Warwickshire Avon - Glow-Nopes and Glockenspiels

Yet another smash-and-grab after-work session, which these days seems to be my preferred method of angling. Why spend an entire day beside a river when you can spend and hour and a half an hour getting there through rush-hour traffic, arrive with approximately seventeen minutes of usable daylight, and then spend most of that time wondering whether there are actually any fish in the river? It’s all part of the experience. 

After navigating the worst of the traffic due to the drudgery of HS2, I eventually found myself safely on the banks of the Warwickshire Avon, greeted by the sight every angler loves to see an empty car park. Quite why an empty car park produces such a feeling of relief I don't know, but there’s something reassuring about knowing you haven't just driven across half the county to find someone already sitting in your swim.

I’d earmarked this particular swim on my last visit, but someone had beaten me to it, which was mildly inconvenient at the time and apparently worth remembering. This time, however, fortune was on my side and I had the place to myself. It’s a swim I’ve caught some cracking chub and barbel from over the years, and there’s a very good reason for that. It’s absolutely rammed with character. Upstream there’s fast, shallow, oxygenated water which opens out into a big sweeping bend, with plenty of cover both near and far and, over on the opposite side, a proper deep trough. Basically, if you were a barbel looking for somewhere to spend the evening, you’d have a job explaining why you weren't there.

As usual, there was no great rush to get the rod out. I balled some scalded pellet into the swim and allowed things to settle while I slowly got myself organised. This is generally the point where I like to convince myself that I’m being patient and methodical, when in reality I’m probably just faffing about. Still, the fish don't know that. The main problem with this swim is the sun. 

It gets absolutely blasted all afternoon, and the barbel seem to have better things to do while it's still light. Once the sun drops behind the trees and dusk starts creeping in, the whiskers tend to get considerably more interested. The chub, thankfully, are normally a little less fussy and are usually happy to provide some entertainment.

Except this time they clearly hadn't read the script.

For over an hour I didn't get so much as a chub pull. Nothing. Not a knock, pluck, tremor or suspicious twitch. The sort of inactivity that has you staring at your rod tip wondering whether it has actually been attached to the rod all along. Dusk was getting closer though and the light levels were dropping nicely, so I stuck with it. There was still time for something to happen, and besides, I'd already driven through rush hour traffic to get there. I wasn't about to let common sense interfere now.

Just before official dusk, with the skies still reasonably clear, I noticed something happening over on the far bank. Someone appeared to have a head torch on. Perhaps they were walking a dog, perhaps they were looking for something, or perhaps they were attempting to communicate with passing aircraft. 

The beam was being waved around in pretty much every conceivable direction, presumably on the principle that if you point a torch everywhere eventually one of those directions will be useful. It reminded me of those scenes in films where someone desperately needs a torch, only to discover that the batteries have been replaced with two particularly optimistic lemons.

Anyway, after spending far too much time wondering what the bloke on the opposite bank was doing, I looked back at my rod.

WHAM!

The rod hooped over and was river bound and suddenly I was attached to something with considerably more enthusiasm than anything I'd experienced during the previous hour and a bit. 

Now given the complete absence of chub activity, I knew almost immediately what I'd connected with. Barbel. And not one that had apparently read the section of the manual about politely swimming downstream into open water.

I was fishing reasonably close to some cover, so there wasn't much time for pleasantries. I gave it some proper stick and managed to keep it away from the snags, which was rather important because losing a barbel five seconds into the fight would have been a fairly predictable ending to the evening. 

Eventually it came right out in front of me, where it proceeded to demonstrate that barbel don't consider the fight finished merely because the angler has decided it would be convenient if it was.

A few more powerful runs followed, including one particularly committed effort just as I was about to get the net underneath it. Eventually, though, the barbel decided that enough was enough and found itself safely contained in the landing net. 

Result. A lovely fish and, more importantly, proof that there actually were fish in the swim after all. For a while I'd been beginning to suspect I'd been chucking pellets into a particularly well-presented stretch of water inhabited exclusively by aquatic ghosts.

I still had a little time before curfew, but rather than pushing my luck I rested the fish properly, took the obligatory trophy shot and then gave it another good rest while I packed everything away. It was then carefully returned, disappearing back into the Avon with considerably more enthusiasm than I had displayed when getting into the car after work.

Last season, during a flood, I'd had a nice double from here, but the barbel I've caught this season have generally been in the 6, 7, 8 lb bracket. I'm certainly not complaining. There are bigger fish around, without doubt, and I'll just have to keep looking for them. That's one of the joys of barbel fishing you can catch a perfectly respectable fish and immediately start wondering what else might be lurking somewhere slightly further downstream, slightly deeper, or in that bit of cover you can't quite reach without performing open-heart surgery on yourself with a pair of waders.

These quick-fire smash-and-grab sessions actually suit me down to the ground. A short drive after work, a couple of hours beside a river, hopefully a decent fish, and then home at a reasonable time for some proper family time. It ticks all the boxes. I get my fishing fix, the family gets to see me before bedtime, and nobody has to explain why Dad has spent fourteen hours sitting behind a motionless rod while claiming he was having a relaxing day.

So, another evening session, another Avon barbel, and another reminder that you don't necessarily need to spend all day beside the river to scratch the angling itch. Sometimes all you need is an empty car park, a good swim, a handful of pellets, a bit of patience and, apparently, a bloke on the opposite bank waving a head torch around like he's directing aircraft into Heathrow.

Warwickshire Avon - Tunnels and Tuberculinotherapeutics

Walking down to the design studio entrance of doom doesn’t really do much for the soul, if I’m honest. Once you’ve negotiated two layers of security, you’re greeted by a corridor painted black, which, considering it’s supposedly a place dedicated to artistic creativity, doesn’t exactly get the creative juices flowing.

Thankfully there was light at the end of this particularly miserable tunnel, and that light came in the form of rods strapped to the roof, tackle in the boot and the knowledge that once the day was over helping designing cars I’d never buy, I could escape for a couple of hours of peace and quiet.

Or at least that was the theory.

This particular stretch now has a strict curfew, apparently brought about by one individual’s blatant disregard for the rules, but there is a positive to all this. At least I now know what the curfew actually is, which is more than I can say for a certain club I fish for, where your guess is as good as mine.

Still, rules are rules, and I had a plan.

The plan involved a lovely deep bend with plenty of cover, literally the next swim down from a very fast stretch that, at the moment, is absolutely rammed with streamer weed. It looked perfect in my head, which should have been my first warning.

Pulling into the car park there was only one car.

Happy days!

Except, of course, it was parked in the swim I wanted to fish.

Yep, sod’s law had once again decided to turn up before me and bag the peg.

I decided to head upstream and fish opposite the houses instead, although when I got there I was greeted by a rather depressing sight. Compared with my previous visit, the river had changed dramatically, with one swim looking about as static as a lake and another so clear you could practically count the gravel on the far bank.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, or in my case, desperate wandering.

I was contemplating my next move when recent match winner Shayne appeared, heading my way while doing his post-work bailiff duties. Shayne is a proper nice fella, despite being a matchman and therefore someone who apparently considers sitting on a box for six hours while feeding enough bait to feed a small African nation perfectly normal.

We had a good old chat, and naturally the conversation turned to his recent success.

He’d apparently won from, in his words, “the best peg on here,” feeding something like nine or ten pints of maggots, along with a few castors for good measure. Basically, he’d created such a feeding frenzy that the fish had apparently forgotten they were supposed to be frightened of anglers and had come right up under his feet.

Chub mostly, but barbel as well, including some breeding stock like I caught here recently.

He’d also lost quite a few fish despite using what he described as really heavy gear, which translated into normal gear as far as I’m concerned — five-pound bottom and away you go. “It’s the only way to fish it really,” he said, “feed, feed and more feed.”

Sound advice, although I suspected the ten pints of maggots might have been doing some of the heavy lifting.

Then came the words I was waiting for.

“You’re wasting your time up here. You want to go over there where the two big barbel came out.”

“Sure thing,” I said.

And the next minute Shayne and I were wandering off together, with the man himself even offering to carry my chair.

A rather pleasant chap indeed.

We’ve spoken a number of times now and it’s always good to see a relatively young angler doing well on the match scene and giving the older, seen-it-all generation a thing or two to think about. Although I’m sure there are still plenty of people who think anything involving a seatbox and several pints of maggots is less fishing and more organised livestock feeding.

Anyway, enough talking.

I’d better get fishing, hadn’t I?

The swim was around forty yards downstream, a peg where I’d had a barbel recently. Unlike the other swim, which was choked with streamer weed, this one was deeper to my left and just looked more inviting.

I wasted no time putting some bait in before slowly getting the gear sorted.

There was no rush.

A few fish were already topping, and then a bream rolled in the swim, which I took as a positive sign. Surely, Shirley, I was going to catch something.

The light was beginning to fade, the sun dropping towards the horizon, and I had about an hour before curfew called time on proceedings.

Fortunately, I wasn’t going to have to worry about blanking.

Fifteen minutes in and the rod folded over, and soon enough a lovely chub was sliding into the net. It was an absolute minter, too, with a deep belly and not a mark on it.

It certainly wasn’t the longest chub I’ve ever caught, but when I lifted the landing net it felt like someone had put a small concrete block in it.

A proper tank.

Well over four pounds, I reckon, and considering I haven’t had a really nice chub for a while, I was more than happy with that.

Then the carnage started.

Bite, chub.

Bite, chub.

Bite, another chub.

If there was a barbel sitting somewhere downstream waiting for its dinner, it must have been wondering why the chub had apparently ordered the entire takeaway menu.

Thirty minutes later I reckoned I’d had somewhere around fifteen pounds of chub.

I really couldn’t complain.

In fact, if someone had offered me that before I’d started, I’d have bitten their hand off.

Sadly, the clock was ticking.

The curfew arrived while I was still getting bites, which is possibly one of the cruelest things an angler can experience. There I was, finally in the middle of some proper action, and the rules were basically tapping me on the shoulder saying, “Lovely stuff, mate, now bugger off.”

And that’s exactly what I did.

Rules are rules, after all, and this is such a convenient stretch for me to fish that the last thing I want to do is upset the club and find myself permanently fishing the nearest canal instead.

So I packed up, leaving the fish biting and the barbel, presumably, still lurking around waiting for their turn.

I’ll be back after work during the week and see what else I can winkle out.

Hopefully, next time the peg I originally earmarked will be free.

Although having been given directions to Shayne’s winning swim, I might just have to poach that one when the opportunity arises.

Shayne, thanks for the tips, mate.

And if you happen to see me sitting in your winning peg with ten pints of maggots disappearing into the river, just remember — imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Warwickshire Avon - Drinking Birds and Dromestoners

I’ve never really got on with a full moon, fishing-wise. Some anglers apparently see a great big glowing orb in the sky and think it’s going to improve their chances, whereas I see it and start wondering whether I should have stayed at home and alphabetised the tackle box.

I’ve actually got the evidence to prove it, because whenever I look back through the blog my full-moon sessions have produced roughly the same result as putting a baited hook in the garden pond and waiting for next door’s goldfish to develop a taste for boilies. So when Sunday evening suddenly presented itself as a fishing opportunity, I was already having serious doubts about whether I was being productive or merely providing free entertainment for the local wildlife.

The previous day had seen the moon at its full-moon finest, the Harvest Moon hanging over the UK like a giant celestial indicator, although I’m not convinced it was actually indicating anything remotely useful. By Sunday it was technically a Waning Gibbous, which sounds less threatening, but to my eyes the thing still looked enormous and perfectly capable of ruining another fishing session.

I’ve been putting in a reasonable shift lately, although the fish haven’t exactly been queuing up to congratulate me on my commitment. There have been enough bites and odd fish to keep the optimism alive, but with the evenings closing in rapidly and winter beginning to rattle its keys outside the door, I’m conscious that there aren’t that many comfortable sessions left before the annual battle with darkness and Seasonal Affective Disorder begins.

I’d put some bait in the swim the day before, which immediately made me feel like someone who knew exactly what he was doing. It was the same swim where I’d had the carp, so naturally I arrived expecting the fish to have spent twenty-four hours forming an orderly queue and discussing amongst themselves who was going to be first on the hook.

This time I’d brought two rods, which isn’t normally my way of doing things because I generally prefer concentrating on one rod and pretending that every minute without a bite is part of the plan. The swim was absolutely enormous though, so two rods didn’t seem excessive and, if anything, made me look vaguely professional.

I’d also acquired a couple of those Temu indicators, because apparently fishing tackle has now entered the technological age and I’m not prepared to be left behind. One of them actually flashes blue and red when you get a bite, which means I have finally reached the point where my fishing equipment has more sophisticated warning systems than some small airports.

I arrived at about half past six and the farmer was there with his wife and son, getting ready to feed the sheep. He was fascinated by the fish I’d been catching, and it was nice to see someone genuinely pleased by the idea of a few decent fish rather than immediately asking whether I’d weighed them on something that cost more than his tractor.

He struck me as one of those proper, salt-of-the-earth farmers who keep quietly getting on with things while the rest of us discuss the price of coffee and whether our phone battery will survive until bedtime. I’m sure farming is hardly the easiest game at the moment, so if a few fish stories put a smile on his face, then at least I’d achieved something useful before even reaching the river.

Talking about farmers, a bit mad what happened the weekend at RAF Fairford, but some answers are need a local resident did attempt to alert the authorities by calling the Ministry of Defence (MoD) police directly. However, nobody answered the phone and it just rang out WTF. It reminded me off King-Size Homer, but thankfully the 999 operators helped direct the Police to infiltrate the possible sleeper cell before they could carry-out what they were up to.  

Anyway enough of that, back to the fishing, I drove round to the parking area beside the entrance to the 2nd field, sorted my gear out and headed down to the swim. A little bait went in first, followed by the slow process of assembling the usual barbel gear while trying to look as though I hadn’t forgotten something important in the car.

The sun was already beginning to drop and the view was superb, with that lovely evening light that makes even a muddy riverbank look as though somebody has spent a considerable amount of money landscaping it. This is one of the reasons I keep going fishing when the catching is poor, because occasionally you realise that sitting beside a river watching the day disappear is actually the point. 

The fish were certainly showing, with plenty of activity across the river and enough splashing to make me seriously consider whether I’d brought the wrong equipment. 

 It was exactly the sort of evening when trotting a float would have been wonderful, especially with the fading light making the float easy to pick out, but naturally I had arrived equipped for sitting behind two stationary rods like a man waiting for a bus.

Both rods were eventually out and the waiting game began. There were a few little twitches on the rod tops, which immediately caused the usual chain reaction of checking the indicators, staring at the line, staring at the water and finally deciding that the fish had probably sneezed somewhere downstream.

Dusk arrived with considerable confidence and then proceeded to leave without producing so much as a decent chub pull. The new indicators remained beautifully illuminated and completely unemployed, which I suspect is exactly the sort of career situation they were hoping to avoid when they were manufactured somewhere in China.

Then came one proper little chubby twang about half an hour after dusk, which in other circumstances might have been enough to get the heart rate going. 

On this occasion it was more like receiving a polite text message from someone you haven’t heard from in years saying, “Hope you’re well,” before immediately disappearing again.

Even the chub appeared suspicious of the situation, which is never a good sign. When the normally obliging fish decide that something isn’t quite right, you begin to wonder whether they’ve received a memo about your bait and are conducting some sort of industrial action.

To my right the moon was now shining brightly over the countryside and, despite knowing perfectly well that it was technically waning, it looked full enough to me. I stared at it suspiciously for a while, as though it had personally organised the lack of bites and was now sitting there enjoying the consequences.

An hour after dark seemed like a perfectly reasonable point to call it, particularly as I’d already been there long enough for the river to make its position abundantly clear. If anything was going to happen, surely it would have happened by then, unless the fish had suddenly decided to begin feeding at some ungodly hour specifically to annoy me.

So I packed everything away, leaving the river to its nocturnal residents and the moon to continue doing whatever it does. Another session had gone into the fishing diary, another blank space had been added to the full-moon evidence file, and once again I had successfully demonstrated that catching fish is only one of the many things you can fail to do while fishing.

Still, I’d been out, enjoyed the evening, had a chat with a farmer and watched a beautiful sunset over the river. And as every angler knows, that is precisely how you turn an evening without a bite into something that sounds suspiciously like a successful fishing session when you tell someone about it later.