Warwickshire Avon - Bailiffs and Bedlam

There is, I’m often asked, a reason why I remain gloriously absent from the glowing circus tent that is social media. The answer is quite simple really: self-preservation. Many moons ago back when phones were for ringing people and a “stream” meant something with water and trout in it I decided I didn’t particularly want my existence narrated in real time to strangers who felt the need to comment on it while eating toast in their pants. 

From the outside looking in it all appears rather… consuming. Facebook, Tik-Tok, Instagram an endless digital village green where everyone is shouting, nobody is listening, and somewhere in the corner a man is angrily arguing about the correct way to hold a carp.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely immune to the odd pang of jealousy. Some of the fish that appear on these platforms are the sort that would make a saint swear. 

Huge great slabs of whiskered magnificence that look like they’ve been fed on protein shakes and small livestock. Of course I’m jealous any angler with a pulse would be. But attached to these aquatic triumphs is always a curious side order of vitriol. 

Perfect strangers furiously debating rigs, baits, ethics, lunar cycles and the moral integrity of a landing net. It’s a bit like watching a pub argument except everyone is typing and nobody has spilled a pint yet.

And then there are the dietary announcements. For reasons known only to the internet, people now feel compelled to inform the world about their digestive relationship with the “carnivore diet”. I do not wish to know this. I barely wish to know this about close family members, let alone Trevor from Doncaster who has been eating nothing but steak since February and would like to discuss the consequences. Angling used to involve fish, rivers and the occasional thermos of tea. Now it appears to involve gastrointestinal updates and motivational quotes over pictures of kettles.

Instagram, of course, is a different kettle of filtered fish entirely. A magical land where everyone lives a flawless life, owns immaculate tackle, and appears permanently bathed in golden evening sunlight even at half past eleven on a Tuesday morning. Reality, as we know, is rather less glamorous. I remember once while zander fishing on the canal, quietly minding my own business and contemplating a sandwich of questionable freshness, when a young woman arrived at the aqueduct car park with the sort of purpose normally reserved for bomb disposal teams.

Out came a paddleboard. Out came a wetsuit. Out came a phone attached to a stick that probably cost more than my first rod. She paddled precisely fifty yards into the middle of the aqueduct, posed heroically against the skyline for several photographs, and then paddled straight back again, packed everything into the car and drove off. I can only assume that somewhere online a caption appeared reading something along the lines of: “Morning paddle — five miles of peaceful canal vibes ✨.” Meanwhile the only witness, a slightly baffled angler with a flask and a couple of Zander rods, was left wondering if he’d just watched Cinderella arrive at the ball and leave before the buffet opened.

Still, each to their own. The world is a broad church and some of its members apparently enjoy photographing themselves pretending to exercise. Personally, I prefer fishing.

Which brings us neatly to another smash-and-grab sortie down at what I affectionately call Warwickshire Avon’s Shanghai Pudong an industrious little stretch where curfews are obeyed, barbel occasionally make questionable life choices, and the river seems to have recovered somewhat from the dreaded oxygen crash that knocked things sideways for a while. Word from the match yesterday was that a few barbel had shown themselves again, which is always encouraging. Rivers heal in their own time, and with the rain we’ve had lately the fish tend to shuffle about looking for nicer accommodation. Bit like anglers really, only with fewer folding chairs.

Last time I visited, things kicked off gloriously as the light faded, the sort of frantic spell where rods thump, reels complain and you begin to suspect the fish have collectively agreed to ruin your evening in the most delightful way possible. Naturally I returned armed with exactly the same cunning plan.

A 15mm robin red pellet. A paste wrap. A little PVA bag of freebies for good measure. The angling equivalent of ordering the same meal at a restaurant because it didn’t poison you last time.

Anyway I rolled into the car park just as the bailiff was hauling his dog out the motor, ready for its evening patrol like some sort of furry fisheries enforcement officer. We had a quick natter, the usual exchange of fishing wisdom (and mild exaggeration), before both of us wandered up toward the river. I plonked myself into one of the pegs opposite the houses. Not exactly my dream swim you know the sort, where you feel like you’re fishing in someone’s back garden but the fish clearly hadn’t read my preference list because that’s where they were hanging about.

The bailiff let the dog stretch its legs while I got the rods sorted and a bait in the drink. It was one of those slow starts where the river looks suspiciously innocent, like butter wouldn’t melt in its flow. Eventually, just as the bailiff wandered back up the bank toward me, the rod gave a proper whack and folded over like it had just remembered an unpaid electricity bill. A chub had absolutely nailed it. After a short but lively scrap a very respectable fish slid into the net. Job done !!

With that fish returned and the bailiff heading back toward his car, I glanced at the clock and realised I had less than 45 minutes before curfew. On this stretch that means rods out half an hour after dusk, which is normally about the time things actually start happening. Typical fishing logic really. Luckily the fish hadn’t read the rule book either because the swim suddenly switched on like someone had flicked a light switch.

What followed was one of those glorious little feeding spells where you barely get settled again before the rod tip tries to launch itself into the river. In the space of that short window I managed another four chub, with the final one tipping the scales at a very tidy five pounds. Proper river scrap merchants too  the sort that make you wonder if they’ve been secretly lifting weights in the margins.

One odd thing though: after every fish the hair rig seemed to be getting longer. At first I thought I was imagining it, but no the chub were hitting the bait so hard they were actually stretching the hair. By the end of the session it must have grown nearly two inches. Not that it mattered much, because the bites were so ridiculous the fish were practically hooking themselves while I stood there grinning like an idiot.

No barbel graced the net this time, but honestly I wasn’t too bothered. It was one of those classic smash-and-grab sessions where everything just comes together for a short burst of action. Add in a howling wind that looked like it was trying to relocate half the riverside trees to the next county and it somehow made the whole thing even more enjoyable.

It’s a real shame the season’s nearly done because the fish are clearly in the mood for a proper feed. Still, if this session was anything to go by, they’re finishing the season exactly how anglers like it  slightly chaotic, wildly entertaining, and just long enough to leave you wishing you had another hour.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.49

It was one of those clear Warwickshire evenings when the Avon moves like a thoughtful old philosopher, slow, green, and apparently pondering the meaning of worms. I had settled into my usual swim just below the bend where the reeds droop into the current like bored spectators at a county cricket match. The target, as always, was barbel those whiskered torpedoes of the riverbed, equal parts muscle and mischief.

Traditionalists will tell you that barbel fishing requires little more than patience, luncheon meat, and a spiritual acceptance that the fish are almost certainly laughing at you from beneath a snag.

But the modern world moves on.

Recently, while enjoying a cup of tea of such heroic strength it could have stripped varnish, I stumbled across news of the Royal Navy's 300 million Dragonfire laser system a device capable of striking objects with extraordinary precision using concentrated light.

Apparently it costs about £10 to fire the laser to shoot down a drone, which is rather remarkable when you consider that the usual solution involves launching a missile that costs something in the region of one million quid.

Naturally, my first thought was not of naval defence. (boy we need it)

My first thought was: I wonder if that would help with barbel.

Consider the possibilities.

You’ve located a proper Avon specimen one of those great bronze-backed fellows that sits beneath the far-bank roots like a nightclub bouncer who’s seen it all before. Normally the process involves a careful cast, a well-placed lead, and a quiet prayer to the patron saint of anglers.

But imagine instead a discreet tripod-mounted laser array beside the tackle box.

A gentle beam across the water… just enough to illuminate the precise feeding lane of His Whiskered Majesty. No splashing leads. No tangled rigs. Just pure, scientific piscatorial persuasion.

One could even imagine several practical applications.

• Precision bait warming gently heating a cube of luncheon meat to release maximum aroma into the glide.
• Snag trimming a tidy zap to that one offending twig that eats every rig you send downstream.
• Barbel encouragement—a polite flash of light to suggest that yes, dinner is indeed served and located conveniently near your hooklink.

Of course the purists would object.

They always do.

“Next you’ll be fishing with satellites,” they’ll mutter, while threading yet another heroic cube of cheese paste onto a hook roughly the size of farm machinery. 

But anglers have always embraced technology. Carbon rods, braided lines, bite alarms that scream like startled smoke detectors, and bait boats, bait boats FFS, The slope has been slippery for years.

And somewhere down that slope there may one day be a man on the Warwickshire Avon quietly adjusting the targeting optics on a portable directed-energy platform.

Not to harm the fish, you understand.

He simply wishes to highlight the exact patch of gravel where a twelve-pound barbel is about to pick up his bait. And when the rod finally hoops over magnificently, violently, gloriously he will play the fish in the time-honoured fashion: bent rod, slipping clutch, and a grin wide enough to concern the herons. 

Because whether you’re armed with a tin of luncheon meat or the latest in directed-energy technology, one truth remains constant on the banks of the Avon.

The barbel are still in charge.

And they know it.

Enough of that Mick, to the fishing !!!

I rolled out of work at half-four with the sort of optimism only an angler can possess—namely the belief that tonight, tonight, the river would reward my persistence instead of laughing at me like it had done for the previous forty-odd attempts. 

My destination was the stretch affectionately known as Piccadilly Circus, which in fishing terms means “good pegs” but in reality usually resembles the M25 at rush hour with rods. 

As I trundled closer, hopes high and kettle in mind, the car park appeared on the left… full. To the right, a field… also full. Cars everywhere. Blokes everywhere. Trolleys stacked so high with gear they looked capable of surviving a three-month Arctic expedition. The match had clearly just finished. I muttered something polite and respectful like “Bugger.”

Plan B it was then. Not far away, thankfully, though the riverbank field resembled a sponge that had recently fought a losing battle with the Atlantic Ocean. The track was non negotiable. 

I parked the car just inside the gate and began the usual angling ballet: rod out, bag on shoulder, bait tub under arm, trying to look like a man who absolutely meant to step in that puddle. The swim I fancied was the one that had kindly produced a cracking 5lb 10oz chub at the end of last season. A proper swim it is too features everywhere, cover down the right, a tidy crease and a little slack close in that screams “fish live here, mate.” Or at least whispers it politely.

Now with dusk less than an hour away and my curfew looming like an over-enthusiastic bailiff, I went straight in with the good stuff: a 15mm Robin Red drilled pellet, paste wrap, and a PVA bag of little pellets for company. The sort of bait package that either catches a fish or at the very least makes you feel like you know what you’re doing. Out it went, plopping nicely into the crease. Then I sat back to “chill”, which in reality meant slowly turning into an icicle while pretending the wind was refreshing. The water was a positively tropical 9.4 degrees however, decent if you ask me. 

The evening looked perfect in that picturesque sort of way clear sky, sun dipping, everything glowing beautifully. Unfortunately, the fish hadn’t been consulted. The rod tip remained as still as a taxidermy exhibit. Not even a cheeky chub pluck. Just me, the river, and the creeping suspicion I’d once again driven somewhere purely to sit in the cold. Then, about half an hour in, there was a twitch. Maybe a line bite. Maybe a fish. Maybe the river simply mocking me again. Still, it was activity, and after fifty sessions where I have tried for barbel in and amongst them you learn to celebrate even theoretical fish.

A short while later the rod tip gave two sharp bangs, the rod hooped over, and suddenly everything went into what anglers like to call “melt-down mode.” I lifted into the fish and immediately knew it wasn’t a chub. This was a barbel, and a lively one at that. The smaller barbel seem to fight like they’ve had three espressos and an argument with a swan, and this one tore about the swim, and taking line with admirable enthusiasm. Given the number of times I’d fished this stretch without so much as a polite sniff, I suspect I was more surprised than the fish.

Eventually after much puffing, muttering, and pretending I was in control the fish slid over the net cord. “A fish! A fish!” I may or may not have said out loud like a Victorian naturalist discovering a new species. And not just any fish either: a barbel, and my first from this stretch after what felt like roughly seventeen geological eras of effort.

With darkness closing in and my curfew ticking loudly in my head, I conducted the world’s fastest photoshoot. The phone flash did well, though the riverbank lighting could generously be described as “mysterious gloom.” The barbel was returned after resting, the tackle sorted, and I legged it back across the soggy field like a man who had finally achieved redemption, whilst leaving Nic from Avon Angling a voice message. 

Nearly Fifty sessions it had taken. Fifty. But as I drove home, smug grin firmly attached, I realised something important: sometimes persistence pays off… and sometimes it just makes the eventual barbel taste even sweeter. Figuratively speaking of course. The barbel was fine. I, however, was absolutely buzzing. 🎣another smash and grab session that went to plan. Only a few days left, why the heck is it always the same every season, the bigger fish seem to show themselves just as the drawbridge goes up. 

Mill Cottage Eardiston - Teme Time and Therapy

Mill Cottage on the banks of the River Teme has become less a fishing destination and more a decompression chamber. You arrive carrying the invisible rucksack of life deadlines, expectations, minor irritations about supermarket self-checkouts and by the time the kettle’s boiled you’re discussing river levels as if they are matters of national importance. The door shuts, and with it shuts the world of diary makers and “just circling back” emails. Out there it’s all terribly urgent. In here it’s simply, “Yorkshire Tea or something stronger?”

Now this time it wasn’t young Sam bounding about with November optimism and frostbitten fingers. No, this was old Simon’s shift. Sixty this year, which seems frankly outrageous given that in my mind we are both still roughly thirty-five and indestructible. 

Simon is what I describe as a high flyer. Not the budget airline type, but the corporate variety. His phone usually vibrates with the urgency of global consequence. I still don’t truly understand what he does. He’s explained it. I’ve nodded. There were graphs mentioned. Possibly stakeholders. All I know is it commands a large salary, larger expectations and even larger tax bills. At Mill Cottage, however, his greatest responsibility was not dropping the bait tub lid into the margins.

We’d roll up late Friday afternoon at Mill Cottage on the banks of the River Teme, unload the mountain of “essential” tackle (half of which never sees daylight) and have a proper go for a barbel into dark. No messing about, rods out, eyes on the tips, that hopeful last-light feeling where every knock could be the one. Once fully convinced we’d given it our best tactical effort, we’d pack down and head into Tenbury Wells for a curry and a pub purely for recovery purposes, obviously before retreating to the cottage to put the world to rights over a nightcap or two.

Saturday would begin with Simon producing a full English of such substance it required a sit-down afterwards. Then a full day on the river, no distractions, just us, the flow, and whatever the Teme fancied offering up. Saturday evening? No plan whatsoever. That was the beauty of it. We’d see where the mood took us more fishing, more food in the town, or just more solving of global issues from the comfort of a cottage sofa.

Simon would head off sometime Sunday as he had other engagements important ones, no doubt involving words I don’t understand and I’d stay on, fishing as long as it felt right. If it was fishing well, I might linger into dusk. If not, I’d pack up and head home to gently disturb the wife and pretend I hadn’t enjoyed every minute of the escape.

Loose plans, basically. And like all loose plans on a fishing weekend, entirely subject to change over the course of it.

The river was fining down nicely, which for anglers is the equivalent of a chef announcing the oven is at exactly the right temperature. When Sam and I fished it back in November it had more colour than I prefer and the air temperature could have preserved meat it was baltic. This time it was milder, almost civilised, and I dared to hope for a bit more clarity in the water. You don’t ask for miracles on the Teme. You ask for half a foot of visibility and a fighting chance.

There was, of course, an outside chance of a barbel. There is always an outside chance of a barbel. It is that outside chance which justifies packing like you’re relocating permanently. So along with the barbel rod went the usual trotting gear because if the river invites you to run a float through a glide, you accept politely and the lighter feeder rod with the maggot feeder, purely on the sensible basis that catching something is preferable to catching nothing. I have reached an age where I appreciate pragmatism.

The joy of these trips isn’t measured in bites per hour. It’s measured in conversation per kettle boil. Simon and I have known each other for many years now, the sort of years that slip by at an alarming rate. We’ve both been busy in our own ways, him flying high in whatever stratosphere he inhabits, me navigating my own currents. These weekends are scarce. That scarcity makes them valuable. There is something medicinal about standing side by side, watching a river move at its own pace, neither of you needing to be anywhere else.

We talked about work, of course. You can’t entirely empty the rucksack without unpacking it a bit. But the Teme has a way of shrinking problems to a manageable size. A missed opportunity sounds less dramatic when you’re retying a hooklength. A looming meeting loses its menace when a robin is inspecting your bait tray. 

Simon, who normally operates at a tempo somewhere between brisk and frantic and is probably up there with the biggest carbon footprint, visibly slowed. 

His shoulders dropped. His sentences shortened. He began to comment on the light on the water rather than the volatility of markets.

The cottage itself played its part. Good food, better drink, and that pleasant tiredness that only fresh air can manufacture. 

There is a particular satisfaction in eating heartily after a day outside, even if the fish have not exactly queued up to meet you. 

We laughed about November’s baltic conditions, about numb fingers and the complex tasting notes of a 15 year old malt, and agreed that this milder spell felt like a generous concession from the weather gods.

We approached the river with quiet optimism. The barbel rod stood there like a promise. The trotting rod offered rhythm and involvement. The maggot feeder sat ready as the dependable option. Nothing extravagant. Nothing forced. Just two old friends doing what they have done for many a year: watching, waiting, occasionally striking, often reflecting.

There is a peculiar magic in temporarily stepping into that “other world.” No traffic noise. No relentless ping of notifications. Just the steady push of current against gravel and the occasional plop that may or may not mean anything at all. Time stretches differently by a river. An hour can feel like five minutes, or five minutes like an hour, depending entirely on whether your tip has twitched.

And as always happens on such trips, the scoreboard becomes secondary. The true haul is measured in laughter, in the shared silence of a long glide, in the understanding that although life grows busier and birthdays gather pace, you can still carve out a pocket of stillness if you try.

So we fished. We talked. We unwound. We let the river do what rivers have always done while we remembered, briefly, how to do the same.

Well, how did we do ?

There are weekends on the river when everything goes to plan, and then there are weekends on the Teme when the fish appear to have held a committee meeting and unanimously agreed to ignore you. This particular outing fell firmly into the latter category. 

The river was so clear you could probably have read the date on a coin at the bottom, which is wonderful for scenic photography but about as useful for catching fish as a chocolate teapot. Still, armed with blind optimism, a feeder full of groundbait and a lobworm that had clearly not signed up for this adventure, I lobbed out and waited like a man expecting miracles.

After a fair while of staring at the tip and contemplating life’s big questions — such as why fish seem to develop PhDs in angling avoidance the moment you arrive  the rod finally nodded. Lo and behold, a barbel! One single, glorious, probably slightly confused barbel that had clearly taken a wrong turn at Worcester and ended up eating my worm. I’d love to say it was pure skill, but in truth I suspect luck, divine intervention, or possibly a momentary lapse in judgement by the fish.

Simon, meanwhile, endured what can only be described as a character-building session. He managed the odd grayling, which fought gamely enough, but at one point hooked something considerably more interesting which promptly made its escape in a manner best described as “emotionally damaging.” There was a brief moment of silence, followed by the universal angler phrase: “That was a decent one that was.”

I had a little wander into a very nice looking swim on the BAA section and had a dabble with the maggot feeder. The swim looked perfect. The sort of swim you stare at and think, “Yes… fish definitely live here.” Unfortunately the fish seemed to have moved house, gone on holiday, or simply decided they had other commitments. Not even dusk  normally the grand opening ceremony of the evening feeding frenzy bothered to produce so much as a twitch.

In hindsight the gin-clear water probably didn’t help. The fish could see absolutely everything. Hooks, line, feeders, and quite possibly the mild desperation in my facial expression. Still, I did employ a cunning tactic by baiting the swim and leaving it to rest for a while, which either encouraged the barbel or simply gave it enough time to forget what a hook looks like.

Despite the fishing being what scientists would classify as “a bit tricky,” the weekend itself was a roaring success. There was excellent food, even better grog, and plenty of the sort of laughter that usually begins with someone saying “Do you remember when…” before descending into total nonsense.

Perhaps most impressively of all, Simon didn’t mention work once all weekend, which is roughly as rare as catching three barbel before breakfast on the Teme in low clear water. There were tunes playing, stories flowing, and the general feeling that even when the fish aren’t cooperating, being beside a river with good company is still a pretty fine way to spend a couple of days.

So yes, one barbel, a handful of grayling, a bonus dace, and a story about the one that got away. Not exactly the stuff of record books but certainly the sort of weekend that reminds you why anglers keep coming back for more punishment.