Warwickshire Avon - Argentocracy and Argy-Bargy

Now some itches can be ignored. A mosquito bite, perhaps. The urge to reorganise the tackle shed, if you've finally admitted you're never going to use that bent bankstick again. 

But the itch to spend an evening chasing a mythical Warwickshire Avon weir-pool barbel? That's the sort of thing that keeps you staring out of the window every ten minutes while convincing yourself the weather forecast has probably changed since you last checked it.

Unfortunately, England had a World Cup semi-final to play. Or, as it turned out, ninety minutes proving that football managers can overthink things even faster than anglers choosing between three perfectly good hooklengths. 

I should have known better. Hope has caught out more fishermen than badly tied knots ever have. There was, however, one bright spot. I'd treated myself to a couple of bottles of McEwan's Champion, which, in my entirely unbiased opinion, remains one of the finest beer ever brewed. 

Rich, well-being boosting and full of character, it did everything asked of it. Sadly, it couldn't inspire eleven blokes in white shirts to remember the opposition's goal was still at the other end.

If anything, the beer showed more ambition than England did after taking the lead with Anthony Gordon's 55th-minute cracker. Every sip promised excitement, while every backwards pass suggested someone had mistaken a semi-final for a pre-season friendly. 

Even the Wife looked as though she wanted someone to have a shot. By the final whistle the bottle was empty, England were out and I was left wondering whether I'd enjoyed the beer more than the football because at least one of them had gone forward all evening. 

McEwan's Champion finished strongly. England finished like a bloke arriving at the pub to discover the lights are on, the chairs are upside down and the landlord's already counting the till.

The first hour wasn't bad. England looked lively despite the scrapy argy-bargy nature, and moved the ball well and almost gave the impression they fancied winning the thing. 

As every angler knows, that's usually the moment you reach for the landing net before the float's actually gone under. Then someone clearly shouted, "Right lads... that'll do." Not behind the bus. Not near the bus. Properly parked it, switched the engine off, folded the mirrors in and settled down with a flask while Argentina wandered round the outside looking only mildly inconvenienced.

Watching it unfold was like spotting the biggest barbel you've ever seen feeding confidently under your rod tip, only to reel in because you didn't want to disturb it. Football calls it game management. Anglers tend to use slightly stronger language. As if that wasn't cautious enough, Tuchel then decided the answer was to send on three defenders. That's rather like hooking the fish of your dreams before swapping your size 8 hook for a paperclip because it looks less intimidating. You half expected the fourth official to hold up a sign reading, "No more attacking."

By this point England looked less interested in scoring another goal than preserving one they hadn't quite finished scoring in the first place. You half expected them to ask the referee if they could just keep possession until penalties became available.

It reminded me of every helpful soul who's ever appeared behind you on the riverbank. "You won't catch one from there." Curiously, they're normally carrying an empty landing net and wondering why they haven't had a bite since breakfast. Advice, like cheap groundbait, is usually available in generous quantities.

Meanwhile the itch to fish was becoming unbearable. Every sideways pass was another nudge from my conscience saying, "You could be sitting beside that weir pool with a flask, a barbel rod and absolutely no idea what's about to happen." Which, when you think about it, still sounded like a better tactical plan than passing backwards until everyone forgot where the goal was.

The mythical Warwickshire Avon barbel has one enormous advantage over England. It doesn't spend half an hour protecting a lead it hasn't actually got yet. Mind you, if barbel employed football managers they'd probably insist on shoaling in the slack water until dusk before deciding feeding was too risky.

By now I'd mentally packed the car twice. The rods were assembled in my imagination, the bait was prepared in my head and I'd almost convinced myself I'd remembered everything. The only thing actually happening in the living room was another backwards pass and a commentator explaining why it was all very sensible. At least barbel are honest. They either make a fool of you or they don't. They don't spend thirty minutes passing the pellet backwards before disappearing into the reeds while someone tells you it's all part of the plan.

Next time the itch arrives, I'm going fishing. If I blank, I'll still have spent the evening watching flowing water instead of watching a manager turn England into the footballing equivalent of a bivvy with the zip firmly done up. Blanking somehow feels less disappointing when nobody interviews the chub afterwards. Now some places have a habit of getting under your skin. This weir pool is one of them, quietly nagging away until eventually you stop pretending you're going somewhere else and simply give in. Rivers can be remarkably persuasive without saying a word.

For all the years I've wandered this stretch, I've probably fished this swim no more than a handful of times for a Barbel. Strange really, because every visit convinces me there's a proper fish living there. Every visit also convinces the fish that today would be an excellent day to remain somewhere completely different.

The river slipped over the weir with that steady, reassuring murmur that persuades anglers to believe all sorts of unlikely things. It looked every inch a barbel swim. Mind you, so have plenty of others where I've carefully introduced two pounds of bait to a family of very grateful minnows.

There was enough pace, enough depth and enough mystery to keep the imagination busy. If confidence alone caught fish, I'd have needed a bigger landing net years ago. Sadly, rivers insist on introducing reality into the conversation. So, were there any barbel willing to sample my offerings? There was only one way to answer that question, and it certainly wasn't by standing on the bank looking thoughtful. Anglers call that watercraft. Everyone else calls it standing about.

Sadly there are evenings when the angling gods smile upon you... and there are evenings when they point, laugh, and nick your rig. I rocked up at 20:45 to find a couple of anglers cars at the stretch, but the weir was gloriously vacant, as if Neptune himself had reserved it under my name.

The place had changed since my last visit too. A tree had spectacularly folded itself in half, kindly dropping a leafy penthouse over the crease that positively screamed, "Big barbel live here!" Naturally, the first cast into paradise found a snag so committed it was probably paying council tax, and I was soon waving goodbye to lead, hooklink and a small chunk of confidence.

Plan B, a cast just to the right, landed with that beautiful donk every river angler dreams about. Within half an hour the tip gave the unmistakable chub clang, enough to get the pulse up before reality politely tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me I wasn't the guest of honour tonight.Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening than sitting beside a weir with its endless hiss washing the nonsense of the day downstream. Ten minutes from my front door, a cracking little hideaway, and exactly the sort of place built for cheeky smash-and-grab in to dusk sessions.

Mrs Barbel avoided the rendezvous this time, no doubt claiming she'd already washed her hair. Never mind, my dear... I'll be back, and next time you might not be quite so camera shy.

Warwickshire Avon - Bombast and Balderdash

There are two things the Midlands does exceptionally well. One is roundabouts that lead to more roundabouts, and the other is Indian restaurants. Every village, town and trading estate seems to have one these days, which is marvellous really because it gives me an endless list to work through before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Now last week's victim... sorry, destination... was the recently opened Nura Indian Restaurant in 'literally' the Heart of England. According to the website it's "award-winning," although it wasn't immediately obvious whether that was for the food, the décor or surviving without air-conditioning during the hottest week since Noah started looking at boat plans.

My old mate Phippo came along for the ride. He'll eat absolutely anything providing somebody else recommends it first, then spends the next hour telling you why he should've ordered something different.

The menu landed with a thud that nearly bent the table. I reckon there were close to sixty different main courses which is wonderful if you enjoy choice but slightly terrifying when you've already spent twenty minutes deciding whether to have a lime and soda, or as it's bring your own, nipping to the local shop for a Cobra. 

Eventually I homed in on the "Home Style Curries" section. The Khasia Lamb caught my eye immediately; melt-in-the-mouth lamb, fresh diced bullet chillies, green peppers and Madras hot... exactly the sort of sentence that makes me ignore all common sense and any concerns my digestive system may have lodged.

Naturally, I couldn't stop there. The Nura Special Kebab also found its way onto the order because, let's face it, if you're going to make questionable decisions you may as well commit properly.

Across the table, Phippo chose the Garlic Butter Shrimp followed by the Aloo Gosht Bhuna. The menu described it as a cherished homestyle classic packed with flavour in every bite, which sounded lovely until reality wandered in wearing muddy boots.

Before the food even arrived we'd noticed one slight issue. 

It was thirty degrees outside and approximately the surface temperature of Mercury inside, with a couple of industrial fans valiantly attempting to cool the place in the same way you'd tackle a forest fire with a Super Soaker. 

Was there aircon in the other bit of the restaurant ? well all I know is no cold air reached us just the pleasant waft of another sizzling dish being brought to the table. To be fair, the restaurant itself looked smart. Nice décor, pleasant atmosphere and friendly staff especially one called Elvis, but after half an hour my polo-shirt had become so attached to my back that we were practically in a civil partnership.

Then the food arrived.

My kebab was perfectly acceptable without being anything I'd be boring the grandchildren about in years to come. Pleasant enough, nicely cooked, but hardly the culinary equivalent of discovering buried treasure. The Khasia Lamb, however, was rather enjoyable. The lamb was beautifully tender, the chillies gave it a proper kick and it delivered exactly the level of heat I'd been hoping for.

There was just one observation and it's hard to unsee once you've seen it.

You see there appeared to be enough ghee and oil floating on top of my curry to keep a struggling third-world country's electricity grid ticking over until Christmas. If someone had dropped a wick into the bowl we'd probably still be able to see the restaurant glowing from space.

Phippo wasn't quite so fortunate. His Bhuna apparently lacked the rich depth and comforting punch promised by the menu and instead arrived somewhere between "quite pleasant" and "is that it?"

That's the funny thing about Indian restaurants. Two people can sit opposite each other eating supposedly similar dishes and leave with completely different opinions, rather like supporting England at football.

Would I go back?

Actually... yes.

Not because it was perfect, but because that menu is simply ridiculous in size and curiosity usually gets the better of me. There are still another fifty-odd dishes waiting to either delight me or separate another few quid from my wallet.

Phippo, on the other hand, won't be returning. That's fair enough because if we all liked the same restaurants there'd be queues longer than the NHS waiting list. No matter. My brother is due up from Devon before too long and I suspect he'll happily volunteer as my next accomplice. Besides, it's always easier blaming someone else when you've ordered enough food for six people.

Whilst all this culinary excitement was unfolding, the wife pinged me a photograph.

There she was dangling her feet in the swimming pool with the accompanying message, "We should have done this sooner."

Easy for her to say.

She's not the one who winces every time the water meter spins faster than a fruit machine, knowing full well the turd slingers at Severn Trent's finest accountants are already calculating how much they'll be relieving me of next month. Judging by recent bills, I'm fairly sure they're filling Rutland Water from my back garden.

Still, when I got home there was only one sensible course of action.

Pool.

"Fancy a gin and tonic, dear?" she asked.

Now there's a question with only one correct answer. Saying no would've been like refusing free bacon or turning down a winning lottery ticket. Before long we were sat beside the pool watching the sun disappear with condensation dripping down oversized sunglasses and not a care in the world. Sometimes the simple evenings end up being the best ones.

As I floated about trying not to think about the next water bill, my mind wandered somewhere infinitely more dangerous.

Fishing !!

It always does, and with the evening temperatures so much cooler as I type this, in-fact 10 degrees less at 9.00pm than the same time last week post curry I fancied a quick smash and grab session. 

The other week you see I'd wandered over to a local weir pool for a nose about. No rods, no bait, no net... just a quiet mooch while pretending I wasn't already planning another session. Standing above the water, I was peering down hoping to spot a decent chub or two. They were there all right, swaggering about the place like the local school bullies who've never been told no.

Then I saw them.

Two glorious barbel.

Those unmistakable deep bronze flanks and bright crimson fins gliding effortlessly through the oxygenated water. They moved together so closely they could've been joined by an invisible piece of elastic. 

Every now and then a chub would muscle in as though it owned the place before the pair casually drifted aside, completely unbothered by the aquatic hooligans.

I stood there for ages simply watching.

It's amazing how quickly a ten-minute stroll turns into forty-five minutes when fish are involved. 

Dog walkers probably assumed I was conducting important environmental research rather than staring into a river muttering, "Go on... just one more lap."

Unfortunately I'd brought absolutely no tackle with me.

Not a rod.

Not a landing net.

Not even a crust of bread.

Just me, my stupidity and two magnificent barbel swimming around completely unaware they'd just been promoted to the top of my hit list. They'd escaped this time purely because I'd arrived hopelessly under-equipped.

But don't you worry, lads.

Your cards have most definitely been marked.

Or have they?

Because if fishing has taught me anything over the years, it's that the moment you become convinced you've got a fish's number, (Barbara the Barbel epic fail anyone ?) it promptly reminds you who's really in charge. But you have to try don't you !!

Now France and Spain had been knocking it about for the best part of half an hour by the time I wandered down to the weir. The roar of the water was drowning out the commentary, so the trusty little JBL speaker earned its place in the rucksack once again. Priorities and all that.

There was already someone in residence, a young lad called Mikey, fishing the tail end of the weir. I'd recognised him from a YouTube video catching some proper barbel, but thought it best not to start with, "Aren't you off the internet?" Instead, I quietly slipped into the main pool where I'd seen a couple of barbel mooching about on an earlier visit.

Mikey told me this was his third crack at the swim and so far it'd only surrendered chub, although they weren't exactly tiddlers. He wasn't filming this time and was more than happy for me to fish a little way upstream. Always nice when common sense wins over elbows.

Nothing fancy on the business end. Homemade paste wrapped around Robin Red pellets, a little PVA bag of freebies and a cast into the steadier water away from the main boil. There's another swim that just screams rolling meat, but getting to it without an acrobatic qualification is another matter altogether.

About fifteen minutes later the rod tip gave a proper whack before springing back. Then it nodded again and this time stayed bent. Straight away it had all the hallmarks of a decent chub, plenty of head shaking and just enough attitude to remind me why they can still be good fun on a Harrison 1.75lb rod.

As I slipped it back, Mikey wandered over for a look. "Barbel next," he said with a grin. I liked his optimism, even if the fish hadn't read the script yet.

Ten minutes later all hell broke loose. The rod went from standing politely to looking like it'd been attached to a passing tugboat. It felt every inch a barbel... for about four glorious seconds... before everything went slack. That's not something Mr Rubber Lips does very often, so I stood there muttering a few words that definitely wouldn't make the editor's cut.

Mikey packed up shortly afterwards, leaving me to fish into dusk. Before he disappeared he said, "At least you know they're there. It'll come good." I hoped he wasn't just being polite.

The chub, meanwhile, were doing their level best to keep me occupied, with another couple deciding that homemade paste was simply too good to refuse. Fine fish, but they do have an uncanny knack of turning up exactly when you're waiting for something with whiskers.

Then, a good half hour after darkness settled in, it finally happened. That slow, deliberate three-foot pull after one big thump that every barbel angler dreams about. No violence, no theatrics, just pure confidence. I lifted into it and this time everything stayed firmly attached.

What followed was a cracking fight under the beam of the head torch, with the fish using every bit of flow it could find. Eventually the net slipped underneath a lovely barbel that looked remarkably like the size of the fish I'd watched cruising the pool before. Target achieved, I'd say.

After a quick trophy shot and a good ten minutes resting in the margins in the oxygenated weir pool now guarded by bats, it powered back into the darkness as though nothing had happened. Funny old things, barbel. They can make you question every decision you've ever made one minute, then have you planning the next trip before you've even packed the landing net away.

That's why I enjoy these short sessions so much. A few hours by the river, a couple of greedy chub, one proper barbel and a head full of fresh air does far more good than sitting indoors watching the mad mad world 🤯 tie itself in knots. I still can't sit behind motionless rods for long, but when they finally pull round like that, it's worth every minute.

The River Arrow - Gonktastrophication and Gobbledegook

There are people who go to spas, there are people who meditate on mountain tops, and then there are anglers. Personally, I find that two hours sat next to a river that most people would mistake for a drainage ditch does far more for my wellbeing than someone waving scented candles under my nose while whale music plays in the background. The fish are almost secondary; it's the glorious silence between casts where life's endless nonsense packs its bags and wanders off for a bit.

Even thinking about fishing works wonders. Half the therapy comes from sorting tackle the night before, convincing yourself you've finally cracked it, only to spend twenty minutes the following morning wondering where you put the disgorger that was definitely in the side pocket yesterday.

This particular adventure centred around a new club ticket and a tiny section of the River Arrow just down from a weir that I'd never fished before. Tiny really doesn't do it justice either because you could probably stand on one bank, throw an 18mm Robin Red pellet with enough enthusiasm and collect it off the opposite bank before it had chance to sink.

Still, it's a river. Rivers have fish. That's the sort of flawless optimism that keeps anglers buying bait, tackle and memberships despite decades of overwhelming evidence suggesting fish often have other ideas.

The plan was wonderfully simple. A couple of hours after gudgeon with the trusty Cadence Wand and maggots on a size 20, while keeping the light barbel rod assembled with a lump of bread because you never know when a suicidal chub might turn up with absolutely no sense of self-preservation.



One thing that immediately caught my attention was the enormous road bridge looming overhead. Normally that would mean endless traffic noise, but somehow it was remarkably civilised, almost as if the engineers had actually known what they were doing rather than just drawing lines on the back of a Greggs sausage roll bag.

Perhaps it was advanced computer modelling. Perhaps there were acoustic specialists involved. Or perhaps one bloke simply stood underneath during construction, had a finger in the air and declared, "That'll do," before everyone went to the pub. Whatever happened, it worked. 

I found myself perched in an elevated swim peering into water so clear you could probably read a fish's thoughts. That's when the comedy really began because out from beneath some cover drifted a chub with all the caution of a Labrador in a butcher's shop.

Now chub usually possess the survival instincts of someone carrying state secrets. They'll inspect a bait from seventeen different angles, hold committee meetings with other chub and eventually reject it because your float twitched half a millimetre too enthusiastically.

This one, however, had apparently skipped every lesson at Chub Academy. It surfaced and calmly hoovered up four or five enormous pieces of floating bread as though somebody had just announced an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I almost felt sorry for the poor thing. The first cast with a hooked crust landed and before I'd even settled into my best "I've definitely got this all planned out" pose, it absolutely inhaled it without so much as filling in a risk assessment.

The fight itself was less of a battle and more of a polite escort towards the landing net. My barbel rod was complete overkill and the fish seemed fully aware that resistance would merely delay the inevitable and waste everyone's valuable morning.

Still, a chub is a chub and I'll never complain about catching one, particularly when it's volunteered for the experience. If every fish behaved like that, tackle shops would go bankrupt because nobody would ever need to upgrade anything.

Naturally I assumed there must be others. There never are.

The upstream stretch looked equally inviting, with plenty of cover and enough fishy-looking features to make you start inventing imaginary double-figure specimens. Sadly, the only thing hiding there appeared to be disappointment wearing camouflage.

With the bread experiment over, it was time for the real target species. Out came the Cadence Wand fitted with a delicate 0.25oz tip, a setup so enjoyable to use that even catching leaves feels mildly entertaining. I settled beside a darker swim shaded by overhanging branches and a few scruffy reeds. The sort of place that whispers, "There's definitely something decent in here," before immediately proving itself to be full of creatures roughly the size of your little finger.

Minnows. Endless minnows.

I've genuinely seen fewer people queueing outside a garden centre café than the number of minnows attacking my bait. They arrived in such quantities I briefly wondered whether I'd accidentally stumbled into the annual Minnow Olympics.

Every cast resulted in another frantic tap, another microscopic silver flash and another reminder that evolution occasionally produces fish with absolutely no understanding of personal space. It was like lowering a sausage roll into a school playground.

Then, at last, everything changed. Instead of the frantic machine-gun rattles came a proper clonking bite that made the tiny rod nod with genuine purpose.

Ah yes... a gudgeon.

Or as they're affectionately known in certain circles, a proper little gonk. Nothing enormous by any stretch, but chunky enough to put a smile on my face and confirm that I'd accidentally located the deepest hole in the river.

When I say deepest, let's not get carried away. If I'd fallen in I'd probably have bruised my kneecaps and mildly dampened my socks, but on this stretch of the Arrow that's practically offshore fishing.

A few more gudgeon followed and mission accomplished. Sometimes success isn't measured in pounds and ounces but by finding exactly what you came looking for without accidentally ending up in a tree.

Curiosity got the better of me though and I carried on fishing. Predictably the tiny chub turned up to audition for the role of "Future Maybe," while the minnows continued behaving like unpaid extras in a disaster movie. I trickled a few pellets downstream hoping something with shoulders might appear. Instead the river erupted into what can only be described as minnow soup, with hundreds of tiny fish charging around as though somebody had announced free parking.

The water clarity certainly wasn't helping. It was proper gin clear; not just clear, but the sort of crystal clarity where even the kingfisher probably books appointments rather than risking embarrassment.

Any sensible larger fish would wait until darkness before venturing out. Broad daylight in water like that is basically standing in the middle of Tesco wearing a fluorescent vest labelled "Please Chase Me."

Eventually I packed up and wandered over to investigate another section of the Arrow included on the new ticket. Exploring unfamiliar water is always exciting because every bend promises hidden treasures, forgotten swims or, more commonly, fresh opportunities to question your life choices.

This stretch came with a public footpath. Not just any public footpath either, but seemingly the headquarters for every dog walker within a twenty-mile radius.

Honestly, I've seen quieter high streets on Christmas Eve. Labradors, cockapoos, spaniels, terriers, things that looked suspiciously like animated mops and at least one creature that may actually have been half sofa.

One particularly enthusiastic XL Bully wannabe decided another passing dog simply had to become its best friend immediately. Its owner was rapidly disappearing into the distance while loudly inventing entirely new ways of pronouncing the dog's name.

At that point I was reminded of the old saying about only mad dogs and Englishmen going out in the midday sun. The phrase originated from British India, poking fun at the tendency for sensible locals to seek shade while stubborn Brits marched around melting like forgotten candles.

Standing there with several dozen panting dogs, blazing sunshine and dog walkers dressed in enough waterproof clothing to survive the Arctic, I began to suspect the saying remains alarmingly accurate. We really are a peculiar bunch. At least these walkers were walking their dogs early doors before it got proper hot again. 

The fishing itself may never trouble the record books, but mornings like this are exactly why I keep returning. A daft chub, a handful of gudgeon, a million minnows and enough riverside comedy to last until the next outing are worth far more than sitting indoors worrying about things that can wait.

Besides, every tiny river has another mystery waiting around the next bend. Whether it's a hidden shoal of fish, a forgotten swim or another dog called Dave refusing to come back when shouted, I'll happily go and investigate... eventually.