Warwickshire Avon - Trundles and Tempests

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warwickshire Avon - Brouhaha and Befuddlement

I'd not fished this stretch for a good while, and as I walked down the field with the rod over my shoulder, it felt like I was visiting an old mate I'd somehow neglected. 

The river had that familiar look about it, clear enough to show every crease and shallow, yet carrying just enough pace to make you believe something decent could turn up at any moment. 

In winter the place screams chub, proper old warriors that sit in the steady glides and only betray themselves with the odd swirl under a drifting crust. 

Summer can be even more exciting, because when the bread starts travelling downstream untouched and then suddenly disappears in a confident sip, you know you've found fish that have forgotten how cautious they're supposed to be.

Of course, the trouble with chub is that they rarely give you many chances. One fish slips up, the rod hoops over, and the rest of the shoal seem to hold an emergency meeting before vanishing into thin air. I've lost count of the times I've thought I'd cracked it only for the river to fall silent after a single capture. It's often one fish and you're done, and that's part of what keeps you coming back.

This trip, though, wasn't really about chub. I knew there were barbel in the area and I'd had it in my head for weeks that I ought to have a proper dabble for them. One swim kept coming back into my thoughts every time I looked at the map or drove over the bridge. The weir had my name on it.

I rolled into the car park down the neglected track around eleven in the morning and immediately spotted another angler's car. That told me all I needed to know because if you're after barbel on a stretch like that, the weir is usually the first place you look especially in the early season summer months. Sure enough, a bloke and his young son were already set up there, having started at dawn and showing far more commitment to the cause than I'd managed. They looked tired in that happy sort of way anglers do when they've already had a bit of action.

We got chatting and they told me they'd lost a couple of fish, one to a hook pull and another to an underwater snag. The chap was still replaying the lost fish in his head, waving his arms around to show how hard it had pulled before everything went solid. They also mentioned a group of kids had been wild swimming earlier and causing a bit of a nuisance, so in their view I'd arrived at exactly the right time. After a few more minutes they packed up and left me to it.

With the swim finally free, I settled in with no great expectations beyond maybe a barbel if the stars aligned. Truth be told, a decent chub would have done me just fine. I was determined not to rush around this time, but to sit it out, watch the river and actually relax for once. Sometimes the best fishing happens when you stop trying to force it.

The first thing I noticed was just how clear the water was. Looking into the margins I could see boulders scattered about like someone had emptied a builder's yard into the river, which immediately made me suspicious of what lay farther out. I was effectively fishing blind, so I spent a while leading around carefully until the lead finally landed with a satisfying donk on a cleaner patch. That sound alone can lift an angler's confidence by a good twenty percent.

The weather helped too. The brutal mid-thirties heat had finally eased and the air felt comfortable again, warm enough for a T-shirt but not so hot that you spent the whole session hiding in whatever shade you could find. A light breeze occasionally rippled the surface and carried the smell of summer riverbanks. It felt fishy, as we always say, even though none of us can properly explain what that means.

About half an hour in, the rod tip gave a proper thump that had chub written all over it. Not a timid tap or a line twitch, but a confident bang right on the tip that made me grab the rod immediately. Oddly, the fish didn't come back for a second go. Whether it felt the resistance or simply changed its mind, I never found out.

For the next couple of hours the river settled into that hypnotic rhythm that makes river fishing so addictive. Paddleboarders drifted past, kayakers bounced through the faster water and the occasional dog walker stopped for a chat. The weir carried enough pace that nobody came too close to the lines, and I found myself simply enjoying being there. Even without a fish, it was hard to complain.

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, the rod tip rattled again. One sharp knock, then another, and before I could fully process it the rod pulled round in a full-blooded meltdown. Anyone who has spent time chasing barbel knows that four-foot twitch of the rod, that unmistakable savage nodding that seems to travel through the entire setup. In that instant I knew exactly what was on the other end.

I lifted into a solid fish and immediately felt that heavy, determined weight that only a good barbel seems to produce. It hugged the bottom and powered upstream, taking line while I tried to apply as much side strain as I dared. For a few glorious seconds it felt like the sort of battle you replay in your head for years. The rod was bent, the reel was ticking and my heart rate was somewhere near sprinting pace.

Then the fish revealed its real intentions. The pressure changed, the line angled awkwardly and suddenly everything locked up solid. Boulder, root, snag, whatever it was, the barbel had found it with the precision of a guided missile and buried itself there. I knew the likely outcome immediately, but hope makes fools of all anglers.

I gave it time. Sometimes a fish will panic, swim free and give you another chance, so I stood there with the rod held high, willing it to move. Nothing happened. The fish had done me over properly and there was a grudging part of me that almost admired it.

Eventually the inevitable happened and I was left staring at a motionless line and thinking a few words that wouldn't make it into a family fishing magazine. Still, that's barbel fishing. You can do everything right and the river will still find a way to remind you who's in charge. Some days you land them, and some days they teach you a lesson.

The interesting thing was that I now knew exactly where one of the snags lived. Information like that is never wasted on a river, and often a lost fish tells you more than an easy capture ever could. I started thinking about different angles, lighter leads, maybe fishing slightly farther downstream and steering a hooked fish away from trouble. The cogs were already turning.

 I gave it another hour after that, but the swim had gone quiet. No more knocks, no more savage lunges, not even a suspicious line bite. The light began to soften and I found myself packing away with that mixture of frustration and satisfaction that only fishing seems capable of producing. I'd lost the battle, but somehow the session still felt like a success.

Walking back to the car, I realised how much I'd enjoyed simply sitting by the river again. The conversation with the father and son, the drifting paddleboards, the clear water over the stones and that single electrifying barbel take had all combined into the sort of day that sticks in the memory. 

You don't always need a fish on the bank to feel that a session was worthwhile. Sometimes one unforgettable bite is enough.

And really, is there anything quite like a full-on barbel bite? One moment the river is silent, the next the rod is trying to leap into the water and every nerve in your body wakes up at once. 

It's violent, sudden and completely addictive. Lose a few, land a few, get outwitted more often than you'd like, and somehow you still find yourself planning the next trip before you've even driven home.

So the weir and I aren't finished yet. There's a snag mapped in my head now, a fish somewhere out there that got the better of me, and a feeling that the next visit might be very interesting indeed. The river has a habit of keeping a few stories unfinished. That's probably why we keep going back, still the pint later was nice, very nice !!!

Warwickshire Avon - Synchronised and Subterfuge

I stumbled across a rambling gospel of trotting pellets for roach written with the sort of conviction usually reserved for people who’ve just discovered a “secret peg” that everyone else has also been sat on for 20 years. I meant to skim it, but it escalated into full attention somewhere between “this is interesting” and “I now need to try this immediately on the Warwickshire Avon”.

The idea, as far as I can tell, is brutally simple in a way that feels slightly insulting to more complicated tackle boxes. Find a river where pellets are already going in for barbel, and you’ve basically already found the roach it’s just a case of convincing them to behave like roach instead of underwater pensioners ignoring you from a distance. 

Big fish, apparently, are less “rare and mystical” and more “opportunistic and slightly lazy”, which is a theory I can relate to on a personal level. The method hinges on doing one thing properly: presenting a single pellet on the drift so it behaves like a natural, sinking morsel rather than something you’ve lobbed in with hope and denial. 

Light float, just enough shot to control the descent, and a banded 4–6mm pellet that sits neatly on the hook like it belongs there. 

Nothing fancy, nothing clever, just controlled chaos drifting through a feeding lane. Where it gets interesting is the feeding. Not dumping bait like you’re trying to fill a skip, but little and often just enough to keep fish interested and moving up in the water. 

The idea is to create a sort of conveyor belt of pellets, so the roach aren’t rooting around on the deck but actively intercepting stuff as it comes through the swim. In theory, you’re not “fishing a spot” so much as running a tiny underwater production line.

That bit really appealed to me on the Avon, because I’ve seen enough barbel anglers doing their thing there to suspect the roach are already fully enrolled in the pellet lifestyle. There are stretches where you can almost feel that fish are present but not quite engaged, like they’re watching from the side-lines waiting for something to make sense of all the free food. 

Trotting a pellet through that feels like switching the lights on in a room that was already full. The stretch in question to give it a go, I'd seen roach shoals in two swims and some of those roach were pounders easily, so not to be sniffed at certainly.

The key, from what I can gather, is keeping everything moving and natural. Let the float run, control the depth, and resist the urge to turn it into a static bait situation the moment you get bored or too hot. It’s very much a “trust the drift” approach, which is easy to say and immediately forgotten the first time the float hesitates like it’s thinking about being a tench.

On the Avon, the plan is simple enough to be either genius or delusional: light tackle, banded pellet, steady trickle of feed, and a controlled trot through likely glides where I’ve already seen enough suspicious silver flashes to justify the optimism. If it works, I’ll claim watercraft. If it doesn’t, I’ll claim the river was “off”.

Either way, it feels like one of those methods where the fish already know what they’re doing and the angler just turns up to try and look involved. Worst case, I catch endless dace and pretend they were part of the plan. Best case, I finally meet one of those Avon roach that makes you forget every sensible thing you were meant to be doing with your time.

So anyway, the plan was sound, how was the execution ?

Well the weather had finally come to its senses. After what felt like days living inside a giant hairdryer, the heatwave had packed its bags and wandered off elsewhere. At last we were back to proper fishing weather, with cool fresh air replacing that sticky humidity. I could actually step out of the car without feeling like I'd been wrapped in cling film.

An early start was always going to be the order of the day because I had my sights firmly set on the weir peg. Like most favourite swims, if you arrive late, somebody else has usually beaten you to it. Thankfully, the riverbank was deserted, the grass sparkled with dew and there was just enough of a chill to remind you summer hadn't completely taken over. Naturally, I was still wearing a T-shirt because that's what anglers do.

The point swim just below the weir looked absolutely perfect. A nice line of foam drifted steadily downstream, telling me the pace was about right. River anglers have a remarkable ability to stare at floating bubbles for several minutes and convince themselves they're conducting serious scientific research. In reality, we're just watching froth.

With everything assembled, I began introducing mixed 6mm pellets little and often. It sounds wonderfully disciplined until you realise "little and often" usually becomes "another handful won't hurt." Still, the plan seemed sensible enough. The Dave Harrell Speci-Stick settled perfectly on its first run downstream.

I wasn't expecting much from the opening trot, so when the red domed tip vanished almost immediately, I wondered whether I'd imagined it. I hadn't. A lively little chublet was attached to the other end and seemed just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. It wasn't exactly the planned start, but I certainly wasn't complaining.

What followed was one of those magical spells every angler dreams about. Cast, float under, fish. Cast, float under, fish. If only every trip worked like that, tackle shops would have to start selling excuses instead of bait.

The chublets arrived one after another, accompanied by some lovely dace that looked like polished bars of silver. Every now and then a slightly better chub joined the procession to remind the youngsters who really owned the swim. The only species refusing to join the festivities were the roach. They clearly hadn't received the memo.

I slipped a few fish into the extra deep landing net for a quick photograph later. It's amazing how unbelievable a productive session sounds unless you've got a picture to prove it. 

Besides, they were sitting happily in well-oxygenated water while I carried on catching. I suspect they were already comparing notes on where it had all gone wrong.

Sadly, tranquillity on the river never lasts forever. The first narrowboat emerged from the lock, gently ploughing through the swim like a floating bungalow. 

Moments later a couple of enthusiastic dogs decided the bottom of my peg would make an excellent swimming pool. Labradors clearly have many talents, but understanding trotting tactics isn't one of them.

Almost instantly the bites disappeared. The float sailed through untouched time after time without so much as a twitch. I gave it a few more hopeful trots because anglers are naturally optimistic creatures. Eventually reality won the argument.

With another narrowboat heading my way, I decided a change of scenery might be worthwhile. 

I moved only a short distance upstream, practically within spitting distance of the weir itself. Sometimes a move transforms a session. Other times it simply gives you a different place to blank.

The pellets started going in again and the float settled beautifully on its first run. Down it went almost straight away. This time it wasn't a chublet but a lovely roach that glistened in the morning sunshine. Suddenly everything felt very promising indeed.

The swim had completely changed character. Instead of endless little chub, the roach had moved in and were more than happy to sample a banded 6mm pellet. One after another they slipped over the net, all beautifully marked and in cracking condition. It really was one of those mornings where everything seemed to fall into place.

I retained a few more fish for a photograph before slipping them safely back later. They rested quietly in fresh flowing water while I continued fishing. No doubt they were discussing the dangers of greed and the suspicious appearance of small brown pellets. Fish gossip probably isn't much different to ours.

Even a perch fancied joining the party. It hammered the pellet with all the confidence of a fish that hadn't read the rulebook saying perch are supposed to prefer worms or little fish. I wasn't about to argue. If it wanted pellets, pellets it could have.

The odd chublet still sneaked into the catch, but the roach were definitely running the show now. Every run through carried that lovely anticipation that the float could disappear at any second. More often than not, it obliged. It doesn't get much better than that.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was just how effective the 6mm pellets proved to be. The really big roach never made an appearance, but I have a feeling they're still lurking somewhere, watching their smaller relatives make poor life choices. They'll get their turn eventually. Rivers have a habit of keeping a few secrets in reserve.

I packed the gear away with that satisfying feeling only a good morning's fishing can provide. Two hours, plenty of bites, a nice mixed bag and a method that has definitely earned another outing. Sometimes it's not about catching monsters. Sometimes it's simply about enjoying every minute beside the river, and this session certainly ticked every box.