beneath overhanging willow trees. One fish takes a bite, disappears skyward in a shower of spray and panic, and suddenly the remaining members of the shoal gather to discuss health and safety concerns. The motion is carried unanimously. Bread is banned until further notice.

Their eyesight certainly does not help the angler's cause. Chub seem capable of spotting a fisherman blink from three counties away. They can detect the shadow of a cap, the movement of a sleeve, or the careless crunch of a boot on gravel. To approach a good chub swim often requires the stealth of a burglar and the dignity of a man crawling through nettles on all fours.

Then comes the famous "once bitten" problem. Most creatures, when presented with free food, simply eat it. Chub, however, appear to conduct a full risk assessment. If two of their friends vanish after eating floating bread, the remainder become deeply suspicious of anything white, buoyant, or remotely bread-shaped.

The frustrating thing is that they rarely leave. That would be far too convenient. Instead, under the polarised sunglasses they remain tucked beneath a snag, staring at every piece of bread drifting over their heads. You can see them. They can see you. The bread can see both of you. Yet nobody is willing to make the first move.

The situation is made worse by their remarkable ability to become full. An angler, in a moment of generosity, may scatter enough bread to feed a small village. The chub accept this offering with gratitude before promptly losing interest in every hookbait presented thereafter. It is rather like serving someone a three-course meal and then wondering why they decline dessert.

For this reason, the successful chub angler must become a nomad. Catch one or two fish and move on. When the swim goes quiet, resist the urge to stare accusingly at the water. The chub have not left the river. They are simply sitting under a branch somewhere, discussing recent events and waiting for you to make another mistake.

A freelined piece of bread often remains the most convincing presentation. No float. No lead. No complicated arrangement resembling a small maritime engineering project. Just bread drifting naturally downstream as though it has accidentally fallen from a careless picnicker's lunch basket.

Polarised sunglasses are another valuable aid. They allow the angler to peer through the surface glare and discover chub hiding in places that appear entirely unsuitable for fish. You will frequently find them tucked beneath roots, branches, shadows, and other locations apparently chosen specifically to frustrate anglers.

Most important of all is the art of remaining unseen. Chub do not appreciate dramatic entrances. They prefer fishermen to arrive quietly, stay low, and behave as though they are attempting to infiltrate enemy territory. The less attention you draw to yourself, the more likely the chub are to forget that humans were ever invented.

Of course, there comes a point when the battle is lost. The bread drifts untouched. The fish remain motionless. The committee has spoken. Once a shoal of chub has switched off, they do so with a level of determination normally associated with government paperwork and railway replacement bus services.

At this stage there is only one sensible course of action. Pack away the rod, accept defeat with good grace, and head for the local pub. A pint in comfortable surroundings is infinitely more rewarding than spending another hour trying to outwit a fish that has already outwitted you.

The chub can remain beneath their willow tree conducting investigations into suspicious floating objects and drafting new feeding regulations. Meanwhile, you can sit with a well-earned pint and reflect on the simple truth that chub are not merely fish. They are mischievous little riverbank philosophers whose favourite pastime is making anglers question their own intelligence.

Anyway back to it the opening day of the season found me unable to resist a cheeky return post work visit in pursuit of a few chub. It would have been rude not to, after all. Arriving at the official car park, I was surprised to find not another angler in sight. At first I wondered if everyone knew something I didn't. Then I looked at the river. Gin clear. The fish could probably see my smile.

With the place operating under a strict curfew, there wasn't much point waiting for darkness proper, so I set about creeping between three swims. The chub, obligingly, had not read the rule book and five found their way to the net in little more than an hour. As expected, once they spotted me stomping about like an escaped farmhand, they grew suspicious. Fortunately, a switch to sinking bread or the old trick of a floating crust a foot above the sinking hookbait restored relations.

Five chub mostly over 3 and a 4lber, a pleasant evening, and not a soul to witness either my success or the alarming state of my casting. A fine start to the season. Next stop is a new stretch where, with any luck, I'll be able to fish into dusk and give the chub a sporting chance of avoiding me.

Warwickshire Avon - Buns and Baloney

Forty-eight hours before the start of the river season, after Sean's monumental efforts a day before I was hard at work cutting fishing pegs on the syndicate stretch. Armed with loppers, a strimmer and a healthy dose of enthusiasm, I spent the morning transforming overgrown jungle into fishable swims. By the time I finished, I was hot, tired and ready for home. The job had gone well, the pegs looked great and all that remained was the drive back. Or so I thought.

On the way home, I passed another club water and made the classic angler's mistake: "I'll just have a quick look." It's a phrase responsible for more lost evenings than any other in fishing. A few minutes later, standing at the tail of a swim, I couldn't believe my eyes. 

Cruising through the clear water were several enormous chub. These weren't average fish either. A few  looked comfortably over five pounds and carried themselves with the confidence of creatures that had never seen a landing net.

To make sure I wasn't imagining things, I tossed a small piece of bread onto the surface. Instantly one of the giants rose and slurped it down without hesitation. Then another fish appeared and took a second piece. Then another. Before long, several good chub were happily taking bread from the surface as though they had been waiting all day for someone to arrive with refreshments. 15 or so decent chub, no doubt about it !!

I stood motionless. After years of searching for fish like these, I had accidentally stumbled across a shoal of monsters during a random stop on the way home from peg cutting. The drive home was a strange experience. Physically I was behind the wheel, but mentally I was still staring into that swim, watching giant chub sipping bread from the surface. That evening, family members attempted conversation. I nodded politely and gave short answers, but my mind was occupied elsewhere. Every thought led back to those fish.

The following day was even worse. Every spare moment was spent planning a return visit. What tackle should I take? How much bread would I need? Which position would give me the best chance? By lunchtime I had a strategy. By teatime I had revised it. By bedtime I had developed what could only be described as a military operation. 

The plan was simple. On the morning of the 16th of June, just after dawn and before starting work, I would sneak back to the swim for a quick smash-and-grab session. I would arrive quietly, feed a little bread, catch one of the big chub and then head straight to work as though this sort of thing happened every day.

Well that was the plan !!

And it worked !!! The alarm went off at a time usually reserved for burglars and milkmen, and by 5.15am I was stood beside a deserted river armed with nothing more than a loaf of bread and misplaced optimism. 

Thankfully it didn't take long before a chub betrayed itself with a rise and promptly inhaled the offering as if it hadn't eaten since Christmas. 

Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one interested in free food. A moorhen had apparently appointed itself Head of Bread Distribution and spent the entire session trying to intercept every piece that hit the water. 

At one point it already had a mouthful large enough to feed a family of four, yet still performed an aerial U-turn worthy of the Red Arrows to chase another crust. Greedy little blighter. 

Meanwhile, a kingfisher drifted through the swim with the sort of calm dignity the moorhen could only dream of, simply enjoying the morning without behaving like a feathered tax collector. The chub, thankfully, were more cooperative. 

Three found their way into the net, including a cracking fish of 4lb. Then, just as quickly as they'd switched on, they switched off. 

Peering from the bridge I could still see several chub mooching about, but they had all the enthusiasm of teenagers asked to tidy their bedrooms. No matter. The river had delivered, the bread had worked, and after a short but thoroughly enjoyable session, normal service was resumed. Happy days indeed. Tight lines for the new season, blog readers, I'll hopefully do the same later. 

Oh and 4 Million blog hits how did that happen !! ? answers on a postcard !!