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 !!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.150 (Canal Zander)

Now mad Ed Miliband has announced that by 2040 we shall all be doing our bit to save the planet by eating less meat, fewer dairy products and, if the CCC head wand experts get their way, possibly surviving entirely on kale, lentils and positive thinking. Apparently livestock numbers must fall, fields must become forests and cows will need to find alternative career paths. It all sounds terribly sensible until you're like me sitting in a restaurant staring at a beef rib the size of a garden bench.

Upon hearing this latest environmental vision, you see I felt duty-bound to make a contribution to the nation's remaining cattle population. Therefore, after work, I visited Hickory's and ordered an eight-hour slow-cooked beef rib. What arrived at the table was less a meal and more a small archaeological discovery. Had a team from Time Team wandered in with brushes and clipboards, I wouldn't have been remotely surprised.

The rib was very nice indeed. Tender, smoky and gloriously unapologetic. It looked as though it had come from a cow that had spent its entire life lifting weights and listening to motivational speeches. By the halfway point I was beginning to suspect I might need a support vehicle for the journey home. By the end, I was approximately sixty per cent barbecue sauce and entirely at peace with the world, and I'm still tasting beef a few days later

Suitably fortified and after a pint in the naff Varsity, I headed off to see Peter Bleksley's talk, The Makings of a Murderer at the Warwick Art Centre. Now Bleksley, a former undercover detective and founding member of Scotland Yard's undercover unit, has lived a life that makes most action films seem a little pedestrian. Listening to his stories of infiltrating criminal gangs, living under assumed identities and surviving assassination plots was genuinely fascinating and occasionally chilling.

There was a moment when Peter described operating among dangerous criminals while remaining calm under extraordinary pressure. I found myself comparing his experiences to my own. Peter spent years deceiving organised crime networks. I once nodded politely through a twenty-minute explanation of artisanal oat milk because I didn't want to seem rude. We all have our battles.

The event took place on the Warwick university campus (which is in Coventry😄 Shhhhhssshhhh ), which led me to expect at least a little excitement. In modern Britain, almost any public gathering carries the possibility that someone may take offence on behalf of somebody else who hasn't yet realised they are offended especially when Peter is a no nonsense talking on the right of centre politically. I had mentally prepared for a small group of protesters armed with banners, slogans and an unwavering belief that shouting constitutes debate.

Yet nothing happened. Not a heckler in sight. No chants, no interruptions and no emergency demonstrations. The audience simply listened, laughed and enjoyed the evening. It was all wonderfully civilised. In fact, it was so peaceful that I began to wonder whether the student activists were otherwise engaged.

Perhaps they had another cause to champion. Perhaps they were busy composing a strongly worded online petition. Or perhaps they were gathered in some community workshop debating the finer points of sustainability, social justice or whatever issue happened to be dominating the news cycle that week. As an old git who still occasionally wishes it were the 1990s, one can never be entirely sure these days. 

It's a shame as they missed out on mystery of the “weird” hitman who killed Nairn banker Alistair Wilson. The case may be filed away as "nothing more to see here" by some Scottish police officers, but Peter clearly didn’t get that memo. He’s been investigating it for years, and some old interview footage showed that he’s made so many trips to Nairn since the murder that he probably knows the town better than some of the locals. The case may be cold, but Peter’s determination certainly isn’t.

Anyway as the evening ended and I waddled back towards the car carrying enough beef-derived energy to power a small village, I reflected on the curious contradictions of modern life. We are encouraged to eat less meat, yet restaurants continue producing ribs worthy of national heritage status.

We are urged to be more environmentally conscious while navigating roadworks that seem destined to last longer than some governments. We are promised that new technologies and industries will transform the economy, while the practical realities of building that future often prove rather more complicated than the slogans suggest.

We live in a country where undercover detectives can tell extraordinary stories about battling hardened criminals, yet social media remains full of people voluntarily broadcasting every detail of their lives to complete strangers. Somewhere between those two extremes lies modern Britain, muddling along as it always has, trying to balance progress, practicality and common sense.

The Romans complained about the younger generation. The Victorians complained about changing times. Today we debate climate targets while enthusiastically ordering enough barbecue beef to alarm a cardiologist. The details change, but the national pastime of grumbling remains remarkably consistent, albeit rather more expensive.

As for me, I fully accept that the future may involve more vegetables, fewer steaks and a countryside populated by newly planted woodland. If that day comes, naturally I shall face it with good grace and quiet dignity whilst waving around a Japanese Gyuto.

Anyway, after climbing down off my soapbox I'd better get fishing hadn't I? Not that anyone asked for my opinion of course, but that rarely stops me. Having solved most of the sport's problems in my head, it seemed only fair to wet a line.I could have gone at the weekend and, truth be told, the tackle had been sat in the car ready to go. Every time I opened the boot it looked at me as if to say, "Are we fishing or just going sightseeing?" In the end though, I headed down to the Warwickshire Avon instead.

The mission was peg trimming on the syndicate stretch ahead of the new season. To be fair, Sean had already done most of the graft a couple of days before I arrived. My contribution was largely cosmetic, but I was happy enough taking the credit for looking enthusiastic. Just being back beside the river was enough to keep a smile on my face. The Avon looked absolutely spot on and full of promise. It's funny how quickly a river can lift your spirits after weeks of staring at turbid canal water.

The canal and the river really are chalk and cheese. One is steady, predictable and dependable. The other feels alive, forever changing, and always capable of throwing up a surprise when you least expect it. By the time this post appears, the new season will be underway and everything will be back in business. The pegs were looking tidy and ready for action. All that remained was for someone to actually sit on them and catch something.

As luck would have it, I had a small window after work for a quick fishing trip. It wasn't long enough for anything ambitious. It was, however, just enough time to see if I could winkle out a canal Zander. A slight detour on the way home takes me past a stretch that has a habit of producing better fish than most. Why this particular area does so well I've never quite worked out. Perhaps the Zander simply appreciate the scenery.

With two rods assembled, it was time to get moving. The plan was to leapfrog likely pieces of cover and give each one a few casts. Nothing complicated, which is usually where my best plans start. Curfew of two hours, then I'd be off, things to do, people to see, the Wife to annoy...........

..............so anyway to cut a long story short !!!

Errrrr a blank, and I fished quite a few bits of cover too, oh well, the rivers here we come !! 

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.19

Working from home does have its perks. Whilst some people spend their lunch breaks discussing quarterly projections and key performance indicators, I find myself pondering far more important matters, such as whether the charcoal snake on the Weber kettle is progressing nicely and if the pork shoulder is receiving sufficient hickory encouragement. The kids, despite looking like they have seen less meat in their lives than you’d find on a butcher's pencil, appear to have adopted the dietary habits of escaped velociraptors, and are currently consuming protein at a rate usually associated with industrial rendering facilities.

Fortunately, pork remains one of the few things in modern Britain that doesn't require a second mortgage or the signing away of an unneeded kidney. By half past ten, the snake method was lit, the kettle had settled into a contented 120-130 degrees of pure smokey optimism, and my personal confidence levels were considerably higher than they normally are whilst fishing.

The beauty of the snake method is its utter simplicity. Lay it out correctly, avoid the temptation to poke it like a bored child with a stick, and the kettle just gets on with things. Four or five hours in, once the bark had formed and was looking suitably magnificent resembling a meteor that had plummeted from orbit and landed directly in a hickory plantation the foil went on. 

By dinner time, the shoulder was pulling apart like warm butter and disappearing almost as quickly as I could shred it. The domestic carnivores descended with forks drawn, making noises that would have alarmed a seasoned zoologist. Within fifteen minutes, the 2.5kg joint looked like it had been picked clean by piranhas with an attitude problem. Job's a good'un.

With the family pack temporarily subdued and entering a profound, meat-induced coma on the sofa, it was time for a dusk sortie to Tramp Alley on the South Stratford Canal. Regular readers of this parish will know this particular stretch has produced some respectable roach and hybrids over the years, although whether the fish themselves are respectable is another matter entirely. 

Most of them look like they’ve survived a few rounds in a blender or have spent their lives dodging shopping trolleys and discarded lager cans. This evening, however, I fancied a complete change of scenery and a holiday from the usual maggot-drowning routine.

The pint of reds was left securely in the garage to contemplate their life choices, in favour of an all-out bread offensive. I had bread on the hook, liquidised bread as feed, and enough assorted bakery products packed into my car to cause serious alarm to a qualified nutritionist. 

Alongside the traditional lift float, which usually offers a masterclass in watching plastic paint dry, I also decided to deploy the sleeper rod. It featured what can best be described as a scaled-down zander rig designed by an individual with unrestricted access to a tackle box, a surplus of free time, and highly questionable judgement.

The centerpiece of this contraption was a crude but very effective Guru foam pellet waggler. For the uninitiated, this thing sits entirely flat on the surface like a fluorescent orange kayak, anchored down by a substantial SSG shot that looks like a small cannonball. It looks crude, and if we're being completely honest with each other, it is remarkably crude. It possesses all the aerodynamic finesse of a flying house brick, but it works surprisingly well. 

The beauty of the arrangement is that it can sit quietly in the margins doing its own thing, while my primary attention is focused entirely elsewhere. Bites are not exactly subtle; they are blindingly easy to spot, usually involving the yellow kayak vanishing violently into the abyss. Fishing tight to the far-bank brambles often reveals decent fish lurking exactly where sensible anglers, or those who value their expensive carbon tips, would expect them to be.

The plan was straightforward enough, formulated with the kind of tactical precision usually reserved for failed military coups. Fish the main canal track with the lift float, plaster the far cover with the sleeper rod, and hope that somewhere between the two, the local fish population had received the invitation and fancied a carbohydrate blow-out. 

Furthermore, rather than dragging my weary carcass over half a mile down the towpath to my usual, well-trodden peg, I made the executive decision to fish an entirely untried area situated halfway between the hybrid hotspot and the roach spot. 

It’s a stretch running along the back of a sprawling industrial estate. The romance of the British countryside was entirely absent, but out of hours, it possesses one magnificent feature: I can literally park the car directly behind my peg. I’d spotted some fish showing here one morning at dawn whilst pretending to look busy, so the seed of hope had been planted. Were the fish forthcoming?

I squeezed myself between a rusted palisade fence and a particularly aggressive clump of stinging nettles, dropped the sleeper rod right under the overhanging brambles of the far bank, and gently lowered the lift float into the track. 

The industrial estate fell silent, save for the distant hum of an extractor fan and the occasional rustle of a rat navigating a discarded crisp packet. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The bread mash was introduced, forming a ghostly white cloud in the murky canal water that screamed 'free tea' to anything with scales.

Suddenly, the sleeper rod’s pellet waggler after the second swim didn't just twitch; it bobbed twice and then positively bolted sideways, tearing out towards the middle of the cut like a tiny, orange torpedo. I lunged forward, nearly embedding my knee into a discarded spark plug, and struck into something that immediately felt like a wet sack of cement with fins.

It wasn't a world-breaker, but in the tight confines of the South Stratford, a small angry carp trying to wedge itself under a submerged supermarket basket feels like a marlin. The little rod doubled over, the drag gave some protest, reluctant protest, and after a rather epic battle on 4.5lb line and having to steer it away from the nearside metal piling, a wonderfully thick-set, common carp slid over the drawstring of the net. It was fat, completely unbothered by the proximity of a sheet-metal factory, and had completely inhaled the chunk of bread.

Before I could even unhook the brute, the lift float on the match rod gave a classic, heart-stopping wobble, rose entirely out of the water, and lay flat on the surface. 

I dropped the net, grabbed the other handle, and lifted into a solid, thumping resistance. 

This wasn't a hybrid; it was the steady, dignified wet lettuce fight of a small skimmer. 

It came to the top, flashing those lovely silvery flanks in the fading twilight a pristine fish, that looked like it belonged in a Victorian angling print rather than a ditch behind a logistics warehouse. 

Then it went proper dead and no matter what I did I just couldn't get the fish feeding again.

I moved swims, nada, there was fish activity heading in to dusk and the odd nudge on both floats, but the dregs of the liquidised bread floating on the surface showed the culprits, yeap small fry with eyes bigger than their bellies.  When I couldn't see my floats it was time for the off. Still the positives I survived fishing tramp alley in to dusk and a nice carp that gave a great fight on light gear. 3 hours though