Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.56

There are certain noises in life that a sensible man learns to recognise, and one of them is the faint, nagging ache coming from the lower back which, when translated from the language of bodily complaints, basically means “pack your gear away, you idiot.” As a previous sufferer of sciatica (6mths of hell), I am normally reasonably good at listening to such warnings, although apparently there is a small but extremely stupid part of my brain that believes pain is merely the body's way of asking whether I fancy doing something considerably more physical. So, after Friday’s trotting exploits had left me with that annoying little ache down the lower back, what did I do the following morning

Well, obviously I went fishing, because common sense is very much like a waterproof jacket in my house: I know where it is, but rarely remember to bring it with me. Having spent the previous day kitting Sam out with some new fishing clothes because the boy appears to have discovered growth hormones and has shot up like a weed over the last couple of years, we headed off to the syndicate water where I planned to do some peg trimming while he christened his new baitcasting set-up. 

Looking back, there was absolutely nothing wrong with this plan apart from the small matter of me being the one who had to wield the cutting tools. The day before donning his new gear he'd been fishing on the local canal with his mate Noah where they dropped in to Martyn's Stratford on Avon Fishing and Outdoors where he gave them to free maggots where they caught 9 fish !!, Sam has certainly got his mojo back which is good. 

The water had cooled off considerably of late and, with a deadbait positioned where I could keep one eye on it, I started trimming away in a few swims while Sam went off chucking his lure around. I was secretly hoping the deadbait might produce something interesting while I was hacking away at the vegetation, because there is nothing quite like pretending you are doing essential fishery maintenance when what you really want is for a float, indicator or alarm to suddenly start doing something exciting. 

Sadly, the deadbait remained as lifeless as my enthusiasm for further peg maintenance and the pike, barbel and anything else with fins collectively decided that today was apparently a good day for a lie-in it was quiet !!.

Sam wasn't having much more luck either, although unlike his dad he had the advantage of possessing a functioning lower back and considerably more enthusiasm. 

With the river gin clear, he'd sensibly been trying more natural-coloured lures, but after a while he turned to me with the sort of expression normally reserved for children who have just decided that Dad clearly knows absolutely nothing about fishing. “Daddy, can we try the biggest lure now, I reckon we need to go OTT instead?”

Now, I would love to claim that I carefully analysed the conditions, considered the behaviour of the quarry and arrived at the conclusion that a larger, more conspicuous lure would be the logical choice. 

In reality, Sam suggested it and I immediately agreed, thereby allowing me to look like an experienced angler while contributing absolutely nothing to the decision-making process. The lure was duly attached, allowed to sink almost to the bottom and, on literally the first cast, something absolutely hammered it.

“I’ve got a fish on, I’ve got a fish on!” came the cry, at a volume normally associated with someone discovering that they'd won the lottery rather than caught a small pike. 

Sure enough, an unsuspecting pike had absolutely nailed the lure, proving once and for all that when confronted with gin-clear water and cautious fish, the correct answer is apparently to throw something resembling a brightly coloured aquatic brick directly at them. It wasn't a huge pike by any stretch of the imagination, but to Sam it might as well have been the biggest fish ever to swim the river, and judging by his grin I suspect he'd have happily carried it home and put it in the bath.

I landed it for him and gave him a close-up lesson in how to unhook a pike safely, explaining that next time it'll be his turn under my guidance. There is something particularly satisfying about watching your lad catch a fish using a rod and reel that he's only just started getting to grips with, especially when you've spent a small fortune on the aforementioned rod, reel, lures and clothing and are now emotionally committed to proving that buying all of it was absolutely necessary. 

Naturally, Sam was already planning the conversation with his mother before we'd even left the swim, and I could practically hear the words “I caught a pike” being rehearsed in his head.

There were no more bites after that, but quite frankly we'd already had what we came for and anything else would merely have been greedy. We packed up and headed home with Sam still buzzing about his fish, while I was beginning to feel that familiar ache in my back and wondering whether my body had perhaps been trying to communicate with me using a language I was deliberately refusing to learn. 

The irony wasn't lost on me that the youngest member of the party had demonstrated excellent lure selection, impeccable timing and considerably more common sense than his father.

Sunday arrived and, after cooking a roast, I had every intention of heading out in pursuit of a barbel because apparently one small pike and an aching back had not yet completely cured me of my stupidity. However, for perhaps the first time in living memory, I decided that sitting on the sofa and watching YouTube might actually be the sensible option, which was a decision so unusual that I half expected someone from the Environment Agency to knock on the door and check whether I was feeling alright. 

With three short sessions planned during the week anyway, I figured the barbel could wait and, judging by how my back felt after an afternoon doing absolutely nothing, I suspect it was quietly thanking me for finally developing some common sense.

And that, really, was the lesson from the weekend: Sam listened to his instincts, chose the ridiculous lure, caught a pike first cast of the big lure and went home looking like he'd just conquered the River Amazon. I ignored mine, tried to turn myself into a one-man groundskeeping department and spent the rest of the weekend negotiating with my lower back like it was an angry union representative. 

There are many things fishing teaches you over the years, but apparently one of them is that sometimes the cleverest thing an angler can do is put his feet up, watch someone else catch fish on YouTube and give his spine a well deserved day off.

Warwickshire Avon - Nurseries and Numismatography (Baby Barbel)

Well, autumn has certainly decided to announce its arrival, and judging by the temperature the other morning on the way to work, it had clearly forgotten to send a polite letter first. One minute we were enjoying the seemingly endless summer, the next I was sitting in the car wondering whether I'd accidentally driven north and ended up somewhere considerably closer to the Arctic Circle. It was, in other words, bloody chilly.

I'm not complaining though, because as much as the long, drawn-out summer was rather pleasant, after several weeks of sunshine and absolutely bugger all rain it did begin to feel like we'd been permanently relocated to Spain. The grass was turning the colour of an old pair of khaki trousers and every time you looked at the river you could almost hear it asking someone to please turn the tap back on. We like our seasons in Britain, or at least I do, particularly the ones where the weather becomes increasingly unsuitable for normal people and increasingly attractive to anglers.

There is something rather satisfying about the arrival of autumn, even if it does mean wearing a winter jacket before going to work while wondering where you put the gloves you haven't seen since February. The rivers start to look different, the trees begin throwing their leaves into the water with gay abandon and suddenly you can justify wearing six layers of clothing simply because you're going fishing. It is a wonderful time of year, provided you aren't expected to actually enjoy being outside for anything other than fishing.

Getting out this week was always going to be slightly problematic, largely because the diary makers had been at it again and filled the bloody thing with commitments. There is also the small matter of having a child with special needs at home, which means that although Sam is perfectly capable of looking after his brother for a couple of hours, anything much longer than that is something neither of us feels entirely comfortable with. That's just the way it is, and fishing, despite what some head wand donners who don't live in our shoes believe, occasionally has to take second place to real life.

The good news is that things are changing as Sam gets older, and the wife and I can now actually go out for a meal together without having to organise what resembles a military operation involving timetables, contingency plans and even rarer babysitters. Sam has grown up considerably, and not just vertically, although he is now taller than me which I find deeply offensive on a personal level. He also understands that from time to time he has to be responsible for his brother, which is something that has made life just that little bit easier.

Anyway, with the wife out, the house was mine, and apparently this was considered an opportunity for me to prepare myself some food rather than simply standing in front of the fridge repeatedly opening the door in the hope that something interesting would appear. The suggestion was, and I quote, "Why not make yourself some fish or something spicy?" which I interpreted as an instruction rather than a casual culinary suggestion. Naturally, I went for the second option because apparently I enjoy making decisions that will later have consequences for everyone around me.

What followed was a proper old-school garlic chilli chicken, the sort of meal where the recipe should really come with a warning from the Health and Safety Executive. By the time I'd finished cooking, the kitchen looked like a small explosion had taken place inside a Chinese takeaway and then decided to have a second go. There were chopped chillies everywhere, garlic on every conceivable surface and enough washing-up left behind to make me seriously consider moving house.

It was, however, absolutely bloody delicious, which is really all that matters when you've reached the point where the kitchen looks like evidence from a crime scene. I consumed enough garlic to ensure that for the following couple of days I wasn't so much breathing as exhaling a defensive chemical weapon. My work colleagues, unsurprisingly, were absolutely delighted when Friday lunchtime arrived and I finally disappeared from the building.

Forty-three hours had been ticked off for the week, the coffers were a few pennies heavier and I decided that enough was enough. I needed to go fishing, even if it was only for a couple of hours and even if the weather looked like it was considering throwing every possible variety of autumn at me simultaneously. So, on the way home, I decided to detour down to the Warwickshire Avon for a spot of trotting.

The swim I had in mind was one where you need to don the waders, which is always a good start when you're already slightly tired and the temperature has dropped sufficiently to make you question your life choices. 

Float peddler Dave Harrell had been down there not long previously and had apparently bagged up on chub and even managed a barbel trotting, which naturally made the whole thing sound considerably easier than it probably was. 

If Dave can do it, I thought, then surely I can too, although history has repeatedly demonstrated that this particular line of reasoning is deeply flawed.

I'd fished the stretch since Dave's visit and had previously enjoyed some success catching chub off the top on bread. Unfortunately, the warmer conditions seemed to have encouraged the bigger chub that had been sitting in the oxygenated water to relocate themselves to somewhere considerably more convenient for them and considerably less convenient for me. 

Still, I'd come this far and wasn't going home without at least having a poke around.

The weather wasn't exactly helping matters either, with a fairly strong wind blowing across the river and making the business of trotting a float look more like an exercise in remote-control boat operation. Despite wearing jeans underneath neoprene waders, after about two hours I was beginning to feel the cold creeping in. It was the sort of cold where you start telling yourself that you're perfectly comfortable while simultaneously wondering whether your feet can still actually feel anything.

The tactics were wonderfully simple, which is generally my preferred approach because the fewer things there are to go wrong, the fewer things I can subsequently blame. Six-millimetre mixed-colour pellets were loose-fed into the swim and a banded six-millimetre pellet was attached to a size 16 hook, which was about as complicated as the operation got. No twelve-page rig diagrams, no obscure Japanese hook pattern and no bait that costs more per kilo than the average family spends on groceries.

I fed the swim for about twenty minutes before making the first trot, mainly because I'd decided that the fish deserved a decent opportunity to arrive before I started disturbing them. The float went under and a small chublet was attached almost immediately, which was rather encouraging and also made me wonder whether I'd really needed to spend twenty minutes feeding the swim in the first place. Still, anglers are creatures of habit, and if you've spent twenty minutes throwing pellets into a river you feel obliged to pretend there was a carefully considered reason for doing it.

The next cast produced another bite, although this time the result was rather less satisfactory. The float disappeared, the fish shot off to the right with considerably more enthusiasm than the previous occupant and the hook promptly pulled just before it reached the safety of the reeds. Damn it, I thought, because that had probably been a decent chub and I'd managed to do the angling equivalent of dropping the winning lottery ticket down a drain.

Throughout the session it became increasingly obvious that the bigger chub simply weren't there, or if they were there they'd collectively decided to ignore me. The smaller chublets, however, were more than happy to keep me entertained and provided plenty of action, which is one of the reasons I enjoy trotting so much. You can spend hours chasing a particular fish and then suddenly realise that the smaller ones have actually provided most of the fun.

Then, completely unexpectedly, the float buried again towards the end of the run. The resulting fight didn't feel quite the same as the chub, and after a few moments it became apparent that I'd connected with something considerably more interesting than another small chub. It was a tiny baby barbel.

Now, I genuinely wasn't expecting that, and for a moment I just stood there with the sort of grin normally associated with somebody who has just discovered they've won something they didn't even enter. The little barbel had gate-crashed the chub party completely uninvited, but I couldn't have been happier to see it. Sometimes fishing has a funny way of giving you precisely what you didn't realise you were hoping for.

The significance of that little fish wasn't lost on me either, because this is one of the stretches affected by the severe fish kill back in June 2023. Thousands of dead fish, including mature chub, barbel and pike, were discovered along stretches of the Warwickshire Avon around Warwick and Barford, with angling subsequently suspended while the situation was investigated. The Environment Agency attributed the disaster primarily to low oxygen levels following sudden heavy summer storms washing accumulated road and gully pollutants into an already warm river, while local anglers raised other concerns including untreated sewage foam and pollution.

Whatever the precise combination of circumstances, the result was the same, and seeing so many dead fish was something that nobody who witnessed it is likely to forget. Rivers don't simply bounce back overnight from something like that, particularly when you're talking about mature fish that have taken years to reach any worthwhile size. Every surviving fish therefore seems a little bit more important, and every young fish feels like a tiny sign that the river is quietly getting on with the job of rebuilding itself.

I've caught barbel on this stretch during the previous season and have already had some this season as well, which has been hugely encouraging. But catching this particular little fish was different because it was so obviously young, and that made me wonder what the river might look like several years down the line if everything continues moving in the right direction. Perhaps that little fish will one day become one of those big, powerful Avon barbel that has some poor bloke standing in the reeds wondering why his rod has suddenly turned into a banana.

For me, that was the real highlight of the session. I hadn't caught anything big, I hadn't bagged up and I certainly hadn't achieved anything that would make the angling press sit up and take notice, but none of that mattered. Sometimes a fish doesn't have to weigh ten pounds to make an impression, and this one certainly did.

I sat there looking at the little barbel and couldn't help but smile. It was only a tiny fish, but given the history of the stretch it felt like a rather significant little fish, and one that I suspect I'll remember for a very long time. There was something rather special about seeing one of the next generation swimming around in a river that had been through such a terrible episode.

Eventually I packed away, climbed out of the waders and headed home feeling considerably happier than I had arrived. I'd been cold, I'd lost a decent chub, I'd caught a collection of chublets and I'd spent a couple of hours standing in a windy river wearing neoprene trousers like some sort of aquatic sausage. Yet somehow, that tiny barbel had made the whole thing worthwhile.

Fishing is funny like that. You can spend an entire season obsessing over big fish, looking at weather charts, river levels, moon phases and every other piece of information you can possibly find, only for the most memorable fish of the week to be something you could probably have carried home in a particularly enthusiastic cupped hand. It isn't always about what you catch, and occasionally the smallest fish can leave the biggest impression.

So, autumn is here, the temperatures are dropping and the rivers are beginning to look like proper fishing rivers again. The garlic has hopefully now vacated my pores, my colleagues have probably recovered sufficiently to return to work without fear and the diary makers have been warned that there are limits to how much of my life they are allowed to fill. Most importantly though, somewhere in the Warwickshire Avon there is now a tiny barbel swimming around, and for this angler, that was the icing on the cake.

Talking of Barbel, a link to Gale Lights podcast..

Warwickshire Avon - Pot Hunters and Piddingtonians

I’d not fished this particular stretch for barbel for quite some time, which is probably why, in a moment of complete irrationality, I suddenly developed the overwhelming urge to go and annoy one of them again. There are few things in life more predictable than an angler voluntarily returning to somewhere that has previously caused him considerable frustration, armed with exactly the same tackle and considerably more optimism. It’s a strategy that has served me badly for years, so naturally I saw no reason to change it now.

Upstream, since the fish kill in this area, there have been a few barbel coming out, which is encouraging, although the phrase “a few barbel” is quite sufficient to make an angler cancel weddings, birthdays, dental appointments and, if necessary, a minor operation. 

Tell an angler there are three barbel in a stretch and suddenly he’s studying Google Maps at two in the morning and explaining to his wife that he really does need to be there before sunrise because “the conditions are perfect”. This is despite the fact that the conditions are almost certainly identical to the previous forty-seven mornings when he stayed in bed.

Even I had managed to catch them in floodwater and towards the end of last season, so clearly something was going right, although I remain deeply suspicious whenever anything goes right in my fishing. 

Experience has taught me that good news on the river is usually followed shortly afterwards by a snapped hooklink, a lost fish or me standing in the car park wondering where I’ve put my keys. On one memorable occasion I found the keys in my hand, which probably says more about my state of mind than I’d like to admit.

Anyway, the swim I’d decided upon has a bit of history, although not necessarily the sort of history you’d want proudly displayed on the fishery website alongside pictures of smiling anglers holding enormous barbel. “This month’s featured swim: excellent depth, good cover and the location of a notorious illegal night-fishing incident” probably wouldn’t have quite the same ring to it as “Peaceful Riverside Peg With Stunning Views”. Although, to be fair, knowing there had been a bit of skulduggery there probably made it more attractive to me.

Legend has it that a professional pot hunter, who apparently had the same barber as Arthur Scargill, was once caught red-handed night fishing in this very swim, which, as these things tend to do, rather buggered things up for everybody else. I’m not sure whether the hairstyle was relevant to the crime, but once you’ve got a bloke skulking around beside the river at night looking like he’s just walked out of a 1984 miners’ strike, you’re probably going to remember him. It’s not every day you catch a barbel angler who shouldn't be there, who looks like he’s about to address a mass rally about pit closures.

The result is a strict curfew, meaning you have to be off the fishery half an hour after dusk, where using a head torch is apparently about as welcome as a relocated boat arrival to the Lib Dem voting village of Piddington. 

Now I’m not entirely sure what happened that night, but I suspect the fishery committee have never quite recovered from it. 

Somewhere in the club archives there is probably a handwritten document entitled The Incident, kept in a locked filing cabinet and brought out whenever somebody asks why they can’t stay an extra fifteen minutes.What I find slightly amusing is that nearly all of the stretch isn’t actually opposite houses, whereas some of the pegs that are have considerably less privacy and yet seem to contain rather more fish. 

Personally, I don’t particularly like fishing opposite houses because there’s always that nagging feeling that somebody is watching you through the curtains, wondering why a grown man has been sitting beside a river for four hours staring at a float that hasn’t moved. They probably also wonder why he occasionally whispers “come on” at it, as though the float is simply being deliberately difficult.

There’s also the possibility they’re wondering why you’ve just thrown half a pint of hemp into the river and are now looking at it expectantly, as though the hemp is about to produce a written response. But then again, if there are fish there, I have been known to overlook quite a lot of architectural inconvenience. I’d happily fish opposite Buckingham Palace if I knew there was a twenty-pound barbel underneath the bedroom window, although I might draw the line at being challenged by a member of the Royal Household especially Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor .

I suspect one reason those pegs produce so well is that one of the house owners feeds the swans, and I’m convinced a sizeable proportion of what she balls into the river doesn’t actually get eaten by a swan at all. The resident chub and barbel probably regard her as some sort of aquatic catering goddess, arriving daily with another complimentary buffet while we anglers stand downstream sprinkling pellets into the water and pretending we know what we’re doing. I can imagine the barbel forming a queue underwater, complete with somebody shouting, “Is she coming today?” and another replying, “Yes, excellent, cancel lunch.”

Frankly, if I lived there I’d be feeding them too, although I’d probably have a little sign saying “BARBEL ONLY – CHUB WILL BE CHARGED.” Followed by another saying “NO BLEAKS – YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE.” And possibly a third saying “PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANGLERS,” because judging by some of the people I’ve seen beside rivers, that may actually be the more important warning.

With dusk getting earlier and earlier as the weeks roll by, I’ve been thinking that this stretch could be ideal for a little campaign of my own. A few hours after work, a bit of barbel fishing and still home at a vaguely respectable hour for tea sounds almost suspiciously sensible for me. Normally my fishing plans involve being somewhere at an inappropriate time, carrying far too much equipment and returning home smelling like a combination of river mud, damp clothing and poor decision-making.

There is usually also a point where I question why I’m sitting beside a river in the dark while perfectly sensible people are indoors watching television. Then I remember I’m waiting for a barbel, and apparently that makes everything reasonable. This is one of the great mysteries of angling, because apparently sitting beside a river for three hours watching a motionless rod tip is completely acceptable if there’s a large fish involved.

The swim itself I’d not fished, bizarrely, even though I’ve been a club member for many years. You’d think after all that time I might have explored the place properly, but apparently I’ve been too busy fishing the same handful of swims repeatedly in the hope that one day the fish will finally surrender through sheer exhaustion. There is a certain logic to this, although I suspect the fish have probably worked out what I’m doing by now.

When you consider the shallow water coming down from upstream before it suddenly deepens off up from here, it’s an interesting little area. Over the years I’ve had both barbel and chub from those depths above here, which is always enough to make an experienced angler stop and look properly rather than simply chucking something in and hoping for the best. Although, obviously, I did briefly consider chucking something in and hoping for the best because old habits die hard.

I like areas like this because they stand out from the humdrum, and after years and years of fishing I’ve learned that if the water looks interesting, there’s usually a fish somewhere in it looking equally suspiciously at you. Quite possibly wondering what on earth you’re doing with that rod. Quite possibly also wondering why you’ve just spent twenty minutes staring at the swim before throwing a handful of food into it and then sitting down as though you’ve completed a scientific experiment.

Fish must think anglers are completely deranged. They probably have a support group somewhere under a tree root where they compare notes about the strange creatures who visit the riverbank. “This bloke turns up every Tuesday, throws food in the water and waits for us to eat it,” one probably says, while another replies, “Sounds serious, mate, you should move downstream.”

So, with the pot hunter swim chosen, the curfew mentally noted and the possibility of a swan-related food chain investigated from a safe distance, it was time to employ my usual Robin Red approach. 

There’s something reassuring about turning up at a river, looking at perfectly good water and then deciding what it really needs is a liberal application of something that smells like a mixture of paprika, toast and a doner kebab factory. 

I’ve never understood exactly why Robin Red works, but I’m increasingly convinced that if you put enough of it in the river, eventually something will turn up purely to find out what the hell is going on. Possibly a barbel, possibly a chub, or possibly an environmental health officer wondering why the river smells like someone has been cooking a kebab in the margins. At that point I’d probably pack up anyway, because explaining Robin Red to an official is considerably harder than explaining it to a barbel.

With everything sorted, I settled down and got fishing, knowing that I had a couple of hours before the river police apparently expected me to pack up and disappear into the gathering gloom.  

Now there is something wonderfully ridiculous about a curfew when you’re barbel fishing, because you can spend all day thinking about the session, drive home from work like a man possessed, rush down to the river, carry half your garage through the car park, carefully prepare the swim, bait up and cast out. Then somebody has effectively told you, “You’ve got about two hours, don’t get comfortable.”

The beauty of an after-work session is that you don’t need to catch much to feel you’ve had an evening out, although naturally I intended to catch something considerably larger than my expectations. Ideally something with a large mouth, broad shoulders and absolutely no intention of behaving itself. A barbel, in other words, although I’d have happily accepted anything that caused the landing net to leave the bank.

And with barbel slowly moving back into this stretch, a promising swim in front of me and Robin Red doing whatever mysterious things Robin Red does underwater, I had a feeling this could be the start of something rather interesting. 

Either that, or I was about to spend those limited hours staring at motionless tackle while feeding the river enough bait to make the local fish wonder whether Christmas had come early. Either way, I was perfectly happy, because when you’re sitting beside a river waiting for a barbel, apparently absolutely nothing happening is still considered a successful evening.

You go to the river hoping to catch a barbel and come home with a damp landing net, an empty bait tub, several kilograms of mud and a renewed appreciation for how little control you actually have over your life. You may not catch a fish, but you’ll definitely catch a cold, lose something and question at least three of your life choices. And, frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Anyway better get fishing, Mick enough of the waffle !!!

When I arrived at the swim it was hard to miss, to be honest, as there was a massive oak tree to my right and a rather nice-looking peg right out in front of me, which is generally a promising start to proceedings unless, of course, you are standing next to the wrong tree. 

The swim had a fair amount of streamer weed and reeds in it, but there was a lovely bit of flow and a quick donk around with the lead revealed a couple of rather tasty little spots in which to park a bait. So, with the important investigative work completed, I fed a mixture of scalded pellet and a bit of groundbait and left it all to have a little rest while I faffed about getting myself sorted.

The Avon is currently about as clear as the water coming out of your kitchen tap, which isn't exactly what you would describe as prime barbel conditions unless your barbel have recently taken up snorkelling and developed an appreciation for being watched. 

However, there is method in my madness, because that little window leading up to dusk and extending into what I like to call the witching hour can sometimes produce when the rest of the day has been about as productive as a chocolate teapot. 

And frankly, if you are going to sit beside a river doing absolutely nothing for several hours, you may as well choose the bit of the day when the fish are most likely to ruin that plan.

Around forty-five minutes before official dusk, a simple underarm lob with a 15mm Robin Red pellet and a little PVA bag saw the bait land nicely on one of the spots. I was now officially fishing, although technically I had been fishing for years if you count all the time spent buying tackle, talking about fishing and looking at weather forecasts. 

The rod was on the rest, the river was flowing nicely and all I had to do was wait for a barbel to come along and make the whole thing worthwhile.

It took a good while before the first bite arrived and, when it did, it came completely out of nowhere and absolutely hammered the rod over. For a moment I thought I had hooked the Avon equivalent of a runaway shopping trolley, such was the speed at which the rod was attempting to escape towards the water. Chub were the obvious suspect, and while I certainly wouldn't have complained, the target was very much a barbel and I was hoping something with whiskers rather than something with an attitude problem.

The trouble was, I stupidly hadn't checked whether the pellet was still attached, which is one of those things that seems incredibly obvious about fifteen minutes after you should have done it. Sure enough, after wondering why the swim had suddenly gone completely silent, I reeled in to discover that my Robin Red offering had vanished without trace. The only explanation I could come up with was that I had abandoned my usual ridiculously oversized pellet stops in favour of an off-the-shelf Korum version, allowing either the pellet to break down or the fish to pull the whole lot through the hole and escape into the night carrying my dinner with it.

Fortunately, there was no need to sit there conducting a full forensic investigation into pellet stops because around ten minutes after official dusk the rod top gave a couple of proper clangs before immediately entering full-on meltdown mode. I picked it up and connected with something that instantly felt like a barbel, the first powerful surge telling me everything I needed to know as it hugged the bottom and attempted to introduce itself to every weed bed in the vicinity. After that it broke the surface and went completely Tasmanian devil, which was very considerate of it because it saved me the trouble of wondering whether I had actually hooked anything interesting.

At one point the fish was right out in front of me and I had to pull it through some of the streamer weed, which thankfully proved less troublesome than it looked from the bank. The barbel wasn't particularly keen on this arrangement and made several determined attempts to continue its evening elsewhere, but eventually I got it into the net. And there it was, a lovely Avon barbel sitting there looking considerably more impressive than the rather questionable pellet-stopping arrangements that had preceded it.

I let the fish rest in the net while I packed everything away, because there was no point rushing after getting the hard bit right. Once everything was packed I had a proper look at the fish, grabbed a quick trophy shot and admired another cracking Avon barbel before returning it safely to the river. It wasn't a double, but frankly I wasn't going to start weighing it on the scales of disappointment when it had just provided a thoroughly enjoyable little session.

With curfew upon me, I headed off home feeling rather pleased with myself and, more importantly, already thinking about the next trip. This fish has definitely spurred me on to fish this stretch of the Avon a little more seriously, particularly some of those pegs that I've rather conveniently neglected while convincing myself that there must be better ones somewhere else. There is something rather satisfying about turning up after work, sitting there through the fading light and nicking a barbel just as the river starts to disappear into the darkness.

The Avon might be ridiculously clear at the moment, but as long as you pick your moment and resist the temptation to spend six hours staring at an unmoving isotopic rod top, there are still fish to be had. Another Avon barbel safely returned, another excuse to go fishing, and another completely legitimate reason to ignore whatever sensible plans I might have had for the next evening.

On to the next one.

Oh and yes before you ask, I forgot my hat !!