Warwickshire Avon - Breadonomics and Buffoonery

There are few things in angling quite as satisfying or quite as nerve-racking as watching a great slab of floating crust drift lazily towards a summer chub that has already spotted you before you've even spotted it. Clear water has a habit of making an angler feel like he's wearing a fluorescent jacket and tap shoes, while the chub sits beneath an overhanging bush looking as suspicious as a home office inspector at a cash-only car wash in Coventry.

Chub have earned their reputation for caution over generations of surviving everything that rivers, predators and anglers can throw at them. Every shadow, every misplaced footstep and every badly aimed cast is carefully logged in that thick skull of theirs before they make the unanimous committee decision to disappear in a puff of silt.

Yet for all their apparent paranoia, chub possess one wonderfully exploitable weakness: greed. They can spend five minutes inspecting a crust with the concentration of an art critic before suddenly deciding that if they don't eat it immediately, another chub surely will.

That's precisely why floating bread is such a deadly summer tactic when the water resembles polished glass. Instead of trying to convince a wary fish to grub about on the bottom, you're simply offering what looks like an easy, natural meal drifting straight into its dining room. No Heath Robinson tactics here, a hook and a piece of bread. 

The beauty of surface fishing is that you become part angler and part theatre audience. Every drift carries the possibility of a fish rising with all the stealth of a submarine or all the subtlety of an overeager Staffy chasing a sausage.

Of course, presenting the bread is only half the battle. The other half involves resisting the overwhelming urge to strike the instant you see a pair of white lips appear beneath the crust, because chub have an uncanny talent for making you look ridiculous while they calmly mouth your bait and spit it back out.

Summer chub are often at their most relaxed during warm, settled conditions when insects, seeds and all manner of edible morsels are constantly dropping into the river. In those moments their guard, though never completely lowered, slips just enough for confidence to overcome caution, and that's exactly the opportunity the patient floater angler waits for.

Stealth is everything, mind you. Crawl if you must, wear dull clothing and avoid skylining yourself on the bank, because the average clear-water chub seems capable of detecting a badly tied shoelace from twenty yards away.

When it all comes together, though, surface fishing for chub is one of angling's purest spectacles. There is no quivertip to stare at, no electronic gadget to beep, just a drifting crust, a widening bow wave and the sort of heart-thumping anticipation that reminds you why people become hopelessly addicted to rivers in the first place.

And when that great bronze flank finally rolls beneath the bread before engulfing it with glorious confidence, you'll almost convince yourself you've outwitted the cleverest fish in the river. The truth, of course, is that the chub simply forgot to be suspicious for five glorious seconds which, thankfully for us, is usually about four seconds longer than we actually need.

People often tell me how lucky I am because I finish at lunchtime on a Friday. What they conveniently forget is that by then I've already ticked off forty-three of my forty-five hours, so it's hardly an early finish. It's more like being let out for good behaviour after serving a full sentence.

The good news is there is finally some light at the end of a very long tunnel. In another four and a bit years I'll be hanging my work boots up for good after forty years of graft. I suppose you could call it early retirement, although after four decades of work I think I've earned the right to swap deadlines for dawns on the river.

To be fair, work hasn't been all doom and gloom over the years. I've had some cracking jobs, met some brilliant people and built up such a good network in angling that I'm forever turning work down these days. I never imagined I'd reach a point where I'd rather spend an afternoon watching a piece of bread drift downstream than earning another few quid, but that's exactly where I've ended up.

Anyway, enough about work because fishing is far more interesting. I headed over to the Warwickshire Avon where Nic from Avon Angling was guiding Patron and blog reader Richard Clapp not too far away. Before long they wandered over looking suspiciously pleased with themselves, which is never a good sign when you're still waiting for your first proper chance.

They had managed around eighteen fish in just three hours for something like sixty pounds of fish trotting maggots. Sixty pounds is an incredible catch by anyone's standards and the aerial footage made it look like somebody had tipped a giant pan of chub soup into the river but you will have to wait for the video. Everywhere you looked there seemed to be fish, and they were certainly making the most of the bread going in.

My own session wasn't quite so hectic, but I wasn't complaining. I managed three lovely chub from around the weir, the best going four and a half pounds with the smallest around the three-pound mark. They're such spooky fish that once you've caught one from a particular spot, the rest disappear as though somebody has sounded the underwater fire alarm.

One fish came from the slack water after I'd watched the smaller fish demolish every floating crust I threw at them. 

I changed to a slow-sinking piece of bread and that proved too much for one decent chub to ignore. It drifted down naturally and the fish confidently took it without a second thought, which unfortunately turned out to be a very expensive mistake.

Later on I wandered beyond the weir and stumbled across a group of big chub in what could only be described as a suicidal swim, yes I took a video, but didn't bother trying to catch one. 

They happily shared almost an entire loaf of bread between them without showing the slightest bit of caution. Greedy doesn't even begin to describe them, and if bread had feelings it would probably have reported them for bullying.

Not far away several big bream were cruising lazily around some lily pads. They looked settled and catchable until a narrowboat came chugging through with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. 

Within seconds every single bream had vanished, leaving me wondering whether they'd swum off or simply evaporated.

We eventually wandered back towards the weir, chatting away about fishing, rivers and all the usual nonsense that anglers somehow find endlessly entertaining. 

Sometimes the company is every bit as enjoyable as the fishing itself, especially when everyone is catching fish and taking the mickey out of each other. It certainly beats talking about work.

Back at the weir the smaller fish were still attacking every floating piece of bread that landed on the surface. I flicked a slow-sinking piece right over the top of them and watched it drift gently beneath the commotion. A decent chub calmly peeled away from the cover and inhaled it without hesitation, proving once again that simple fishing often works best.

All in all it was only a couple of hours on the bank, but it was time well spent. Good company, a handful of lovely chub and plenty of laughs are more than enough to keep me smiling. Roll on the next trip because if retirement is going to look anything like this, those remaining four years might just fly by.

Warwickshire Avon - Honey Holes and H-Point's

Now there are certain doors in life that are never meant to be opened. For me it's Groundhog Day having worked in automotive design for such a long time, but Area 57 (Sam's own words) within an automotive design studio is one of them.

A mythical place whispered about in hushed tones where outsiders imagine dragons, laser sharks and at least one engineer who communicates entirely in CAD file extensions.

Sam wandered in looking like he'd accidentally won a competition he didn't remember entering, and, to his credit, only looked mildly concerned that security hadn't escorted him straight back out again.

His first day was a glorious blur of interior designers, 3D Alias, concept cars, virtual reality, packaging, hard model making, five-axis milling machines and enough 3D printers to make a sci-fi film director quietly weep with envy. Everywhere he looked there was another machine making expensive noises while quietly turning blocks of material into things that looked impossible. 

By lunchtime he'd probably seen more automotive wizardry than most people manage in a lifetime and was still pretending he understood what everyone meant when they said, "We'll just tweak the Class-A surfaces."

Then came Roy. Every workplace has a Roy, the sort of chap who could carve elegance out of a lump of clay while simultaneously making a cup of tea and explaining why deadlines are merely optimistic works of fiction. 

The pair clicked instantly, proving that if you put enthusiasm next to experience, something rather wonderful usually happens. Roy handed Sam the sacred tools of the clay modeller and let him loose under careful supervision. 

 Before long Sam was shaping automotive clay himself while listening to stories about the latest McLaren W1, the hyper car Roy had worked on, which apparently suffered more delays than the likely white elephant HS2, as well as stories on other McLaren cars such as others as the Speed-Tail and Senna,. 

It turns out creating automotive perfection takes time, particularly when perfection keeps changing its mind every Thursday afternoon.

As if that wasn't enough, Roy casually sorted him out with four kilograms of proper automotive modelling clay to take home. The only slight snag is that the stuff needs warming to about sixty degrees before it's usable, meaning Sam's biggest engineering challenge now is persuading his mum that occupying the family oven with industrial clay is a perfectly reasonable culinary decision. 

Nothing says "responsible parenting" quite like opening the oven expecting lasagne and discovering the beginnings of next year's concept car instead.

By the third day, fate dealt Sam the cruellest hand of all. He was assigned to me. My world of studio engineering involves over checking guidelines, tolerances, interfaces, feasibility, passenger airbag packaging studies and enough technical discussion to make a calculator ask for a coffee break.

I bravely soldiered on with explanations that even I was beginning to suspect required subtitles. After approximately the fourth yawn, I accepted defeat with the grace of a man realising he's become educational wallpaper. Rather than continue committing crimes against teenage attention spans, I quietly negotiated with the clay modelling department and arranged a swift transfer back to civilisation.

The reunion with the clay gang was like watching someone return home from an expedition across the Arctic. Smiles reappeared, conversation flowed and mysterious lumps of clay slowly transformed into shapes that actually looked like cars instead of my attempts, which generally resemble melted potatoes. Frankly, everyone won, including me, because nobody had to hear another thrilling explanation about datum structures.

What was lovely to watch over those three days was how confidence quietly sneaks up on people. On day one there was understandable caution, careful questions and that slightly wide-eyed expression of someone trying not to touch anything that costs more than their house. By day three he was chatting away, getting involved and looking completely at home among a bunch of people who clearly enjoyed having him around.

That's probably the real magic hidden behind the mythical gates of Area 57. Yes, there are astonishing machines, clever software and technology that feels like it's arrived from the year 2045, but it's the people who make the place memorable. A few days, a brilliant mentor called Roy, four kilograms of clay, one terrified domestic oven and one studio engineer who finally knew when to surrender—I'd call that work experience done properly.

Anyway to the fishing, every club has one member who can look at a perfectly innocent stretch of river and declare, "There's a swim in there somewhere." Most of us nod politely while wondering if he's recently misplaced his glasses. This time, rather annoyingly, he was right. 

In the close season armed with saws, loppers, enthusiasm and only the occasional tea break, the club who are trying to reinvent themselves set about giving one forgotten corner of the river a bit of a makeover. Brambles surrendered, nettles retreated and several stubborn branches were persuaded that they'd enjoyed enough years attached to the tree. By the end of it, daylight had reached the water for what was probably the first time since decimalisation.

What emerged wasn't a motorway service station of a peg with room for a bivvy, barbecue and three wheelbarrows of tackle like the other pegs on this stretch seem to be at the moment 🙈. It was simply a proper little swim where an angler could sit without looking as though he'd lost a fight with a hedge. You could even cast without donating two rigs and a hat to the overhanging willows.

Naturally, the rumours I suspect started before the last twig had hit the bonfire. Apparently, it's already home to a barbel the size of a Labrador, a chub with a mortgage and several fish that only appear when nobody else is watching. It's remarkable how quickly an ordinary bit of river acquires mythical status once you can actually get to it.

The first person to fish it will, of course, either blank spectacularly or catch the fish of a lifetime. There is absolutely no middle ground in these matters because fishing folklore simply won't allow it. The rest of us will be watching from a respectful distance while pretending we weren't planning to beat him there.

Whether it becomes the club's next legendary honey hole or just another pleasant place to spend a few hours beside the river hardly matters. The real success is that another swim on a club stretch of water is now fishable again instead of existing solely as a sanctuary for brambles and mosquitoes. Mind you, if it does turn out to be full of monsters, don't expect anyone to admit exactly where it is.

The plan, because there is always a plan, was beautifully simple. Start in the honey hole (hopefully) despite the river looking like someone had drained all the confidence out of it, with water so low and clear you could almost count the fish's eyelashes. Then, as dusk was on the way, move to the peg where only a few days ago a double-figure barbel had materialised from nowhere, had a good look at me, and decided I wasn't worth the effort.

Now this wasn't just any old barbel. This was one of those fish that had clearly completed an advanced course in angler avoidance and was probably handing out certificates to the others. It had the calm, smug attitude of a fish that had seen every trick in the book and probably written a few extra chapters.

First came the rolling lump of meat. It watched it drift by with all the enthusiasm of someone reading the terms and conditions on a washing machine warranty. Not so much as a twitch. No matter, I thought, because every great angler has a Plan B. The static bait went in looking absolutely irresistible, at least according to the bloke holding the rod. The barbel remained completely unmoved and somehow managed to look disappointed in me from several feet underwater.

Right then, time to get clever. Out came the scaled-down pellet on a band, the sort of bait that whispers, "Go on, you know you want to." The fish gave it the aquatic equivalent of a raised eyebrow before casually wandering off to continue whatever important business highly educated barbel get up to.

By this point I was beginning to suspect the fish wasn't avoiding the bait. It was avoiding me personally. Somewhere beneath the surface it was probably updating its mates with, "He's trying again that Piscatorial Quagswagging bloke, lads. Same time next week?" Still, the plan remains the plan. Fish the honey hole, wait for dusk, and hope over confidence that this time the old professor slips up. After all, if fishing has taught me anything, it's that hope is free, but barbel lessons can be painfully expensive.

With a club trying to reinvent themselves they've had the banks landscaped so well it looks like Spaniel-smuggling Charlie Dimmock arrived with the DIY SOS crew, leaving every peg flatter than a pancake and straighter than a surveyor's tape measure. It's all wonderfully convenient for seat box frequenters, but unfortunately the fish seem to have read the same brochure.

Every peg I dropped into carried the unmistakable signs of recent angling occupation. On a stretch this small, that's about as welcome as finding someone has pinched the last bacon sandwich from the tackle shop café, because once the fish have been pestered enough, they simply clock off and refuse overtime.

If I'd known what I know now before setting off, I'd probably have stayed at home and reorganised the pellet bucket. But fishing has a habit of scratching an itch that common sense never quite reaches, so off I went to the old honey hole with optimism outweighing logic... as usual.

The sun was still hanging around like an overstaying pub regular, and after an hour and a half I'd managed one decent chub pull on the pellet and inconspicuous paste wrap enough blank rod-tip staring to qualify for a hypnotist's diploma. Then, completely out of the blue, after a few rattles and little 'chu-bangs', the rod lurched over with all the confidence of a proper barbel.

Alas, it was a chub in fancy dress. Mind you, at around 3lb he was a very welcome actor, because avoiding a blank is a bit like escaping a parking ticket you don't care how, you're just relieved it happened.

After another half hour of stubborn optimism produced absolutely nothing, I admitted defeat and moved on. The honey hole hadn't exactly covered itself in glory, although I'll undoubtedly be back because anglers have remarkably short memories and endless supplies of hope.

I wandered down to the famous corner swim where I'd once tempted a cracking double-figure barbel. It still looked absolutely perfect dark, shady and full of promise—but then again, so does the dessert menu when you're on a diet.

The thermometer had settled nicely as the evening cooled, and by now the witching hour was edging ever closer. Surely, I thought, this would be when one careless whiskered resident made a mistake and I'd be hanging on for dear life.

Instead, the river went quieter than a library during a chess tournament. No clonks, no knocks, no rattles and certainly no wrap-around that leaves your heart somewhere around your throat while your arms suddenly remember they're attached to something very powerful.

By the time I packed up, even the owls seemed to be wondering why I was still bothering. The fish, meanwhile, were probably sat under a raft somewhere with their fins up, discussing the latest bait trends and marking anglers out of ten.

Back at the cars the other two anglers appeared wearing exactly the same expression I'd been practising all evening. Their report matched mine almost word for word—small chub, precious few bites and enough silence to make you wonder if the river had been switched off at the mains.

So, it's probably time for a rethink. Either the fish have become masters of avoidance, or they've formed a union and voted unanimously against cooperating with anglers until further notice.

Warwickshire Avon - Trundles and Tempests

The Wife raised an eyebrow when I announced we were having chilli con carne for tea. Fair enough really. A few days ago she was sat with her feet in the paddling pool, gently nursing a gin and tonic like she'd discovered the secret to surviving a British heatwave. Boy, it's been hot hasn't it? thankfully the 35 degree days are behind us (or are they ?), roll on winter !!

"what about a kebab wrap with loads of salad and plenty of tzatziki ?"

"Perfect!!!" she declared, before taking another sip of gin. Funny how these things become less of a discussion and more of a change of government.

I'd been itching to try one of those viral doner kebab tricks anyway. You spread seasoned and spiced mince between two sheets of greaseproof paper, peel one off, fold an inch or so, fold it again, and keep going until you've created what looks like the world's meatiest paper fan. Into the oven it goes, and somehow the magic happens.

I'll admit, I wasn't expecting much. Social media recipes can be as effective as a fart in a hurricane. But blow me down, it came out cracking. Packed into a wrap with crisp salad and a dollop of tzatziki, (with lots of chilli sauce for me) it was dangerously close to the real thing. Another meal added to the ever-growing armoury. Which is handy, because if this weather keeps up, the chilli can wait until October.

Now talking of meat there are certain summer days when a river appears to have signed a private agreement with its barbel. The terms are simple enough: the fish agree not to get caught, and the river agrees not to reveal where they are. The water is gin clear, the sun is blazing away like an overenthusiastic security lamp, and every fish in the county seems capable of identifying the make and model of your hook from twenty yards. 

On such occasions, many anglers respond by becoming ever more complicated. Out come the microscopic hooks, the fluorocarbon so thin it can only be seen by astronomers, and rigs with enough components to qualify for planning permission. Meanwhile, one of the most effective approaches of all sits quietly in the background like an old pub regular who knows exactly how the evening will end: trundling meat.

The curious thing about trundling is that it feels almost suspiciously sensible. A piece of meat enters the flow and proceeds downstream exactly as countless edible items have done since rivers were invented. It does not arrive attached to a feeder the size of a small grenade. It does not sit bolt upright in the current like a traffic cone. 

It simply wanders along with all the purpose and dignity of a mildly confused sausage. 

To a barbel accustomed to seeing every conceivable modern presentation lowered onto its nose, this can be alarmingly convincing. Summer barbel, particularly in clear water, often resemble elderly gentlemen peering through net curtains. They see everything. They inspect everything. They trust absolutely nothing. A static bait can receive the sort of scrutiny usually reserved for suspicious parcels left outside government buildings. The fish circles. It pauses. It tilts. 

It appears to be conducting a full risk assessment. A trundled bait, on the other hand, drifts past with an air of complete innocence. The fish has only moments to decide. There is no committee meeting, no consultation period, and no opportunity to spend twenty minutes glaring at the hooklink. It is either food or it is gone.

This urgency is one of the great strengths of the method. Barbel are not always hungry in difficult summer conditions, but they are often opportunistic. A piece of meat rolling naturally through the swim can trigger exactly the sort of impulsive reaction that a carefully positioned static bait may never provoke. The take often feels less like a feeding response and more like a fish suddenly thinking, "Hang on, if I don't grab that now, Dave downstream will have it."

One angler who appears to understand this better than most in recent times is fellow blogger and angler James Denison, who I've been lucky to meet and fish with (he's difference gravy !!) During his quest to land double-figure barbel from forty different rivers, he has frequently spoken about the value of mobile, searching tactics, particularly when approaching unfamiliar water. 

It is easy to see why. When you arrive at a new river, armed with little more than optimism and an inflated belief in your own watercraft, trundling allows you to cover water, learn the contours of the swim and put a bait in front of fish quickly. Rather than spending three hours convincing yourself that an empty peg is "bound to switch on at dusk", you are actively hunting. The river starts revealing its secrets far sooner.

In many ways, fishing a new river resembles being invited to a party where you know nobody. Some anglers immediately march into the middle of the room and start talking. Others stand awkwardly near the buffet hoping someone recognises them. Trundling meat is the angling equivalent of quietly wandering around introducing yourself to everybody. Before long, you discover where the interesting characters are gathered and, more importantly, where the barbel are hiding.

The method also remains gloriously underused because it demands rivercraft rather than shopping. There is no need to remortgage the house for the latest titanium-enhanced, aerospace-derived widget. The principal item of technology involved is a lump of luncheon meat. This is deeply disappointing for anyone hoping to solve the problem by purchasing another £17.99 packet of something described as revolutionary. Trundling requires observation, movement and thought, all of which are regrettably difficult to hang on a tackle-shop display hook.

Indeed, much of the pleasure comes from becoming actively involved with the river. One starts watching currents, studying gravel runs, and considering where a drifting bait might naturally travel. Before long, the angler is creeping about the bank like a Victorian naturalist with slightly poorer posture. Every crease looks promising. Every shaded run acquires significance. One becomes absorbed in the process and temporarily forgets that the fish are doing their very best to make a fool of everyone.

The bait itself deserves some credit. Luncheon meat possesses a remarkable ability to remain effective despite being treated with almost complete snobbery by sections of the angling world. Pellets arrive with scientific names and nutritional profiles. Boilies are discussed with the seriousness of fine wine. Meat arrives in a tin and looks as though it should be served with chips. Yet barbel continue to eat it with an enthusiasm bordering on embarrassment. If fish had social media, many would probably deny ever touching the stuff while secretly queuing up for another piece.

Perhaps the greatest reason trundling meat excels in clear summer conditions is that it appears so utterly unremarkable. Rivers are full of things moving downstream. Rivers are not full of suspiciously anchored cubes of food attached to invisible strings. The more pressured the fish become, the more valuable that ordinariness is. A bait that looks boring to anglers often looks entirely believable to barbel.

So when the river is low, clear and apparently devoid of cooperation, it may be worth resisting the urge to become ever more technical. The fish have already seen most of the clever ideas. What they have not seen nearly as often is a humble piece of meat tumbling naturally through their world. It lacks glamour, prestige and fashionable terminology. 

Which is probably why it keeps catching barbel while everyone else is busy explaining why it shouldn't. And if a man can travel the country in search of double-figure barbel from forty different rivers and repeatedly place his faith in such a simple approach, perhaps there is a lesson there for the rest of us. Sometimes the cleverest tactic on the river is the one that looks as though it ought not to work at all.

So anyway, I better get the gear and get trundling !!

Now I'd had the evening mapped out in my head. You know how it is. I'd mentally packed the tackle, already decided which swims I'd fish and was halfway through catching a mythical twelve-pounder before I'd even left the house. 

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, the Wife casually announced, "Don't forget I'm going over to Sarah's later." Well... that rather rearranged proceedings. "Errrrrrrrr... OK then. I was actually going fishing then... bugger." Without missing a beat she replied, "Well why not go now then?" It was one of those rare moments where arguing would have been both foolish and potentially time-consuming, so I simply grabbed the gear and made a tactical retreat before the offer was mysteriously withdrawn, and now I'm fishing late morning.

It wasn't until I was halfway down the road that I realised I'd forgotten the suncream. Fortunately I had a bottle rolling around in the ruckbag somewhere between spare hooks, old receipts and enough loose pellets to start my own fishery. I arrived at the river looking less like an angler and more like someone preparing for a day on Bondi Beach, slapping the stuff on so enthusiastically I probably frightened a passing dragonfly with my amplified 5'oclock shadow. I hadn't even finished rubbing it in before destiny interrupted.

The first swim was one I've always fancied. It's tucked just below the weir providing plenty of oxygen with thick cover hugging one side and a narrow channel that positively screams, "There's a barbel hiding in here." Of course, saying that and proving it are two entirely different things. As I crept into position I managed to disturb a couple of chub that disappeared with all the grace of teenagers avoiding household chores. The water is ridiculously clear at the moment, which is wonderful for fish spotting but absolutely useless when you're trying to sneak up on anything with fins.

The first trundle through with the meat produced absolutely nothing. Not a twitch. Not even the optimistic knock that convinces you a leaf is actually a fish. The second run was different. I couldn't even see the bait anymore, but holding the line gently between thumb and forefinger I felt those unmistakable little taps. Then everything tightened. The rod tip confidently pulled round a couple of feet as though someone downstream had decided to borrow my rod. I struck... and instantly knew this wasn't one of the local chub.

The fish bored off with all the determination of someone late for the last train home. This swim is awkward enough to make a yoga instructor complain, with roots, branches and submerged nasties waiting to claim expensive terminal tackle. Thankfully experience counted for something and after a proper scrap I managed to guide a lovely barbel into the waiting net. Result! Now we're talking. That's exactly why you ignore the sensible option of mowing the lawn.

I didn't bother weighing it because sometimes a good fish is simply a good fish. I'd put it somewhere around seven-and-a-half to eight pounds, give or take the usual angler's optimistic eyesight. It rested quietly in the margins while I grabbed a quick trophy shot before being allowed to recover properly. A few moments later it powered away with a splash that thoroughly soaked one of my boots, which I took as the fish's polite way of saying, "Cheers... now leave me alone." As a certain famous DJ would say... Oh yes! Oh yes!

Buoyed by early success I wandered downstream wearing the smug grin that only anglers understand. You know the one. The grin that says you've convinced yourself today is going to be one of those legendary sessions where every swim contains an obliging fish with poor judgement. Naturally the river immediately reminded me who's actually in charge. Swim after swim appeared to contain absolutely nothing apart from water, optimism and the occasional suspicious-looking stick.

Eventually I reached one swim where curiosity got the better of me. The bankside vegetation was so thick that the only sensible option was to climb a nearby tree for a better look. Nothing says "experienced angler" quite like clambering into the branches clutching a landing net. Thankfully nobody witnessed it because explaining that to passing dog walkers would have been difficult. From my leafy observation platform I finally spotted them... two barbel sitting quietly mid-river.

Neither fish was enormous, probably around the five-pound mark, but they were perfectly respectable and certainly worth pursuing. I carefully rolled meat down towards them. Nothing. Another run. Nothing again. Then another. Eventually I swear one of them actually glanced at the other as if to say, "Honestly Dave, does he think we're idiots?" Moments later both fish casually drifted upstream into thick cover where they remained hidden behind what was probably the underwater equivalent of drawn curtains.

Being stubborn, which is a fairly essential quality in fishing, I returned later to find they'd wandered back into exactly the same position. Brilliant! This time I'd outsmart them with a couple of pellets. Except I hadn't. They reacted as though I'd thrown house bricks into the river, disappearing into cover again with complete contempt for my carefully crafted masterplan. I suspect they'd already uploaded my photograph to the local Barbel WhatsApp group under the heading "Avoid This Bloke."

The next swim looked promising enough but after several careful trundles I succeeded only in alarming another unsuspecting chub. Then, as if someone had flicked a switch, a proper lump of a barbel materialised from nowhere. It wasn't just big... it was one of those fish that immediately makes you stand up straighter. Double figures without question. It casually swam almost beneath my feet before disappearing towards a sunken tree with all the confidence of something that has successfully embarrassed anglers for many years.

I gave that swim absolutely everything. Rolling meat. Holding back. Fishing static. Different angles. Different presentations. Quiet optimism followed by louder optimism. The fish, meanwhile, displayed all the interest of a tax inspector at a birthday party. It had clearly survived every bait, every rig and every hopeful speech from passing anglers. It wasn't joining my landing net today, but I walked away smiling because at least now I know exactly where the old warrior lives. We'll meet again.

One more swim remained before sensible responsibilities called me home. It was shallow, weedy and looked more suited to ducks than decent fish, but rivers have a funny habit of rewarding persistence. Sure enough, a beautifully coloured summer chub darted out from its little interception point and absolutely nailed the rolling meat. It wasn't a giant, but it fought with all the enthusiasm of something twice its size and rounded the afternoon off perfectly.

By this point the invisible domestic curfew alarm had begun ringing inside my head. Every married angler knows exactly what I mean. There's a point where "just one more swim" quietly transforms into "Why are you home so late?" and experience teaches you not to discover where that line is. So I reluctantly packed away, gave the river one last look and headed back towards civilisation.

Looking back, it was one of those sessions that almost never happened yet somehow turned into a cracking few hours. One lovely barbel safely returned, one handsome chub, a pair of suspicious middleweights that completely outfoxed me and a genuine river monster now firmly lodged in the memory bank for another day. Not bad considering the whole adventure only existed because Sarah fancied a catch-up with the Wife.

If every rushed session turned out like that, I'd happily race out of the house wearing half-dried suncream every weekend. Mind you, next time I'll try to remember putting it on before leaving home. The steering wheel is still greasy.