Warwickshire Avon - Popsicles and Polioencephalomeningomyelitis

Now, I know what you're thinking: has he finally run out of fishing things to write about (nearly 2,000 posts, by the way)? Has the lack of decent weather, cooperative fish, and reasonably priced maggots finally sent Mick completely over the edge? Well, possibly, but bear with me because I've recently watched the latest Resident Evil (2026) film, and I have to say, what an absolute belter!

This film has everything: action, monsters, spectacular special effects, and enough mayhem to make a particularly disastrous fishing session look like a gentle afternoon's relaxation. Directed by Zach Cregger, this latest instalment is a cracking piece of entertainment that feels remarkably like being dropped straight into a Resident Evil video game. In fact, it's probably the closest I've come to experiencing the excitement of the computer games I used to play back in the day without having to spend £600 on a console and another £70 on the latest release.

The film follows Bryan, a medical courier who finds himself caught up in an increasingly nightmarish situation as a zombie outbreak takes hold. Played by Austin Abrams, he's essentially an ordinary bloke having a considerably worse day than most of us. I suspect even the most disastrous fishing trip has its limits compared to what he goes through.

The special effects are brilliant, the monsters are wonderfully grotesque, and the action comes thick and fast. It genuinely feels as though you're watching somebody play a video game, with the camera pulling you along for the ride and seemingly another horrible surprise lurking around every corner.

And that's what makes it so enjoyable. There's a real sense of progression, rather like working your way through a new fishing venue. 

Except instead of discovering a hidden gravel bar or a likely-looking overhanging tree, you're discovering things that would make a pike look positively cuddly.

It also got me thinking about fishing. Imagine arriving at your favourite lake one morning, setting up your bivvy, making a nice cup of tea, and discovering that the resident carp population has been infected by some experimental Umbrella Corporation virus. 

Suddenly, that thirty-pound mirror you've been trying to catch for the last three seasons becomes the least of your worries, especially when it starts growing extra limbs and attempting to eat your landing net.

Mind you, some of the fish I've encountered over the years have looked as though they've been genetically modified already. There are one or two canal carp that could easily audition for a supporting role. Of course, there are worse things in life than losing a fish, like running for your life through a zombie-infested town, desperately searching for ammunition, and wondering whether you've remembered to lock the back door.

At least when a barbel snaps you off, you can go home, have a cup of tea, and convince yourself it was probably a double-figure fish. So my recommendation to readers is simple: put the fishing magazines down, stop checking the weather forecast, resist the temptation to buy yet another supposedly revolutionary boilie, and give Resident Evil (2026) a watch.

It's tremendous fun, beautifully put together, and a genuine treat if you enjoy the video-game style of storytelling. You might even enjoy it more than your last fishing trip, although that's not setting the bar particularly high if your last outing involved twelve hours of staring at motionless rod tips, a cold bacon sandwich, and a swim that appeared to contain absolutely no fish whatsoever.

And if you do watch it, remember one thing: if something starts moving in the margins, don't automatically assume it's a pike. It might be something considerably less welcoming. Tight lines, and try not to get bitten!

Anyway, there was a very good reason I'd brought the neoprene waders along. It appears that, increasingly, my fishing exploits involve less sitting comfortably on a chair and more standing ball-deep in the river looking like a man who's lost his dog. I'm doing more and more trotting these days, which inevitably means getting in the water and becoming at one with the fish—or, more accurately, becoming at one with the riverbed, a collection of submerged rocks, and the occasional farmer's gate.

And blimey, it was going to be cold. We'd had a proper drop in temperature this week with a few frosts, so I could only imagine the water temperature had taken a bit of a nosedive. Not exactly tropical conditions, and you weren't going to find many fish lounging around in the margins with a cocktail and a little paper umbrella.

The skies were clear, the water was clear, and conditions were about as favourable as a tax inspection or a knock on the door from the JWs. Bright sunshine, gin-clear water, and a temperature that suggested someone had left the freezer door open made it far from ideal. But then, this isn't any old peg.

This is one of those pegs that has a reputation. It's the sort of peg that, if you drew it out of a hat in a match, you'd be quietly trying to suppress a grin while everyone else congratulated themselves on drawing the end peg. It's a proper flier that makes other anglers suddenly develop an interest in the lottery of the draw bag.

Last time I fished it, I'd managed a barbel or two, which was all very nice indeed. Given the recent arctic conditions, however, I wasn't expecting a repeat performance. Barbel are lovely fish, of course, but I suspect even they have a limit to how much abuse they'll tolerate from the weather.

I wasn't asking for much—a chub or two would do nicely. And chub, let's be honest, are the McVitie's Hobnobs of the tea-dunking world. Forget your Rich Tea biscuits, which are the equivalent of a bleak: nice enough, but hardly something you'd build a fishing session around.

Chub are the elite—the SAS, the Royal Marines, and the fishy equivalent of a bloke who turns up to work in a blizzard wearing shorts and a T-shirt. When everything else has decided it's too cold to function, the chub are still there, getting on with things. While the perch are tucked up under the duvet, the dace have called in sick, and the barbel are considering early retirement, the chub are still prepared to have a go.

They're the sort of fish that look at a temperature of three degrees and say, "Is that all you've got?" At least, that's the theory. So, with the prospect of a chilly session ahead, I decided the best way to assess just how cold it was going to be was to get in the water, because apparently, that's what sensible people do.

Thermals under the jeans, neoprene waders over the top, and I was ready for action. I looked less like an angler and more like a man about to undertake a search-and-rescue operation in the North Sea. I was reasonably confident I'd be fine famous last words.

There is something rather sobering about stepping into freezing water, and your brain immediately starts asking questions that it really should have asked before you got in. "Are we sure about this? Did we really need to do this? Couldn't we have just bought some fish from Tesco?" But there's no turning back when you've got a reputation to uphold and a chub to catch.

Besides, the peg was a flier, and you don't draw a flier and then sit on the bank like a pensioner waiting for the bus. The question was, would the fish be in the mood, would the chub be feeding, and would the float dip? Or would I spend the next few hours standing in freezing water, slowly losing the will to live, while a family of swans looked on with the sort of pity normally reserved for people who wear PJs in public?

Only one way to find out. I got myself sorted, tackled up, and prepared to put the float through its paces with a little trot down the swim, a little presentation, and a little hope. Somewhere in the back of my mind, though, lingered the nagging suspicion that the only thing likely to be getting a bite that day was my toes—so, did the float dip?

Well, things started rather promisingly. A chublet on the second cast, followed by another of much the same dimensions shortly afterwards. Naturally, my mind immediately started doing what every angler's mind does in these circumstances: calculating the weight of a bumper net of fish that hadn't actually been caught yet. At this rate, I'd need a bigger landing net, possibly a wheelbarrow and a couple of willing volunteers.

And then... absolutely nothing. Not a sniff, not a twitch, not even the courtesy of a suicidal minnow having a go. Half an hour passed with the swim looking about as productive as a chocolate teapot, and I began to wonder whether those first two chublets had simply been passing through on their way to somewhere considerably more interesting.

Just as I was contemplating whether to start talking to the maggots for entertainment, Keiran emerged from the cold to do his bailiff rounds. Having apparently decided that watching me struggle was considerably more entertaining than whatever else he had planned, he settled in for a couple of hours to see how the peg was fishing, particularly with Sunday's match looming.

Now, Keiran knows this stretch and, more importantly, knows how to fish this particular peg. After a couple of tweaks to my approach, which actually made perfect sense once explained, things started to look a little more promising. I soon hooked into my first proper chub, only for the hook to pull after the fish had made a spirited bid for freedom. Wonderful. Nothing quite like hooking a decent fish to remind you that fishing is essentially an exercise in disappointment punctuated by occasional moments of excitement.

Unfortunately, I managed to lose another one during the session as well. At this point, I was beginning to suspect the fish were holding secret meetings somewhere upstream, discussing the best way to waste my time and ruin my day. 

Still, I needn't have worried too much about the escapees because the session was about to take a rather unexpected turn. Three small barbel eventually graced the net, which, considering the water temperature was hovering around a chilly seven degrees, wasn't something I'd have put money on before arriving.

Three barbel! Trotting! In crystal-clear water! With the sun shining! Quite frankly, somebody should have checked the calendar because this was beginning to feel suspiciously like summer fishing, albeit with considerably colder fingers. 

The chublets continued to put in appearances, along with a few perch and dace, all seemingly determined to make sure I didn't go home empty-handed. The maggots were clearly the flavour of the day, although I'm beginning to think they have some sort of secret agreement with the fish. I supply the maggots, they supply the entertainment, and occasionally they even let me catch something decent.

Then, completely out of the blue, the rod went round again and this time I was attached to something considerably more substantial. A proper chub, and one that certainly hadn't been skipping meals! Keiran, who had been watching proceedings, reckoned it was around four pounds. Now, I wouldn't want to question the eyesight of a matchman and baillif particularly one who can make my fishing life considerably more difficult, but I did have my suspicions.

The fish had an enormous head and was so chunky that getting my hand around it was something of a logistical challenge. Four pounds? I thought not. There was only one way to settle the matter, and that was to get it on the scales at the end of the session. Five pounds and five ounces! A proper chub and a very welcome addition to the day's proceedings. I suspect Keiran may be booking himself an appointment with the optician, although perhaps I should keep that little observation to myself until after Sunday's match.

Looking back, it was a rather strange session. Compared with the previous visit, bites were definitely at a premium, and there were moments when I wondered whether I'd picked the wrong peg, the wrong day or possibly the wrong hobby altogether. But three barbel on the trot, a cracking 5lb 5oz chub, a handful of smaller chub, perch and dace, and all this with the water barely reaching seven degrees. I'll happily take that!

I did lose a couple of decent chub, which is annoying, but that's fishing. Besides, if I'd landed everything, I'd have had nothing to moan about, and that simply wouldn't be cricket. One thing's for certain: those barbel certainly weren't reading the winter fishing manual. And as for the maggots, well, they clearly know something the rest of us don't. A very worthwhile afternoon, a cracking chub, three winter barbel and one bailiff who might need to invest in a decent pair of spectacles. What more could an angler ask for?

The Untrodden Pt.55 - Death Rows and Deambulatories

Now there are some things in life that a chap should never underestimate. The power of a well-tied knot, the importance of checking one's drag before hooking into something with the pulling power of a small tractor, and, perhaps most importantly of all, the consequences of getting on the wrong side of the Wife.

I have spent many years carefully navigating the latter, largely by keeping my head down, agreeing at appropriate intervals and developing an almost Olympic standard of selective hearing. It's a survival technique that has served me admirably, although I fear our latest visitor to the garage had not been afforded the benefit of such wisdom.

Enter Ratty McRatface.

You see in the eyes of the Wife, he had graduated from being a mildly irritating garage visitor that she spotted a day before 'the incident' to public enemy number one, and there was a price on his head that would have made a Wild West bounty hunter sit up and take notice.

His crime? eating his way through the kids advent calendars.

Not just the odd nibble here and there, mind you. No, this was a calculated, sustained and frankly quite astonishing act of festive larceny despite them being sealed individually.

The kids Advent calendars had disappeared down his greedy little gullet, leaving behind nothing but the cardboard evidence of a crime committed with the efficiency of a professional burglar.

Fifty Lindt chocolates. Gone.

And if that wasn't enough, the enormous Father Christmas, the centrepiece of the entire festive chocolate operation, had also vanished overnight.

This wasn't opportunistic thievery anymore. This was organised crime.

I suspect Ratty had been sitting somewhere in the garage rafters with chocolate smeared around his whiskers, looking like a furry little gangster who'd just pulled off the Hatton Garden job. 

One can only imagine the smugness. He'd probably been planning his next raid while the rest of us were contemplating the financial implications of replacing the entire festive chocolate inventory.

The Wife, meanwhile, was not amused.

Indeed, I have seen less determination in a salmon trying to negotiate a weir.

There was only one possible outcome. Justice had to be served (her words not mine), and preferably before the next delivery of Christmas confectionery.

And so the squirrel trap was deployed.

Now, I should point out that I was away enjoying a fishing weekend at the time. A perfectly innocent pursuit, I might add, involving rods, reels, the occasional fish and a welcome absence of domestic politics. I had no idea that events back home were taking a rather darker turn.

The bait of choice was halibut pellets.

A rather curious menu for a rat admittedly, but then desperate times call for desperate measures. 

I imagine Ratty approached the offering with the same enthusiasm that a carp might show when discovering a fresh bed of oily fishmeal. 

One minute he was enjoying what he probably considered a complimentary snack, and the next he had inadvertently booked himself into a rather unfortunate all-inclusive accommodation package.

When I returned from my fishing weekend, the trap had done its work.

There he was.

Ratty McRatface, sulking in his downfall, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the turn of events. 

Gone was the swagger of the chocolate bandit. Gone was the confidence of the furry felon who had once terrorised the household's entire festive supply chain. He looked, if I'm honest, like a rat who had suddenly realised that perhaps he should have stuck to acorns like the grey squirrels.

The Wife, however, was in no mood for negotiation.

There would be no festive pardon, no diplomatic immunity, no royal amnesty and certainly no second chance involving a reduced sentence for good behaviour. Her verdict had been delivered, and I was beginning to understand why the rat had been looking quite so miserable. What followed was a rather unfortunate demonstration of the fact that rats, despite their apparent athletic prowess, are not necessarily equipped for every eventuality.

I shall spare you the more graphic details, but suffice to say that his final aquatic adventure was somewhat less successful than a day on the Warwickshire Avon. He had entered the world of halibut pellets with high hopes and departed it without ever quite mastering the breaststroke.

Still, one has to admire the quality of his last supper.

Fifty Lindt chocolates, including two enormous Father Christmas's which by any reasonable measure, that's a pretty respectable final feast. Some people spend their entire lives without experiencing that level of chocolate consumption. At approximately fifteen quid's worth, Ratty's last meal was probably the finest dining experience ever enjoyed by a rat in Warwickshire.

I rather suspect that somewhere in the great woodland beyond, tales will be told of a brave and fearless rodent who stood up to the tyranny of the Advent calendar and paid the ultimate price. His name will be whispered around the communal rubbish pile. Young rats will gather beneath the oak trees to hear how one of their own challenged the might of the domestic chocolate empire.

Ratty McRatface: martyr, outlaw, chocolate connoisseur.

Although, in fairness, probably not the brightest eyes in the sewer.

As for me, I've taken a few lessons from the whole sorry affair. Firstly, never underestimate a rats appetite. Secondly, never leave fifty Lindt chocolates within striking distance of anything with four legs and a taste for luxury (lesson learnt). And thirdly, if the Wife decides that someone has to pay, it's generally best not to be standing anywhere near the scene of the crime.

I've been avoiding getting on the wrong side of her for years, and so far have managed to remain largely unscathed.

Long may that continue.

Because if there's one thing I've learnt from this sorry episode, it's that a rat might get away with stealing Christmas, but a husband should never, ever steal the Wife's last chocolate. And that, blog readers, is a trap from which there really is no escape.

Now there are times when a sensible angler would look at the weather, notice the arrival of the first frost, consider the fact that the river has turned gin clear and decide that perhaps an evening in front of the television might be the better option. Unfortunately, sensible angling decisions have never been particularly high on my list of priorities. 

Anyway Mick, enough of the waffle go fishing !!! so yes, with the working day behind me and a cold snap having recently given everything a rather unwelcome nip, I found myself heading down to the syndicate stretch in search of a chub. Now, these fish have a habit of making themselves scarce until the New Year, when they suddenly decide that life is worth living again and put in an appearance. But there was no harm in having a go, was there? After all, a chub is a chub, and you don't catch one by sitting at home discussing the finer points of not catching one.

The plan was simplicity itself. Nothing elaborate, no complicated rigs or enough bait to feed the local population of waterfowl for a fortnight. Just a little cheesy goodness, introduced at the right time, in the hope that one of the resident chub might fancy a change from whatever it is chub eat when they're not being caught. With the river running clear, I fancied my chances would improve considerably as daylight faded. Chub are notoriously opportunistic creatures, and while the colder temperatures might have persuaded a few of the lesser species to close up shop for the evening, I was rather hoping the bigger residents would still be inclined to have a little mooch about.

The first frost had certainly announced itself, although the forecast suggested things would become a little milder next week. Not that I was particularly interested in waiting until then. Chub have never struck me as fish that spend their days consulting weather forecasts before deciding whether to eat. They need to feed, whatever the water temperature (I've caught them down to 2 degrees water temperature), and if a lump of cheesy temptation happens to drift past at the right moment, well, who am I to deny them a culinary treat?

Of course, there's always that little voice in the back of your head when you're fishing a clear river in winter. The one that suggests you've probably arrived at the wrong time, chosen the wrong bait, sat in the wrong swim and generally made a complete dog's dinner of the whole affair. Fortunately, experience has taught me that this voice is usually right, but that doesn't mean I'm obliged to listen to it.

As the light began to disappear, things started to feel a little more promising. This was the time I'd been waiting for, that lovely transition when the river takes on a different character and the fish can hopefully get about their business without having to inspect every suspicious-looking offering that passes beneath their noses. Whether the chub had received the invitation remained to be seen, but the cheesy arrangements were in place and there was little more to do than sit back and let events unfold.

I was also beginning to think about a change of tactics for the coming sessions. Once the bait fish have properly shut up shop, I reckon maggots might be worth an outing. It's something I've been meaning to try for a while, and there's something rather appealing about going back to basics. Of course, I have a habit of announcing grand fishing plans that subsequently disappear into the same mysterious black hole as spare banksticks and the odd packet of hooks. But don't worry, plans are in action.

Anyway the river wasn't going to fish itself, although on some evenings I rather wish it would. The light was going, the temperature was dropping and somewhere beneath that clear winter water a chub might just have been considering a little cheesy supper. Time to get on with it, keep an eye on that rod tip and see whether the syndicate stretch was prepared to give up one of its better residents.

After all, you never know. The New Year might be when the chub usually turn up, but there's no harm in asking the question a little early. And if nothing else, at least I'd had a pleasant evening out, avoided the television and managed to get a bit of cheese involved in proceedings. Not every fishing trip can boast such a sophisticated menu.

Right then an underarm cast, after all that, I'm finally fishing !!

Anyway a bite within 5 minutes that I missed obviously !! once the sun went down, it was very chilly indeed, in-fact went I tried another swim the landing net handle was showing some signs of freezing up. To cut a long story short, I returned to the first swim and a lovely bite a chub was one. A decent scrap as well, ok not huge but a nice fish to have under the stars. That was my lot, 6.00pm I was out of there and mission accomplished, on to the next one. !!! 

Warwickshire Avon - Missions and Millionaire's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let's get fishing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I'll try to remember my bloody luggage!