Warwickshire Avon - Missions and Millionaire's

Who would have thought it? Good mate Simon and I, two perfectly ordinary anglers of modest means, (well I say that, Simon earns a small fortune), questionable dress sense and even more questionable fishing ability, were about to find ourselves fishing behind enemy lines. Not literally, of course, although given the price of the property surrounding us, I wouldn't have been surprised to find armed security guards patrolling the riverbank asking to see our fishing licences, proof of income and the last three years of tax returns.

You see we were heading for Tiddington Road in Stratford-upon-Avon, a stretch of the Warwickshire Avon where the houses are so expensive that even the garden sheds probably have their own mortgage arrangements. We're talking million-pound-plus properties, riverside gardens and the sort of residents who probably refer to a barbel as something the gardener has been asked to remove from the ornamental pond.

You see I turned 54 this week, Tuesday the 3rd of November, and rather than celebrate in the conventional fashion with a few beers with the lads or a meal out with the family and the gradual realisation that my knees now make more noise than my fishing reel, I decided on my own terms another weekend fishing jaunt with Simon (we have had many over the years). Fishing, good food, a pub crawl or two and, hopefully, a fish. It seemed a perfectly reasonable way to mark another year of declining physical usefulness.

Now the accommodation was the Bend in the River Lodge, situated on the Avon Park Estate just outside Stratford, and although it wasn't exactly the cheapest way of celebrating a birthday, it did come with one rather significant advantage. Access to a stretch of river that is generally beyond the reach of the likes of us. Unless, of course, you happen to own a lodge, possess a substantial property portfolio or are called Tarquin and have a back garden so enormous that you need a pair of binoculars to see whether the gardener has turned up.

I imagine the residents of Tiddington Road don't so much go fishing as occasionally glance towards the river while sipping something expensive from a glass that probably costs more than my landing net. They might even have a barbel swimming past their lawns, although I suspect they would be more concerned about whether it was damaging the aquatic landscaping.

There is, incidentally, some rather interesting history attached to this stretch. The area around Tiddington, including nearby sites such as The Meads, has significant Roman archaeological connections, with evidence of settlement dating from the first to fourth centuries. Excavations have uncovered ditches, pottery, structural remains and even Roman burials. So, while Simon and I would be attempting to uncover a few barbel, our predecessors had been busy burying their dead and establishing a civilisation.

It's quite something to think that two thousand years ago people were going about their daily business here, probably worrying about taxes, food and whether the bloke next door was getting a better deal on his property. Not much has changed really, apart from the fact that the Romans didn't have to pay £4 million for a house with a river view.

The plan was simple. Pick up the keys at 3pm, get ourselves acquainted with the accommodation, have a good look around the river and then get the rods out. We'd fish until dusk, perhaps a little beyond, and then head off into Stratford for a curry at Aladdin's. A thoroughly civilised arrangement, although the fishing fraternity has a rather different definition of civilised to most people. For us, sitting in a muddy field in November, watching a quiver tip for four hours while developing the circulation of a frozen haddock, is considered an excellent weekend.

Now the river itself was looking moody. The Warwickshire Avon was running gin clear, with that rather dark and grey appearance it adopts when it knows perfectly well that you're going to struggle. Clear water, November conditions and a river that seemed about as interested in feeding as a pensioner after Christmas dinner.

We knew the score. During daylight hours, the fish can be frustratingly elusive, particularly when the water is clear. You can sit there watching the riverbed, convinced you've spotted a fish, only to discover it's a discarded crisp packet or a particularly ambitious leaf. As the light fades, however, things can change. Barbel become more confident, the river takes on a different character and suddenly there's a chance that something might happen.

And that blog readers is all the encouragement an angler needs.

We had the adjacent field available as well, which was another little bonus. There is something rather liberating about having a whole field and a private stretch of river to explore. Although I suspect that if the owners had known exactly what sort of people they were allowing access to their exclusive little corner of Warwickshire, they might have reconsidered. Two blokes with fishing rods, a collection of bait tubs and the combined sophistication of a pair of escaped zoo animals.

A barbel would be lovely, obviously. That's what we'd come for. But we weren't going to be fussy. A chub would be welcome, a decent roach would be celebrated and even a suicidal gudgeon would probably have been photographed from several angles and described as a magnificent specimen.

The beauty of these weekends, of course, is that the fishing is only part of the equation. There is the accommodation, the food, the beer, the conversation and the general business of putting the world to rights. Anglers are particularly good at this last activity. We can solve international conflicts, economic crises and the NHS waiting list between bites, despite being unable to organise a landing net and a pair of forceps at the same time.

So, with the keys collected at three, rods assembled and the first reconnaissance completed, we settled into our exclusive little kingdom. It was rather nice, actually. No crowds, no pressure, no neighbouring anglers casting over our lines and no bloke three pegs down shouting about how he'd had seventeen barbel out of the swim last Tuesday.

Just us, the river and the faint possibility of something with whiskers.

The plan was as the light began to soften and we settled into that familiar angler's routine. Checking rigs, adjusting bait, looking at the water, checking rigs again and generally doing everything except catching anything. It's amazing how much activity can be generated by two men sitting in chairs.

Eventually, darkness would arrive and we'd make our way to Aladdin's for a curry. The thought of a decent meal and a few drinks was certainly appealing, particularly as the fish were showing every indication of having booked themselves an evening off.

The following morning was going to be a slightly different affair. We'd be trotting maggots or perhaps putting out a small feeder, hoping to winkle out a few fish and avoid the dreaded blank. There's no shame in admitting that. We all like to pretend we're after specimen barbel, but sometimes a three-ounce roach can restore a man's confidence more effectively than a session with a clinical psychologist.

The bigger rods would then come back into play as we headed towards dusk again, hoping that the river might finally take pity on us. And later, naturally, there would be another excursion into Stratford for a few pleasantries. By pleasantries, I mean food and beer. Quite a lot of beer, potentially, depending on the behaviour of the fish and the strength of our resolve and a mates Wardy and Steveo would be joining us too which would be good.

Sunday was, at the time of writing, a little less certain. Simon would be departing because his son Harry was leading the police cadet parade in Leamington. A rather proud parental commitment, and quite rightly so. Although I couldn't help thinking that Simon was swapping a perfectly good riverbank for a parade ground full of young people marching in formation. Each to their own, I suppose.

I'd then be heading off to collect Sam for a bit more fishing, and there was even the possibility that Nic from Avon Angling might make an appearance. Whether this would improve our fishing prospects or simply introduce another person capable of explaining why we weren't catching anything remained to be seen.

And so, at fifty-four, I found myself contemplating another birthday weekend on the river. A weekend spent in an expensive lodge, fishing a privileged stretch of the Warwickshire Avon, surrounded by houses that cost more than most people will earn in several lifetimes.

There was something rather amusing about the whole arrangement. Here we were, two ordinary anglers enjoying the sort of private fishing that the general public can only dream about, while the Romans had been digging ditches and burying people in the very same neighbourhood.

I couldn't help wondering what they would have made of us. Probably thought we were completely mad, and they wouldn't have been wrong.

Anyway, enough of this preamble. The rods aren't going to cast themselves, the barbel aren't going to catch themselves and, knowing our luck, the only thing likely to be feeding confidently on this stretch of river is a family of swans.

Let's get fishing.

Well, the best-laid plans of mice and anglers, as they say. Having sorted the keys for the lodge, we were finally ready for a bit of fishing. Or so I thought, until I realised that the bag containing all my clothes and toiletries was still sitting somewhere other than where it should have been.

What an absolute muppet! Still, thankfully I was only ten minutes away, so after a wander around the adjacent field and selecting a couple of likely-looking pegs, I put in a helping of scalded pellet and headed off to retrieve my worldly possessions. Not the most auspicious start, but at least the fish wouldn't know I was an idiot.

The River Avon was looking rather summery in front of the lodge, with very little flow, but upstream it narrowed nicely into a steady glide that looked ideal for trotting. Further up it was getting rather weedy and shallow, but there were a couple of handy fishing platforms which made life considerably easier. 

By the time I'd returned, unpacked and got myself organised, dusk was only an hour away. Simon had already been at it and had managed a little chublet first chuck on the float, which was encouraging. I got the barbel rod out, clipped on a feeder and settled in for what I hoped would be an evening encounter with something considerably more substantial.

There were indications almost immediately, so at least there were fish about. Unfortunately, the first proper bite came just as the light was fading and, naturally, I managed to miss it. I wouldn't want to give the impression that I was actually any good at this fishing business. 

The next bite wasn't long coming and resulted in a small chublet, one of those fish that clearly hadn't read the instructions about growing to adulthood. It had eyes bigger than its belly and probably thought it had just eaten a cow. Simon was now on the ledger as well and managed to miss a bite before landing a similar-sized specimen. Hmmm. Where were the bigger fish? Apparently having a meeting somewhere else.

With an hour or so of darkness behind us and no sign of anything with a bit of shoulder, we called it a day. Fortunately, there was a handy footbridge across the river and within fifteen minutes we were in the pub, which was beginning to look like the most productive part of the trip. 

The Indian restaurant is a favourite of Jasper Carrott who lives locally, and I've even spotted him in there a couple of times. The curry was excellent (Gale are you listening !!), the beer went down rather too easily and conversation turned to the following day's plans. 

At least we were catching something, even if it wasn't fish.Six o'clock the following morning found us heading down to a rather misty-looking river. 

Conditions were superb, overcast, no wind and that lovely dawn atmosphere that makes you convinced you're about to have the session of a lifetime. 

We thought the bigger chub might be feeding confidently, so the heavier rods were deployed once again. Sadly, the only thing feeding confidently appeared to be our optimism, and after a blank spell without so much as a chub pull, it was time for plan B.

Trotting it was, then. I started feeding maggots into the glide, and kept feeding, and feeding, and feeding. Initially it seemed that the only residents were minnows, which were clearly having a whale of a time, but eventually the dace arrived. 

And when I say arrived, I mean every dace within a hundred yards decided to attend the party. It was absolutely ridiculous. 

Dace soup! They were taking maggots off the surface, intercepting them on the drop and generally behaving like a bunch of teenagers let loose in an all-you-can-eat buffet. Fish after fish came to the net, and Simon was enjoying the action as well. It was fantastic sport, although there was a slight problem. 

We weren't actually after dace. The odd chublet put in an appearance, but anything of a decent size was conspicuous by its absence. Not even a pike strike to liven things up. Very strange indeed. I was beginning to wonder whether the bigger fish had all packed their bags and moved to another river.

I did manage a lovely perch of 1lb 13oz, though, which was a cracking fish and the biggest perch I'd had for quite a while. A proper little beauty and certainly the highlight of the morning. One of the local residents then appeared dragging his canoe and stopped for a chat. 

A lifelong angler, he was very familiar with the stretch and reckoned it was going to be tough with the river so clear and low. He did, however, recount tales of 17lb barbel, possibly bigger, 6lb chub and 18lb pike. Well, that's just what you want to hear when you've spent the morning catching fish that look as though they should still be in a nursery tank!

He also mentioned that otters were now present on the stretch and suggested that dusk into darkness was probably our best opportunity for the bigger fish. We didn't need telling twice, although after the previous evening's performance I wasn't entirely convinced the barbel had received the memo.

Sure enough, as darkness fell and the heavier rods were back out, absolutely nothing happened. Not a twitch, not a nod, not even the courtesy of a liner. Proper dead. The water temperature had dropped from a little over 11 degrees to just under 10, although it hardly felt Arctic. I even tried another swim further upstream, just in case the barbel had relocated, but apparently they were all still on holiday.

With the fishing going nowhere fast, we decided that a change of scenery was required and headed into Stratford for some decent scran, wine and beer. A quick photograph of all of us for the Lads WhatsApp group provided an unwelcome reminder that time is marching on. Simon is now 60 and, at 54, I was the youngest one there. I'm not sure when that happened, but looking at the photograph I suspect neither of us will be appearing in any fishing fashion magazines anytime soon. Still, at least we can still get into our waders, even if getting out of them is becoming an Olympic event.

The following morning Simon was heading home, but kindly joined me at dawn for one last attempt, armed with a cup of tea and a healthy dose of optimism. Sadly, the Avon remained completely uninterested. Not a chub, not a barbel and certainly nothing resembling the monsters described by our canoe-dragging friend. Simon eventually departed, having perhaps had enough of catching dace and watching motionless rod tips. I can't say I blamed him.

I decided to fetch Sam and give the lure rods an outing. We covered a fair bit of the fishable stretch, casting and retrieving until our arms were beginning to ache. Surely one of the resident pike would fancy a bit of artificial temptation? Apparently not. Even the jacks weren't interested, which is saying something. We threw everything at them, but the only thing getting any exercise was our casting arms.

I could have stayed until dusk for another crack at the bigger fish, but after the previous evening's excitement, or rather complete lack of it, I decided that home was calling. There was a family steak pie, mash and vegetables waiting for me, and frankly, the pie was looking a much safer bet than another encounter with the Avon.

So, no monster barbel, no big chub and no pike to speak of. In fact, the only things that seemed determined to feed were the dace, and they were clearly on some sort of feeding frenzy. The river isn't looking in particularly good nick at the moment, with the low, clear conditions making things difficult, so perhaps it wasn't entirely unexpected.

But do you know what? It was still a cracking weekend. A bit of fishing, a lovely perch, plenty of laughs, a decent curry, some excellent Turkish food and drink, and most importantly, a bit of proper me time away from the usual chaos. Sometimes you have to accept that the fish aren't going to play ball.

Although next time, I wouldn't mind if just one of those 15lb barbel decided to make an appearance. I'm not asking for much, am I?

And I'll try to remember my bloody luggage!

Warwickshire Avon - Scaffmasters and Scarifications

Having returned from Devon on the Saturday, I was already contemplating what mischief to get up to on the Sunday. There was a small river tempting me with the prospect of a gentle rove, a bit of wandering about and perhaps the odd fish if the aquatic residents could be persuaded to cooperate. A rather different proposition to the sea fishing we'd just been enjoying, but variety, as they say, is the spice of life. Although, in fishing terms, variety often means finding several different ways of not catching anything.

Then Sam piped up.

It appeared he had some unfinished business. Before our Devon adventure, he'd encountered a rather sizeable pike in the depths of the Warwickshire Avon. A double-figure specimen, no less, which had decided that his large lure looked sufficiently appetising to warrant an attack. Unfortunately, its aim left something to be desired, and it spectacularly missed the offering. 

However, it certainly made up for its lack of accuracy with a dramatic entrance, breaching the surface in a tremendous commotion not far out. The resulting splash was quite something to behold and, judging by Sam's reaction, had very nearly resulted in him requiring a change of underwear. One doesn't expect a fish to launch itself out of the water like an amphibious ballistic missile, particularly when one is simply minding one's own business.

Naturally, this unfinished business needed attending to. Who was I to stand in the way of a man seeking revenge on a fish? Besides, I fancied a bit of lure fishing myself, so packed a lure rod and decided that rather than chucking something the size of a small Labrador into the river, I'd opt for a somewhat more modest offering. After all, I was quite happy to catch a pike, but didn't particularly fancy having to wrestle a crocodile.

We arrived at a deserted stretch of the Warwickshire Avon and made our way up to the scene of Sam's previous encounter. The river looked magnificent, its water remarkably clear but with that dark, moody appearance that makes you wonder what lurks beneath. It was certainly the sort of place where you could imagine a monster pike lying in wait, plotting the downfall of unsuspecting anglers and their expensive tackle.

Out came the lures, and we set about flogging the water. Cast after cast, retrieve after retrieve, we covered the swim from every conceivable angle. I was beginning to wonder whether the pike had all packed up and moved to Devon for a fortnight. We tried different spots, different approaches and generally gave the river a thoroughly good seeing to. But nothing. Not a follow, not a knock, not even the courtesy of a fish showing an interest. The only things being caught were a few passing thoughts about whether we'd have been better off staying in bed.

With a couple of hours of fishing time remaining, I decided enough was enough. There was another option, thankfully, and the syndicate stretch was less than fifteen minutes away. If the Avon wasn't playing ball, perhaps the pike in the other water might be feeling a little more sociable. It was a decision made with the sort of confidence normally reserved for someone who has absolutely no idea what they're doing but is determined to carry on regardless.

We arrived, with Sam performing the honours by opening the gate, and drove along the track towards the first swim. It was a large pool on a bend, carrying a fair bit of depth and, importantly, somewhere we'd previously had some success. The approach here was to allow the lure to sink right down to the bottom before retrieving slowly. Nothing too complicated, although there is always the danger that whilst waiting for the lure to sink, you start thinking about sandwiches, the price of diesel and whether you've actually remembered to put the kettle on at home.

Sam was fishing ahead of me, going through the motions, whilst I positioned myself and began working my smaller lure. I wasn't expecting miracles, particularly after the earlier performance on the Avon, but at least we were giving ourselves a chance.

And then, on literally the fourth or fifth cast, WHACK!

A tremendous bite came on the very first crank of the handle. One minute I was retrieving quite happily, the next I was attached to something with considerably more enthusiasm than I'd anticipated. Fish on!

Now, I was using Sam's baitcaster set-up, which was an interesting experience in itself. The gear ratio wasn't exactly designed for someone in a desperate hurry to recover line, and I found myself winding the handle like a Victorian railway worker trying to get a steam engine moving. 

The fish was making its way towards some nearby cover, and I needed to get a move on. Unfortunately, the reel seemed to be operating on the principle that there was absolutely no rush and that we should all take a moment to appreciate the scenery.

Sam had spotted what was happening and came across with the landing net at the ready. There was no time for a lengthy discussion about tactics, tackle or whether I'd remembered to tighten the drag. This was one of those occasions when action was required, preferably before the pike found a nice branch to wrap itself around.

Thankfully, the fish stayed on and Sam did the honours, slipping the net underneath it at the first attempt. Result!

It wasn't a particularly large pike, and certainly not the double-figure monster that had been occupying Sam's thoughts, but it was a welcome capture all the same. More importantly, it meant that the day was no longer heading towards the dreaded blank. There's something rather satisfying about catching a pike on a lure, especially when you've spent the best part of a couple of hours trying to convince an entire stretch of river that your offerings are worth investigating.

On closer inspection, the poor thing looked as though it had been through the wars. There were some rather pronounced marks down its back, resembling claw marks, and it certainly wasn't winning any beauty competitions. Quite what had been having a go at it was anyone's guess, but whatever it was, we'd arrived to interrupt its recovery. Sorry about that, old chap. Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, along comes an angler with a lure.

I couldn't help thinking that Brian over at Pike Blog couldn't have all the fun, could he? He's been enjoying some rather impressive lure-caught pike of late, including a recent personal best that made my little chap look like it had been brought along as a supporting act. I believe his latest capture was approximately four times the size of mine, give or take a few ounces and a healthy dose of angler's optimism. Still, a pike is a pike, and I'm not one to turn my nose up at a fish simply because it hasn't got the shoulders of a nightclub bouncer.

Besides, it's not always about the size. Although, if Brian from Pike Blog happens to be reading this, I'm sure Brian will be delighted to know that I've caught one too despite being 4 times smaller than his recent 26lb lure caught PB. He can put the kettle on and make room for another trophy photograph.

We carried on fishing, moving to another swim where Sam had enjoyed some success on our previous visit. Surely this would be the place for him to settle his score? The pike had already been given ample opportunity to redeem themselves, and I was quietly hoping Sam would get another chance at the sort of fish that had caused all the excitement in the first place.

But it wasn't to be. Despite further casting, retrieving and general lure-flinging enthusiasm, nothing else materialised. Sam remained fishless, and the elusive double-figure Avon pike was still very much at large, presumably chuckling to itself somewhere in the depths.

So, not quite the grand revenge mission we'd originally envisaged, but certainly a more enjoyable outcome than the alternative. I'd managed a lure-caught pike, Sam had at least had another crack at the water, and we'd enjoyed a couple of hours in good company doing what we enjoy most. You can't ask for much more than that, although I suspect Sam might disagree.

One thing is for certain: Sam's interest in fishing has certainly cranked up a notch recently, and it's great to see. There's nothing quite like seeing someone get the fishing bug, particularly when it involves returning to a water in pursuit of a fish that has already given them the run around. That pike has unfinished business of its own now, whether it knows it or not.

We'll be back, of course. Sam has a score to settle, I have more lures to lose, and somewhere in the Warwickshire Avon there's a double-figure pike that probably thinks it's got away with it.

It hasn't.

Well, not until we've had another go at it anyway. And knowing our luck, it'll probably be caught by Brian from Pike Blog in the meantime!

Westward Ho! - Storms and Smooth-Hounds

There are some fishing trips where everything falls beautifully into place. The weather behaves itself, the sea resembles a large ornamental pond and the fish queue up politely to inspect your bait. And then there are trips to Westward Ho! in October half-term, where Mother Nature appears to have taken a personal dislike to you and the sea looks like it's auditioning for a disaster movie.

This particular expedition was brought to us courtesy of Storm Austen, who clearly hadn't received the memo that we were coming down for a relaxing week by the coast. Still, having made the journey from Warwickshire on what turned out to be a surprisingly straightforward Saturday morning, we weren't about to let a bit of weather interfere with our plans.

Saturday seems to be the day to travel south, with the traffic considerably more civilised than during the usual weekday chaos. We left at 7.00am, made excellent progress and, after a brief roadside pit stop to drain the main vein, rolled into Westward Ho! at approximately 10.30am.

Not bad at all. Three and a half hours, a reasonably comfortable journey and only one necessary interruption to proceedings. There's something rather satisfying about arriving at your destination before lunchtime, particularly when the alternative is spending half the morning staring at the back of a white Transit van somewhere near Bristol.

Mind you, the first sight of the sea rather brought us back down to earth. Looking out towards the water opposite the Pier House, it was immediately apparent that the fishing might have to take a back seat for a while.

Jesus Christ, what an angry-looking sea! This wasn't a gentle Atlantic swell rolling in to welcome visitors; this was the North Atlantic looking like it had just received a parking ticket and was determined to take it out on everyone within several hundred yards.

White water everywhere, huge swells and a general impression that anything attempting to fish from the rocks would probably be returning home several miles further down the coast, assuming they returned at all. Still, we'd arrived, the accommodation was ready and there was absolutely no reason to get too excited about the fishing just yet.

We were staying in the same accommodation as our summer visit, largely because it's convenient, comfortable and offers some cracking views across the Bristol Channel. There is something rather special about sitting in the warmth while watching the weather do its worst outside, particularly when you aren't the one standing on a slippery rock with a rod in one hand and a rapidly diminishing sense of self-preservation in the other.

The views were spectacular, although the building itself has rather more pressing matters to attend to. Apparently, the entire Horizon View block is due to have scaffolding erected in January, with the initial scaffolding bill alone reportedly coming in at a staggering £650,000.

And that's before the dodgy cladding is removed and replaced, which is likely to send the overall bill into the sort of territory normally reserved for national infrastructure projects and people with considerably more money than common sense. For the owners, particularly those operating holiday lets, it's an absolute nightmare.

No rental income for the duration of the work, substantial additional costs and, to add a little extra seasoning to an already unpleasant financial dish, owners being asked to contribute towards the pot themselves. It's hardly the sort of business plan that gets the champagne flowing.

Imagine buying a holiday property, calculating your annual income, working out your bookings and looking forward to a nice little return, only to discover that your investment is about to become an expensive metal-framed sculpture for an extended period. 

You could hardly blame some owners for looking at the situation and wondering whether they'd accidentally purchased a building project rather than a holiday apartment.

We were fortunate enough to be in the property by midday, so there was no hanging about. Bags unpacked, a look at the views and the official start of a week of doing as little as humanly possible.

Which, as regular readers will appreciate, is something we have become rather good at. One of the great attractions of coming down here is the people, with my brother and his daughters, Chris and the wider Westward Ho! massive all part of what makes these visits so enjoyable.

There's something about arriving in North Devon that makes the outside world seem a very long way away. You could almost describe it as an enclave of its own, where we switch off big time, catch up with everyone, have a few drinks, exchange the usual insults and generally get on with enjoying ourselves.

A few drinks are consumed, naturally, although I'm not going to suggest that we're particularly enthusiastic about this sort of activity. That would be terribly unfair on the pubs and, more importantly, might damage our carefully cultivated reputations as sensible, responsible adults.

The sunsets were another highlight. On a couple of evenings the skies were absolutely spectacular, with those vibrant colours that make you stop whatever you're doing and simply stare.

Whether sitting in the Fairway Buoy, literally yards from the sea, or watching from the accommodation, there was no escaping them. When the sky puts on a performance like that, even the most hardened pub-goer has to pause between drinks and acknowledge that nature occasionally gets something right.

Although, judging by the sea conditions, she was clearly having a bit of a laugh at our expense elsewhere.

We also made another visit to the Crowbar in Northam, where they've really nailed the concept. It's great to see a new business getting things right, creating a place people actually want to visit and providing something that adds to the local community.

I genuinely hope they thrive. It's no secret that hospitality businesses are operating in challenging times, and anyone prepared to put their money, time and energy into opening a new venture deserves a fair crack at it.

The last thing we need is another empty premises with a faded To Let sign in the window. Of course, I have my own opinions about the wider economic situation, and government policy, taxation, fiscal drag and the ever-increasing cost of running a business are all subjects that can get me going, particularly after a couple of pints.

My view is fairly straightforward: if you want people spending money, you need to leave them with enough of it to actually spend. 

Taxing businesses and individuals to the hilt and then wondering why everyone is tightening their belts isn't exactly a masterclass in economic genius.

Hospitality needs customers, customers need disposable income and businesses need some encouragement rather than another financial obstacle course. 

But enough of that, I hadn't come to Devon to solve the economy, although judging by some of the decisions being made, perhaps I should have packed a calculator and a government policy document alongside the fishing tackle.

I had fish to catch. Or at least that was the general idea.

As already mentioned, the sea was looking rather lively on arrival, and the initial fishing opportunities were somewhat limited. Still, anglers are a stubborn breed, and the prospect of catching something occasionally overrides the perfectly sensible suggestion that perhaps today isn't the day to go anywhere near the water.

Sam and I ventured out with Chris to try the rocks, although conditions were still far from ideal. It was turbulent, the water was moving around considerably and the general feeling was that we were probably a little early in trying to get amongst the fish.

There is a fine line between being determined and being an absolute idiot. We were probably operating somewhere around that boundary.

The following morning Chris kindly picked us up at 7.00am, and we headed off to Greysands to fish approximately an hour before high tide. It was a much more promising proposition, although the fish weren't exactly throwing themselves at us.

We did manage to locate a few small schoolie bass, which seemed to have developed an unhealthy enthusiasm for anything that entered the water. Small they might have been, but they certainly weren't short of appetite.

Anything that came their way was getting nailed, and for a while there was a bit of activity to keep us interested. They were typical school bass, though, and whilst always welcome, they weren't exactly the sort of fish that would have you ringing the local newspaper to announce a major angling achievement.

Still, it was fishing, and after looking at the sea on arrival, we weren't going to complain.

The final opportunity came when Sam and I decided to return to the original rock mark. This time we positioned ourselves approximately 100 yards away, where the water looked a little calmer and, perhaps more importantly, there seemed to be a reasonable opportunity to fish without having to negotiate the sort of conditions normally encountered during a naval training exercise.

We were using crab and squid bombs, and followed the tide down for around an hour and a half. Nothing particularly exciting was happening, and I was beginning to wonder whether the fish had all decided to relocate somewhere considerably more hospitable.

Then, completely out of the blue, something happened.

There was suddenly some interest on the crab and squid offering, and it wasn't the usual little tap that leaves you wondering whether you've got a fish, a crab or a particularly enthusiastic piece of weed attached to the hook. The rod pulled over and, before I had much opportunity to contemplate what was happening, I was into a solid fish.

Now, anyone who has fished this sort of ground will understand why heavy tackle is necessary. This isn't delicate fishing where you spend ten minutes admiring the bend in a light rod and discussing the fish's possible intentions.

It's more a case of lift, haul and hang on. The ground can be unforgiving, the water moves considerably and there is very little room for making mistakes.

But this time there was a decent weight on the end, accompanied by some proper heavy pulls. This was no occasional cluster of seaweed requiring a recast, although I've been fooled by that particular performance often enough to know better than to get too carried away.

Something substantial was attached, and it was giving a good account of itself.

I've fished around this area quite a few times and had been keen to add a smoothhound to the species list. It was one of those fish I'd wanted to catch from this particular coastline, and the persistence was finally about to pay off.

There is always that moment when you're fishing a rough mark and you know you've got something decent, but you haven't yet seen exactly what you're dealing with. Your imagination starts working overtime, your concentration goes through the roof and suddenly every decision seems to have the importance of a military operation.

Then the fish appeared from the depths. A smoothhound!

And not just any smoothhound, but a rather lovely starry smoothhound. Absolutely fantastic.

I had my heart in my mouth, but fortunately I'd chosen the swim with a little thought behind it. I'd identified a vantage point that offered a realistic opportunity to land a decent fish, rather than simply hooking one and then discovering that the only available landing area was a vertical rock face surrounded by several million gallons of angry seawater.

It was all about timing. The next wave would lift the water level sufficiently to allow me to slide the fish towards safety, and that was exactly what I needed.

A little patience, a bit of careful handling and, thankfully, no spectacular swimming demonstration required. Before long, the fish was safely in my hands.

Mission complete!

A beautiful starry smoothhound and another species ticked off the list. You can spend an awful lot of time fishing, trying different marks and experimenting with different baits, but there's nothing quite like finally catching a species you've been after for some time.

And especially when it comes from a mark that has been giving you absolutely nothing but grief. I was delighted.

The fish was returned safely, and I stood there with the sort of grin normally associated with someone who has just discovered they've won the lottery, although unfortunately without the accompanying bank balance. A cracking fish, a great moment and well worth the effort.As if that wasn't enough excitement, the angler positioned further down from me was suddenly into a fish himself. It looked to be a decent huss, which added a little more interest to proceedings.

Then I had another bite after recasting. This time it turned out to be a dogfish, although it provided a slightly unusual landing performance.

At one point it came up on top of a rock before promptly falling off again, apparently having decided that being landed was rather too much commitment. I'm assuming it had simply been clasping onto the bait rather than being properly hooked, although I'm not entirely sure what its long-term strategy was. Perhaps it had spotted the smoothhound being returned and decided it didn't fancy the interview process. Either way, things were certainly becoming lively.

For a brief period it was almost as though the fish had received a group message informing them that there was free food available and everyone should attend immediately. Smooth-hound, possible huss, dogfish and a general sense that something was finally happening.

Of course, it couldn't last. The mark was gradually becoming unfishable as the tide dropped, and the more the water receded, the more apparent it became just how much ground we had actually been fishing over. This is one of the fascinating aspects of fishing from rocks. When you first arrive, you're looking at a mass of water and trying to imagine what lies beneath it.

You might see a few gullies, some rocks and the odd patch of white water, but you don't really appreciate the scale of the underwater landscape until the tide starts to disappear. And disappear it certainly did. With the full moon these were spring tides, with an incredible 9.5 metres of water at high tide and less than a metre at low. The sheer volume of water shifting in and out is genuinely astonishing to watch.

You can stand there and appreciate the power of the wider Atlantic, but when you start seeing the underwater ground that was previously hidden beneath several metres of water, it really brings home what you're dealing with. It's quite incredible. It's also a bit of a nuisance when you're trying to fish. One minute you're casting into what looks like a perfectly reasonable expanse of water, and the next you're wondering whether you should be putting your fishing tackle away and opening a geological survey business.

The mark was becoming increasingly difficult to fish, so eventually it was time to call it a day. But what a result.

After returning the smooth-hound and packing away the gear, there was only one sensible thing left to do. Celebrate.

And what better way than with a pint alongside my brother and his mates? After all, we'd endured the weather, battled the conditions and finally managed to get amongst a decent fish, so it would have been positively irresponsible not to mark the occasion. The conversation was flowing, the usual banter was in full swing and, as is often the case down here, there was no shortage of characters to keep things entertaining. One particular individual deserves a mention.

The one and only Rob Braddick who yet again thought I was Chris before correcting him !!

For those unfamiliar with Rob, he's a prominent local businessman, employing somewhere in the region of 170 people in the area, as well as being a prankster, publican, family man and owner of Westward Ho!'s rather famous haunted house and the car-park and bought and made free.

He's also the owner of the pub we happened to be in, which meant there was always a reasonable chance that proceedings could become slightly unpredictable. Rob is one of those characters who doesn't need much encouragement to get involved in a bit of mischief and made headline news in the USA when he put some toilet rolls in the arcade grabber machines during the COVID hauding madness. 

There's always a story, a joke or some form of entertainment lurking around the corner, and this occasion was no exception. Between the banter, the stories and the general nonsense, it was another thoroughly enjoyable evening.

You could spend a fortune trying to organise entertainment of this nature, but sometimes all you need is a local pub, a few familiar faces and someone like Rob wandering about with a mischievous look on his face. Far more effective than most television programmes, and considerably better value.

So there we have it. A week that started with Storm Austen throwing everything at the coastline, a sea that looked positively homicidal, a few fishing sessions that required more optimism than ability and, ultimately, a lovely starry smoothhound to make the whole expedition worthwhile.

 We caught up with family, spent time with friends, enjoyed some cracking sunsets, ate some good scran, supported a local business and managed to squeeze in a fair amount of fishing whenever the Atlantic allowed us to do so without requiring a lifeboat.

The fishing wasn't easy, but then it rarely is when you're fishing unfamiliar ground and dealing with enormous spring tides. The schoolie bass at Greysands were welcome, the final session produced some proper excitement and that smoothhound was the icing on the cake.

It's also another reminder that sometimes you just have to keep putting the hours in. You can read the conditions, choose your marks, select your bait and prepare your tackle, but ultimately the fish decide whether they're going to play ball.

And on this occasion, one finally did.

The starry smoothhound was safely returned, the species list gained another tick and I had that very satisfying feeling of having achieved something I'd been wanting to do for a while.

As for Westward Ho!, well, what can I say? We absolutely love the place.

There's something about the whole area that gets under your skin. The coastline, the people, the pubs, the views, the sunsets and the general atmosphere make it somewhere we keep returning to, and I suspect that won't be changing any time soon. Even when the weather is doing its best to discourage us. Even when the accommodation is facing a scaffolding bill that would make a property developer faint. Even when the spring tides are shifting enough water to make the Hoover Dam look like a garden pond. And even when the fishing is so challenging that you begin to wonder whether the fish have all been relocated to another county.

We'll be back, and yes the kids still love bodyboarding despite the chill !! There'll be more fishing, more laughs, more pints, more banter and no doubt another collection of stories that probably sound slightly exaggerated when recounted to people who weren't there. But that's Westward Ho! for you. A cracking place, cracking people and another fantastic escape from the everyday grind.

And if you happen to be reading this from somewhere warm and comfortable, just spare a thought for those of us who occasionally stand on a rock heading towards winter, holding a rather broom like carbon fishing rod while several tonnes of Atlantic Ocean attempt to rearrange our afternoon.

Still, I got my smoothhound. And frankly, that's all that matters!

Until the next one, tight lines!