The River Severn - Moles and Melee's

Saturday was one of those days where my twin brother Chris was living his best life somewhere down in Westward Ho! attending an all-day rave. Apparently the bass was so loud he could hear it while walking to the venue, which is more than can be said for the fish hearing him on his last three fishing trips. Three blanks on the bounce now, Chris, and even the rave had more bites than you've had recently.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind a bit of Morris dancing either. They just don't seem to wallop the pavement like they used to, probably because someone complained that clattering sticks together was offensive to nearby pigeons. William Kempe danced all the way from London to Norwich in Shakespeare's day, whereas nowadays they'd probably stop him after half a mile for not filling out the correct risk assessment.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining. Chris may have spent Saturday bouncing around to music loud enough to frighten submarines, but I could at least remind him that I occasionally catch fish. Brothers are there to support each other, obviously, although reminding him he's blanked three trips running is what I'd call emotional support.

My holidays have finally started 'again' !!, which as a self-employed jobber is a bigger event than Christmas. Holidays without holiday pay make every day off feel like someone is quietly removing twenty-pound notes from your wallet while smiling politely. Still, the plane doesn't leave until the early hours of Wednesday morning, so Monday was far too valuable to waste on sensible behaviour.

Instead, I had a guest ticket with Nic from Avon Angling for a crack at a completely unknown stretch of the River Severn. Forty-five minutes of winding country lanes later we rolled into the car park at six in the morning looking suspiciously optimistic. You know you're getting old when a sunrise over a muddy river feels more exciting than Ibiza.

The weather had finally cooled down as well. Standing in the river with my open shoes actually felt refreshing instead of like slowly boiling in your own trousers. Even the cows looked jealous that we'd found air conditioning.

The weir itself was absolutely enormous. It looked less like a fishing venue and more like somewhere Bond villains dump expensive sports cars. Standing there listening to thousands of gallons of water crashing over concrete makes you realise shouting "I've got one!" is largely an exercise in mime.

Neither of us had fished it before, which meant we were making it up as we went along. I had a float rod, a ledger rod, enough terminal tackle to supply a small tackle shop and absolutely no clue where the fish were. Standard operating procedure really. A lead about suggested three or four feet of water in places. Everywhere else seemed either ankle deep or capable of swallowing a family hatchback whole. River fishing does like to keep you humble.

We'd barely settled in before Nic's rod tried to leave for Birmingham. The first fish promptly charged into a snag, proving that even barbel know where the dangerous neighbourhoods are. It escaped with all the confidence of someone who'd done this before.

Nic wasn't having any of that nonsense though. He shifted his cast a few metres to the right, the rod slammed round again and this time everything stayed attached. Moments later a cracking Severn barbel of around seven pounds slid into the net, and judging by Nic's grin you'd have thought he'd just won the lottery and inherited a tackle shop.

The culprit was a humble 10mm banded halibut pellet. I had turned up with all sorts of fancy robin red concoctions because anglers love making life difficult for themselves. The fish looked at my expensive pellets, laughed quietly and queued up for Nic's bargain buffet instead.

Within minutes I shamelessly raided Nic's pellet stash. Friends share bait, especially when your own bait is being treated with the same enthusiasm as Brussels sprouts at a children's birthday party. I even helped myself to his Scaled pellets while pretending it was all part of the tactical discussion.

Things then descended into complete chaos. Every time one of us settled down for a chill, a rod would wrench round like it had been connected to a passing tractor. We spent more time standing up than sitting down. 

By lunchtime we'd somehow managed two barbel apiece. My second fish tipped the scales at exactly ten pounds, which naturally meant it instantly became even bigger once I'd told the story three times. By Christmas it'll probably need its own postcode.

The chub fancied joining the party as well. Every cast seemed capable of producing another solid fish. It was one of those magical sessions where you almost expect the ducks to start asking for pellets.

Then Nic hooked an absolutely colossal roach on a 10mm pellet. It looked immaculate, gleaming in the sunshine like someone had polished it overnight. Somewhere nearby every match angler simultaneously developed an unexplained twitch.

Just when we thought we'd seen everything I wandered off for five minutes to ring the wife. I came back to find Nic quietly holding what looked suspiciously like a wardrobe with fins. It turned out to be a bream over six pounds, because apparently the river had completely abandoned any sense of normality.

I genuinely looked around expecting Jeremy Beadle to leap out from behind a bush. Unknown venue, fishing blind and we'd landed barbel, chub, a monster roach and now a giant bream. If someone had then caught a salmon wearing a wristwatch I wouldn't have questioned it.

Just when we thought the day couldn't get any stranger, the River Severn decided to introduce us to one of its less celebrated residents. Out of absolutely nowhere a mole appeared, busily tunnelling around behind us as if he'd heard there were free halibut pellets on offer. It was the first time I'd ever seen one properly up close, and they're far bigger than I'd imagined, looking like a furry potato fitted with a shovel.



The little chap seemed completely obsessed with the pellets we'd scattered on the bank. We reckoned he could smell the fishmeal because he kept burrowing in and around them like a tiny black truffle hunter that had taken a wrong turn somewhere near Worcester. Trust anglers to spend a fortune attracting fish only to end up feeding the local wildlife instead.

The funniest moment came when I knelt down to rebait my hook. I suddenly felt something pushing up underneath my knee and nearly launched myself into the Severn thinking I'd discovered some previously unknown species of river monster. It was only our furry excavator tunnelling directly beneath me, and I swear the mole looked more startled than I did before disappearing underground, probably wondering why idiots with fishing rods kept dropping perfectly good pellets everywhere.

Nic kept swapping between a conventional feeder and the method feeder. When the swim slowed down the method feeder seemed to keep nicking bites while everything else went suspiciously quiet. Fish clearly enjoy making us spend hundreds of pounds on tackle only to decide one method works today because reasons.

The bites themselves were utterly ridiculous. Some of them nearly pulled the rod into Gloucestershire before somehow failing to hook themselves. Others looked like someone had simply sneezed near the rod tip before developing into absolute mayhem.

Nic was filming the whole lot for his YouTube channel. This naturally meant every fish behaved perfectly while the camera was rolling and every one I lost happened just after he'd pointed the lens somewhere else. Fish are experts at television production.

At one point I was convinced the next bite would probably be a passing seal. Given the way the day had gone I wouldn't have been remotely surprised if Nessie had popped up asking whether we had any spare halibut pellets. It was that sort of session.

Eventually we looked at one another and agreed we'd had enough. Not because the fishing had gone quiet, but because we'd reached that happy stage where your arms ache, your face hurts from smiling and you've run out of believable excuses for why you need another cast. Sometimes it's better to walk away while the river is still applauding you.

Driving home I couldn't wipe the grin off my face. Every angler dreams about those sessions where everything somehow falls into place despite having absolutely no plan whatsoever. They don't happen often, which is precisely why we spend so many hours sitting behind motionless rod tips convincing ourselves the next cast will be different.

Meanwhile, somewhere down in Devon, my twin brother Chris was probably staring mournfully at another motionless rod wondering what crime he'd committed against fish. Don't worry, Chris, your luck has to change eventually because statistically even shopping trolleys occasionally catch carp. Until then, if you start hearing loud bass music while you're fishing, don't follow it because the rave has caught more than you have this week.

Anyway, I've got packing to do before we head off on holiday. The suitcase is currently empty apart from enough fishing gear to invade a small country, and my wife keeps reminding me that flip-flops apparently deserve luggage space as well. Catch up soon, tight lines everyone, and if you happen to bump into my brother Chris, please be kind and point him gently in the direction of the nearest fish because at this stage even the Morris dancers are starting to outfish him.

Warwickshire Avon - Madhouses and Mega Dinghies

After returning from our holiday in North Devon, I must admit I'm on a bit of a downer. There is something particularly cruel about coming home after a holiday where the weather has been glorious, the scenery has been stunning and life has somehow managed to slow down, only to discover that normality has been sitting on the doorstep waiting for you. 

I've spent most of the week wondering whether I could quietly move into the car and drive back without anyone noticing, especially when there was a day rave in Westward Ho! Saturday with none other than Billy 'Daniel' Bunter a veteran of the rave scene I fully emersed myself in back in the 90's. (anyone got a time machine ?)

To make matters worse, this would have been a cracking week to still be down there because of the eclipse. North Devon would have been one of those places where you could sit by the coast, watch the sky put on its little celestial performance and enjoy the sea breeze taking the edge off the midday sunshine. Instead I'm back here, looking at the garden and wondering whether putting factor 50 on my fishing chair counts as preparation for a session.

The weather has been absolutely superb, but for fishing it has been almost too good. You see there's barely been a breath of wind and the rivers are clear enough to see what the fish had for breakfast, which isn't particularly helpful when you're trying to persuade something with fins that it hasn't actually seen you standing there. Still, I suppose we shouldn't complain because there are worse things in life than sitting in the garden with a cold cider knowing that winter will no doubt be a washout again. 

Mind you, the lack of wind hasn't stopped some rather extraordinary things happening elsewhere. Apparently a Mega Dinghy managed to cross the English Channel carrying around 230 people, which is supposedly the largest number to make the journey in a single vessel. When I read that, I suddenly felt rather less adventurous about my own decision not to go fishing in this heat and dangle my legs in the paddling pool instead. 

The inflatable was apparently so packed that passengers were having to dangle their legs in the water as it entered the busy shipping route. Two hundred and thirty people on one inflatable boat crossing the Channel is the sort of thing that makes you wonder whether somebody misunderstood the instructions when they were told to "make sure everyone has a seat." 

Now some weeks you can feel the fishing gods looking down, having a right old chuckle to themselves. Every weather app looked like it had been sponsored by Satan, the rivers resembled warm Horlicks, and the fish had clearly booked annual leave without consulting me. Every time I looked out of the window it was either blisteringly hot or blowing a hoolie. About as inspiring for fishing as a wet Sunday in a caravan showroom.

Luckily, food stepped into the breach with all the reliability of a Labrador spotting a dropped sausage. Tuesday's spicy Pad Kra Pao with the wife at Yoga was magnificent, crowned by two duck eggs so obscenely rich they deserved separate billing on the menu and probably their own Instagram account. Honestly, those eggs had more yolk than a stand-up comedian. They nearly outshone the meal itself, which takes some doing.

Monday wasn't exactly a hardship either. A curry with my old mate Phippo always guarantees plenty of nonsense gets talked, most of it impossible to repeat in polite company and the rest best forgotten before breakfast. The food was spot on and the company even better. It's amazing how solving the world's problems over a vindaloo never actually solves any of them.

On the way home I pulled into a dried-up corn field to watch the eclipse. Typical really the entire sky was crystal clear apart from one stubborn cloud glued to the sun like a toddler clinging to a Farley's Rusk, determined to ruin everyone's day. 

You honestly couldn't script it if you tried. Mother Nature clearly enjoys winding anglers up just as much as the fish do.

In fairness, the sky did go strangely gloomy despite the sunshine trying its hardest to burn your retinas out. The shadows became ridiculously sharp and stretched for miles, which was probably the most impressive bit. 

The eclipse itself, though, felt a touch underwhelming after all the build-up. Rather like driving three hours to catch a gudgeon when someone promised you a thirty-pound carp.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining, unless it's the one parked in front of the eclipse. The heat has at least encouraged the wife and me to retreat into the garden once the kids are finally asleep. 

We've spent several evenings with a drink in hand watching the Perseids put on a display far better than anything on terrestrial television. Sometimes doing absolutely nothing turns out to be the highlight of the week.

The night sky has been absolutely littered with shooting stars, meteors and satellites gliding silently overhead. Every few minutes another streak flashed across the darkness while satellites wandered by pretending they owned the place. It certainly puts life into perspective for a few moments. Then someone inevitably asks if you've remembered to lock the shed.

As I write this, I've got two glorious weeks off work and they're packed tighter than a match angler's keepnet. First comes the mighty River Severn where, fingers crossed, the fish are in a better mood than they have been lately. Then it's off to the Atlantic courtesy of the Canary Islands in search of something that actually pulls back properly. I could certainly do with a bent rod restoring a bit of enthusiasm.

If that wasn't enough, the holiday concludes the day after we get back with a whistle stop trip to Glasgow to watch knob-twiddling maestro Anthony Pappa alongside a collection of fellow Australian progressive house DJs. 

It's difficult explaining progressive house to anyone who's never experienced it. To the untrained eye it just looks like blokes fiddling with expensive mixers for three hours. To the rest of us enjoying the scene from the 90's, it's absolute magic.

Hopefully the next two weeks will recharge the batteries enough for work not to feel like a life sentence. A decent holiday has a funny way of resetting the head. Catching a few fish would help enormously too. Stranger things have happened, although admittedly not many.

September sees the annual liver and body amnesty. After ten days of enthusiastic research at an all-inclusive in the Canaries and Devon in the mix as well, I think the poor thing deserves thirty days of peace and quiet. It has been a loyal servant over the years and deserves a month on the substitutes' bench. Consider it a well-earned sabbatical and hopefully some timber lost.

With any luck the weather will have calmed down by then and the rivers will resemble rivers again instead of oversized warm baths. I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to get after the barbel because that's where my head really is. Despite all the moaning, hope remains an angler's favourite bait. Anyway, enough waffling better get fishing before another cloud decides to have the last laugh.

You see with work finished early after banking my hours, I had a tiny window to flick a lump of bread about in search of a chub. It wasn't exactly overflowing with optimism, more a case of turning up because hope can be remarkably thick-headed. 

There are days when an angler glides to the river brimful of confidence, convinced the fish have been holding a committee meeting solely to discuss how best to throw themselves upon his hook. Then there are the days when the river greets you with the sort of grin usually reserved for tax inspectors and dentists. Mine, dear reader, fell squarely into the latter category.

The first chub was exactly where I expected it to be, tucked into a snag fortress that would have made medieval castle builders nod with approval. It gave my floating crust all the attention of a duke ignoring a chimney sweep before slowly wafting back into its woody sanctuary. I, meanwhile, was left trying to persuade myself that staring contests with fish counted as productive angling.

 Determined to seize the moment, I launched what I believed to be a "Luke the Nuke" cast of breathtaking precision. 

The river, however, had nominated a rather large overhanging tree as the true recipient of my masterpiece. 

Seconds later half the county's forestry programme came crashing into the swim with a splash that sent my solitary audience of one chub fleeing downstream in search of quieter company.

Off I trudged to the famed pool swim where, naturally, every respectable chub in the parish had gathered for what looked suspiciously like a social occasion. 

Reaching them would have required wading until the river lapped somewhere beneath my armpits, and even optimism has its limits. I decided drowning for a fish was perhaps an unnecessary flourish to the day's entertainment.

The next stretch was alive with fish, although unfortunately they all appeared to have been assembled from the junior section of the species handbook. 

Tiny dace, miniature roach and chublets no heavier than a decent sandwich darted at everything. Amongst the aquatic nursery lurked three proper chub, each treating my bread offerings with the sort of polite indifference normally shown to unsolicited salesmen.

Eventually a tiny chub took pity on me and saved the blank, which was rather like receiving a consolation prize after losing the village fete tug-of-war. Then, at last, salvation appeared in the shape of a decent fish homing in on my crust like a heat-seeking missile. 

I missed the first strike with admirable incompetence, only to hook it perfectly on the second attempt before it buried itself in the reeds and shed the hook with infuriating ease.

So ended another chapter in the grand book of Piscatorial Quagswagging, where triumph remained tantalisingly out of reach and calamity always seemed one cast ahead. 

The chub won on points, the trees claimed the best catch of the afternoon, and I returned home with little more than wet footwear and another tale to bore the neighbours with. Still, that's fishing—because if every trip ended in glory, we'd have nothing nearly as entertaining to laugh about afterwards.

Westward Ho! - 'The Real Newey'

North Devon has always felt like my true spiritual home, with the only real snag being that I do not get down here anywhere near as often as my sanity requires. 

My identical twin brother Chris managed to escape the relentless concrete and grey skies of Coventry twelve whole years ago to set up camp in Westward Ho!, though he still has to drag himself up to the Birmingham office a couple of times a month to keep the lights on where he operates as a security cleared software IT engineer. 

The locals down here all know him as "Newey," but the second I step foot in town, I am rightfully crowned as "The Real Newey."

I throw myself headfirst into local life and embrace the coast to its absolute fullest whenever I visit, whereas Chris—bless his cotton socks is such a creature of habit he practically needs a GPS unit to step five yards off his daily routine.

The brilliant thing about the area outside of the chaotic summer holiday rush is that the locals actually get to know one another, and looking like Chris comes with distinct tactical advantages. We are made to feel right at home the moment we walk through the door, mainly because the family is recognized everywhere and treated like honorary locals.

Now, my brother occasionally dabbles in a spot of sea angling, but it usually takes my triumphant arrival to actually ignite a fire under his backside and get him near the water. Seeing me unpack the gear last week worked its usual magic, inspiring him to tag along for a few sessions and even part with his hard-earned cash for some shiny new tackle that hopefully will not end up gathering dust in his garage.

Since it was a standard working week for him, our joint appearances were mostly restricted to social catch-ups over a few pints rather than proper dawn raids on the beach, but I definitely put some solid irons in the fire for his angling future. For me, this trip was a desperately needed recharge because a proper, uninterrupted holiday has been a bloody long time coming.

I am fed up with the soul-destroying daily grind of work and watching my hard-earned tax money get enthusiastically wasted by clueless politicians and enjoyed by the shirkers, like all the alarm clock Brits. So fingers crossed my early retirement calculations pay off very soon, because the grand master plan is to pack up the circus and move down in his direction permanently.

For starters, the weather turned out to be absolute bliss compared to the usual British gamble, giving us a couple of scorching hot days balanced by a cracking sea breeze that cooled the cockles perfectly. Naturally, the summer 'Grockles' were out in full force clogging up the high street and driving at five miles an hour, but even they could not ruin the coastal magic.

We devoured some proper quality scran over the course of the week, including a massive bowl of fat, garlic-drenched mussels that did not stand a chance. We also decided to check out a brand-new tapas joint down the road in Northam called the Crowbar for the wife’s birthday, where "The Real Newey" proudly beat his brother to the punch despite Chris living practically next door. 

The absolute highlight of the meal was a slow-cooked pork dish prepared over a roaring open fire that delivered an incredible smoky depth, paired with some utterly sublime garlic gambas. It was top-tier, mouth-watering grub, well recommended to anyone wandering through Northam with a appetite and a appreciation for proper cooking.

Despite a forecast that promised some gloom and rain, the weather gods decided to smile on us and my early morning sessions, making the 7:00 AM stroll to the mark in shorts and a t-shirt an absolute delight. I stumbled upon an absolute gem of a fishing mark that is probably no big secret to the local greybeards, but to me, it felt like discovering hidden pirate treasure.

If you walk up the Westward Ho! long straight, take a sharp right, and march straight towards the point directly opposite the Appledore Lifeboat slipway, the coastline reveals its finest secret. Whatever the state of the tide, this spot can be fished with total confidence, offering the kind of setup that makes an angler's mouth water.

The incoming tide floods into this massive estuary area, creating a roaring, fast-water river on your left and a lush, almost completely static back-eddy on your right. As an angler, you spend years learning how to read the water, but here you did not need advanced watercraft—the crease between the fast and slow water practically screamed "there are hungry bass sitting right here."

Since the trusty old Volvo XC90 is sadly no more, I could not pack my massive beachcasting tripods and heavy rods, so I had to travel light with pure lure gear. I packed a tactical selection of surface poppers, sidewinder sandeels, and shallow-running hard plastics, comforting myself with the thought that I could always borrow Chris’s gear if things got desperate.

I have landed some cracking bass in this region before, and after my first morning session resulted in an early fish, I naively convinced myself I had the entire species completely figured out. But sea fishing has a funny, humbling way of slapping you across the face with its sheer lack of predictability just when you get cocky.

I spent one heavily overcast morning thrashing the water until my rotator cuff felt like it was about to detach, executing what felt like 199 completely fruitless, soul-crushing casts. Just as I was about to give up and head for a bacon sandwich, a massive shoal of tiny baitfish erupted in the middle of the estuary, followed by proper, dark-backed bass leaping clean out of the water like silver torpedoes.

Within ten minutes of the mayhem starting, a savage, arm-wrenching bite slammed through the braided line, bending my ultralight lure rod into a frantic horseshoe shape. The fish immediately stripped line off the reel and went on a series of powerful, tide-assisted runs that had my heart knocking against my ribs like a trapped bird.

After a brilliant, nail-biting scrap on light gear, the prize was finally mine as I safely slid a gorgeous, spikey bass onto the wet sand. 

It took a £20 lure personally recommended by the 'Fal Anglers' channel on YouTube—who are well worth a follow if you enjoy watching bloke-in-a-kayak angling poetry.

The fish was not quite big enough to justify the frying pan, but I am not one to just brain every fish I see over the head anyway unlike my father-in-law, who approaches trout fishing with the ruthless efficiency of a man legally obligated to hit his catch quota at all costs.

I snapped a quick photo, unhooked it carefully, and slipped it back into the swirling tide to grow into a real monster.

Chris’s mates' WhatsApp group instantly lit up like a Christmas tree when news broke that "The Real Newey" had managed to extract a hard-earned bass out of Westward Ho!. Later that evening, the victory parade congregated at the Fairway Buoy pub to sink a few well-earned cold ones and watch the sunset over the Atlantic horizon.

The place is owned by Rob Braddock, who is effectively Padstow's Rick Stein of Westward Ho!, except Rob actually plucks massive sums of his own hard-earned cash out of his pocket and pumps it directly back into the local community. He even recently bought a local car park that the greedy council was planning to slap pay-and-display meters on, making it completely free for everyone and securing his status as a local superhero.

Now, apart from the slightly eye-watering holidaymaker drink prices, the man is deeply respected by every local in town for keeping the soul of the village alive. Sure, paying a couple of extra quid for a pint stings a bit, but where else in England can you get a freezing cold lager with a world-class sunset right on the seafront edge?

Now, I did not actually manage to fish as many times as my inner obsessive wanted, but  Sam was well up for a dawn raid on Monday morning. Sadly, the sea was an absolute desert and we did not manage so much as a nibble between us for our efforts.

However, the father-and-son bonding time was worth every single minute, as getting out on that vast, empty expanse of sand opens him up in ways a living room sofa never could. Out there, away from screens and noise, we just walk for miles and have the most brilliant, completely random chats about life.

The trek to the mark and back clocked in at a staggering 15,000 steps, but when you are almost the only soul standing on a massive open beach, it feels like stepping into an entirely different universe. 

It works absolute wonders for the mental health, purging all the corporate stress and leaving you feeling completely reborn.

Naturally, as I sit here typing this back in reality, I am suffering from a massive, soul-crushing post-holiday comedown, which is only to be expected after a week like that. 

But looking back at the photos of those pristine coastlines makes the impending return to work just about bearable.

On another morning session, the wind was completely non-existent and the sea was as flat and glassy as a kitchen table. Standard fishing logic dictates that bass hate these conditions and will hide until the waves start crashing to disorientate the baitfish, but standard logic clearly does not apply in North Devon.

The crease in the water at this mark is so ridiculously feature-filled that the fish simply cannot resist hanging around in the deep eddies. I cast a sidewinder lure out into the seam, let it sink, and within thirty minutes, a hard-fighting bass absolutely hammered it on the drop.

We were immediately locked in another thrilling scrap on the light lure tackle, with the fish fighting like a heavyweight boxer all the way to the shoreline. It gave absolutely everything it had, stripping drag and thrashing in the shallow foam before I finally got my hands around its tail.

I was almost tempted to pull out the tape measure to see if it was a personal best, but holding it felt a bit hollow, and it was not quite the meal size I’d want to take home anyway. So, without any fuss, I slid it back into the cool water and watched it dart away into the blue to fight another day.

I fished on for another couple of glorious, peaceful hours without a single hit, but I could not have cared less if I tried. Standing on that shore under the morning sun was one of those rare, perfectly still moments in life that you lock away in your brain to treasure forever.

There were also quite a few massive fish leaping completely out of the water further out, with a few of them looking suspiciously like giant mullet—which led to a heated debate over whether mullet actually jump like bass, or if they were just mocking my lures. I switched to surface poppers to try and coax them into a explosive topwater strike, but time caught up with me and the mid-morning curfew meant I had to reel in.

That was the precise moment I made the spectacularly boneheaded decision to take a "shortcut" back across the Royal North Devon Golf Club. For those unfamiliar, it is located on the 650-acre common land of the Northam Burrows and holds the crown as the oldest golf course in England still playing over its original historic site.

What I foolishly failed to account for was the endless labyrinth of gorse bushes, hidden ditches, and protective fencing that stands between the fairways and freedom. I ended up doubling back on myself about four times in the blistering heat, turning a sensible 15,000-step stroll into a punishing 23,000-step survival march. 

Who on earth ever started the rumour that fishing is a lazy man's hobby clearly never walked nearly ten miles through a sand-dune golf course while dodging stray Titleist balls and carrying a backpack. But despite the blisters and the aching legs, it was another utterly fantastic North Devon holiday that reminded us why we love this place so much.

The kids had a absolute whale of a time messing about on the beach, while the wife and I spent most of the drive home debating when the big permanent move down south will actually happen. It is supposed to be another glorious, sunny week down there next week, and I must admit I am green with envy thinking about my brother living the dream while I sit at a desk.

It really does feel like a magical, untouched little corner of England from a bygone era, where life moves a bit slower and the fish hit hard. Until next time, North Devon—"The Real Newey" will be back very soon to reclaim his crown.