The River Arrow - Bovinae and Bovarism

Now there are days when you wake up and know that a spot of fishing is exactly what you need, and then there are days when your body is telling you to stay in bed, drink something warm and stop behaving like a complete idiot. 

Unfortunately, when there's a river involved, I have a remarkable ability to ignore the latter, so despite having a cold and a trip to Glasgow looming the following morning, I decided that a bit of sunshine and fresh air would do me the world of good.

After all, what could possibly go wrong? A few hours roving the Arrow, a loaf of bread, a couple of obliging chub and home in time for a nice cup of tea, surely. 

Mind you, I've been fishing long enough to know that whenever you start making sensible predictions about how a session will unfold, the fishing gods are already preparing something to make you look like a complete berk.

The Arrow, like many of the local rivers, was looking extremely low and clear, which is lovely if you're a kingfisher or a water vole but rather less appealing if you're hoping to deceive a suspicious chub. 

In conditions like these, the fish can see everything, including your carefully concealed approach, your expensive tackle and possibly the sandwich you had for lunch three hours earlier.

Still, I set off with optimism in my heart and a nose that appeared to have developed a plumbing fault. The countryside was looking glorious, the sun was shining, and for a little while I forgot that I felt like I'd been dragged backwards through a hedge by a particularly aggressive badger.

Then I spotted the cattle.

Now, I have nothing against cows, provided they remain in their designated areas and don't interfere with my fishing. Unfortunately, amongst the cows and calves was what looked suspiciously like a bull, and I found myself conducting a rather serious assessment of the situation.

I like fishing, but I'm not sufficiently committed to the cause to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a large bovine gentleman, particularly when my immune system appears to have gone on strike. I could just imagine explaining to a paramedic that I'd been flattened by a bull while trying to catch a two-pound chub, and I suspect even the paramedic might struggle to maintain a professional expression.

So, with a tactical withdrawal worthy of a military commander who has just discovered the enemy has considerably more firepower, I moved away from the bovine bother and continued my roving adventure elsewhere.

The fishing wasn't easy, though, and the clear water meant that stealth was essential. I crept along the bank, peering into each swim and trying to move quietly, although sneaking about with a cold is a bit like trying to rob a bank while carrying a tambourine and shouting about your latest symptoms.

Then, quite by chance, I came across a group of chub feeding off the surface.

Well, now we were talking!

There is something wonderfully exciting about finding fish feeding confidently, especially when you've spent the previous hour wondering whether the only thing likely to take your bait is a passing leaf. I watched them carefully, presented the bread and waited for the magic to happen.

And happen it did.

The bait was taken, the rod bent beautifully and suddenly I was attached to a chub. For a few glorious seconds, I forgot about my cold, my impending journey to Glasgow and the fact that I'd nearly had a close encounter with a bull.

Then the hook pulled.

Oh, for goodness' sake!

One minute I was playing a fish, and the next I was standing there holding a rod that had become about as useful as a chocolate teapot. 

The fish had gone, my confidence had taken a considerable dent, and I was left wondering whether the chub had escaped or simply decided that I wasn't worth the trouble.

Naturally, I replayed the whole incident in my head about seventeen times, each replay producing a slightly larger fish and a slightly more tragic account of my misfortune. 

By the time I'd finished, the lost chub was probably approaching record proportions, despite the fact that I'd barely seen it.

Never mind, I told myself. There would be other fish.

This is one of the great lies of angling, along with “I'll only have another cast” and “I don't need any more tackle.” Nevertheless, I moved on, determined to make the most of the afternoon.

The next swim looked promising, but one of the chub had clearly spotted me. I presented the bait, hoping that the fish might overlook my presence, only for it to swim upstream without a care in the world.

And I'm convinced it stuck two fins up at me as it went.

Honestly, the cheek of it! Here I was, a poorly bloke making an enormous effort to present a respectable piece of bread, and this aquatic hooligan couldn't even pretend to be interested. It simply disappeared upstream, presumably to tell its mates about the strange creature on the bank who looked as though he needed a week in bed.

“Oh, so you're cagey, are you?” I muttered. “Too good for my bread, are you? Well, don't come crying to me when the river freezes over!”

The fish, naturally, remained completely unmoved by my little speech. I suspect it had heard considerably worse from anglers over the years.

There was still one deeper swim worth trying, though, and I wasn't about to give up just yet. I settled in, introduced some bread and watched carefully as it drifted through the swim.

A few minutes passed before I noticed a little movement.

Pluck, pluck.

Now, those two little indications are enough to make even the most experienced angler sit up straight. The imagination immediately gets to work, transforming a tentative nibble into a monster chub that will require a specially reinforced landing net and possibly the assistance of the fire brigade.

Then the line tightened, the rod bent and I was into another fish!

At last, something was going according to plan.

I played the chub carefully, determined not to repeat the earlier mistake, and soon enough it was safely in the net. It wasn't a monster, but then this was a small section of river, not some mythical waterway populated exclusively by six-pound chub with personal trainers.

It was a lovely little fish, and more importantly, the blank had been avoided.

There is something deeply satisfying about catching a fish when conditions are difficult, particularly on a small river where stealth, observation and a little patience can make all the difference. You might not catch a monster, but you've earned that fish, and sometimes that's worth considerably more than the size of the scales.

 I returned the chub safely and immediately began thinking about catching another one, because apparently one fish is never enough for an angler. We could land a perfectly respectable catch, have a wonderful afternoon and still convince ourselves that the next swim holds the fish of a lifetime.

It's a terrible affliction, and I'm not sure there's a cure.

I persevered for a little longer, but my cold was beginning to remind me that I wasn't exactly in peak physical condition. My nose was running like a burst water main, my head was throbbing, and I was starting to wonder whether another chub was really worth the possibility of arriving in Glasgow looking like a Victorian ghost.

I decided to leave a voice message for Nic from Avon Angling, who had been catching some Warwickshire Avon barbel on the float. His fishing sounded rather more exciting than my own battle against low water, suspicious chub and agricultural wildlife.

Nic got back to me, and after a brief chat he delivered a rather sensible observation.

“Yeah, you do sound rough, Mick. I'd get off for some rest if I was you.”

Well, that told me!

I'd spent the afternoon convincing myself that fresh air was doing me good, only to discover that I apparently sounded like a rusty tractor attempting to start in the middle of winter. The worst part was that Nic was absolutely right.

I could have ignored him, carried on fishing and tried to squeeze another fish out of the river, but sometimes even the most stubborn angler has to accept defeat. Besides, I had a journey to Glasgow ahead of me, and the prospect of spending the weekend coughing like a bloke who'd swallowed a bag of gravel wasn't especially appealing.

So I packed away and called it a day.

All things considered, it had been a rather enjoyable little adventure. I'd escaped the bull, found some feeding chub, lost one fish in spectacularly annoying fashion, been given the aquatic equivalent of two fingers by another and finally managed to land one before common sense intervened.

Not a bad result, really.

The Arrow had provided a lovely few hours in the sunshine, and although the conditions were tough, there is always something satisfying about roving a small river and trying to work out where the fish are holding. You never quite know what the next swim might produce, and that uncertainty is a big part of the attraction.

As for Glasgow, the gig is on Sunday, so I'm hoping that a little rest, some good food and perhaps a couple of medicinal drams will get me back into reasonable working order. I'm not claiming the drams are medically approved, naturally, but I'm willing to conduct a little informal research into their restorative properties.

For now, the tackle is away, the chub can relax, and the bull can continue running his little riverside empire without any interference from me. Next time, I'll hopefully be feeling considerably better, the river might have a touch more colour, and perhaps the chub will be slightly less inclined to take the mickey. Although, knowing my luck, I'll probably turn up to find the bull waiting for me with a fishing rod of his own.

On to the next one, which looks like being well into next week.

Tight lines, folks!

Warwickshire Avon - Twinosaurs and Twincompatibility

Now there are few things in life more reassuring than meeting up with your identical twin brother, Chris, because you know you’re in the company of someone who shares your genes, your facial features and, presumably, the same questionable manufacturing process. 

We are, quite literally, two peas from the same pod, although one of us has clearly been stored in a slightly more questionable environment than the other.

Chris escaped Coventry some eight years ago and established himself in North Devon, where he has built a life for himself as a single dad, provider, chauffeur, cook, counsellor and general-purpose domestic appliance. 

He’s one of those unsung heroes who quietly gets on with things, despite life occasionally chucking a paving slab in his direction, and in 2026 I suspect we belong to a forgotten breed of men who simply crack on regardless.

Not that we sit around discussing the decline of Western civilisation over a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit, you understand. 

We’re identical twins, after all, and there are only so many times you can stare into a slightly older-looking version of your own face before the conversation turns to fishing, food or when was it that the hairline finally surrendered.

Chris was stopping at our mum’s for the night because, apparently, the modern world still requires human beings to physically attend an office occasionally, just to prove they haven’t been replaced by a particularly convincing screensaver. 

As an IT specialist who has spent much of the post-COVID era working from home, he’d been summoned to show his face for a couple of days to appease a new client, presumably to demonstrate that the bloke fixing their computer problems wasn’t actually a well-trained Labrador.

 We managed a pint in the local hotel before heading for a curry, which was a pleasant enough evening until the restaurant demonstrated its own unique interpretation of quality control. They’d managed to provide us with an extra main course, which meant I found myself eating a substantial portion of curry for lunch the following day at work, attracting the sort of raised eyebrows normally reserved for people who bring a full Sunday roast into the office.

Still, there are worse things in life than unexpected curry, and I certainly wasn’t about to complain. My colleagues may have wondered whether I was experiencing a midweek breakdown, but if a man can’t enjoy a free curry at lunchtime in this economy, then frankly the country is finished.

Chris was on call, so our evening had a curfew imposed by the technological gods, but it was good to catch up properly. We’re heading back down to Devon during the half-term holiday, where he’s promised to show me some of his fishing spots, and I’m particularly looking forward to that because I’ve managed to get him back into fishing again.

He’s already been catching bass and smoothhound, the lucky so-and-so, and I’ve yet to catch a smoothhound myself. I’m hoping this will be rectified, although knowing my luck I’ll travel all the way to North Devon, spend a fortune on bait, and end up photographing a crab that looks disappointed in me.

Anyway, Chris asked how my own fishing had been going, and I had to admit that things weren’t actually too bad, all things considered. The conditions on the Warwickshire Avon have been absolutely pants, though, with water levels so low and clarity so ridiculous that I half expected to see a barbel reading the writing on my hooklength before swimming away to report me to the Environment Agency.

Consequently, my fishing has become a series of short, sharp, smash-and-grab missions, squeezed into the available gaps between work, domestic responsibilities and the general business of trying to remain a functioning member of society. There’s little time for leisurely sessions involving three courses, a comfortable chair and a philosophical discussion with a passing swan; this is angling by appointment, with a strict return-to-base policy.

On the journey home from work, after another day that had been about as stimulating as watching paint dry in a darkened shed, the Skullcandy Crushers had once again been earning their keep. They’re excellent headphones, capable of delivering enough bass to make your ears question their life choices, and without them I suspect I’d have started communicating with the photocopier just to feel something.

Then I remembered the surplus curry sitting comfortably in my stomach and thought there was really only one sensible thing to do. Rather than head straight home like a responsible adult, I decided to squeeze in another smash-and-grab session on the Avon, because apparently what my body needed after a full day at work and another Indian meal was an hour or two sat beside a dying river hoping a fish would make a mistake.

The river really is on its knees at the moment, and we desperately need some rain. 

The Warwickshire Avon is looking less like a productive barbel river and more like an enormous, slightly murky garden ornament, although I remain convinced that somewhere beneath the streamer weed there are fish wondering why the hell everyone keeps turning up with fishing rods.

I headed for a stretch where I’d already managed to catch a few barbel and chub this season, but decided to try something different. Not a completely different swim, you understand, because that would involve too much walking and potentially a dangerous amount of optimism; 

I simply chose the right-hand side of the same peg, leaving the deeper section to the left where I’d been fishing upstream. The new swim looked promising, with a little more cover, a narrowing channel and shallower water around the streamer weed. It had that lovely, fishy look about it, the sort of place that makes an angler think he’s finally discovered something clever, when in reality he’s probably just found somewhere a fish occasionally goes to have a quiet afternoon. I introduced a helping of scalded pellet and a little groundbait, then left the swim to settle for half an hour. 

This is the sort of tactical patience that separates the serious angler from the impatient idiot, although the distinction becomes considerably less clear when you’re sitting there watching the clock and wondering whether you could have got away with fishing ten minutes earlier.

With dusk still about forty minutes away, I reckoned the fading light would offer the best chance of a bite. 

The water was so clear that I was half expecting the fish to have already inspected the swim, checked my credentials and circulated a WhatsApp message warning the others that some bloke with a barbel rod was operating in the area.

The rig finally went out, the bait settled on the bottom, and within a minute the rod tip gave a sharp pull. Another followed shortly afterwards, and I was suddenly alert in the manner of a man who has spent the previous eight hours being paid to look at a screen and has finally encountered something interesting that doesn’t require a password.

Whatever was responsible had clearly taken a liking to my paste-wrapped 10mm Robin Red pellet, and the indications were encouraging enough to get the old ticker working. I was immediately entertaining visions of a barbel, a bend in the rod and a triumphant photograph, which was rather premature given that I’d barely had time to digest the last mouthful of curry.

The culprit soon revealed itself as a chub, which was hardly a disappointment, although it did mean my grand plans for a heroic barbel encounter would have to be shelved. It was a decent fish, too, and put up a respectable scrap, but against the barbel rod it was a little like challenging a shopping trolley to a tug-of-war with a tractor. Still, a fish is a fish, and I was grateful not to have blanked. The chub had done its bit for the evening, taken a liking to the bait and provided some welcome entertainment, whereas the river had so far contributed little beyond scenery and an overwhelming sense of impending hydrological doom.

I slipped the fish back and put the bait out again, expecting that the swim might have come alive. Almost immediately there were more sharp pulls and little plucks on the rod tip, the sort of activity that gets an angler excited while simultaneously making him question whether the fish are actually feeding or simply taking the mickey.

I sat there watching the tip, willing it to pull round properly, but the promised action never materialised. Whatever was nibbling seemed perfectly happy to sample the menu without committing to a main course, rather like someone at an all-you-can-eat buffet who spends three hours eating the free poppadoms before announcing that they’re not particularly hungry.

The light gradually faded, the temperature dipped and my allotted fishing time began to evaporate. My strict curfew was fast approaching, and although I considered the possibility of ignoring it in pursuit of a barbel, I decided that explaining to the family why I’d disappeared into the night chasing a fish that might not even exist was unlikely to improve domestic harmony.

Eventually, I called time with one decent chub to show for my efforts and absolutely no barbel. It wasn’t the result I’d hoped for, but it was a perfectly enjoyable little session, and on a river looking as poorly as the Avon does at present, I was hardly going to complain about catching a fish.

Besides, barbel are supposed to be difficult, aren’t they? If they simply leapt out of the water, seized the hookbait and politely posed for a photograph, there would be considerably less mystery to the whole business, and an awful lot fewer men sitting in muddy fields looking like they’d misplaced their car keys.

So, another smash-and-grab session completed, another chub in the book, and another evening spent trying to outwit fish that probably possess a better understanding of the situation than I do. The Avon desperately needs rain, the barbel remain elusive, and I still have a smoothhound to catch in Devon, which means there’s plenty to look forward to.

At least Chris and I can agree on one thing: fishing is a wonderful pastime, even when the fish refuse to cooperate, the rivers resemble overfilled puddles and your identical twin is catching more interesting things several hundred miles away. There’s always another session around the corner, another swim to explore and another opportunity to spend good money proving that fish are perfectly capable of surviving without our assistance.

And if the next session produces nothing, I can always console myself with another curry. Although, given my recent lunchtime performance, I suspect the office might be more concerned about my fishing results than my digestive system. Tight lines, and may the rain gods finally take pity on the Warwickshire Avon before we’re all reduced to fishing with a teaspoon and a length of dental floss.

Warwickshire Avon - Gravers and Grandiloquence's

Well, chaps, the news has finally filtered down to the bankside, and it’s fair to say it’s left a bitter taste in the mouth. Sharper than any hop, that's for sure. They’re shutting down Marston's. The historic cathedral of brewing in Burton-upon-Trent is to be boarded up by the summer of '27. Out with the Union sets, in with the corporate spreadsheet.

Now, you might be sitting there, scratching your head, wondering what a boardroom decision by Carlsberg has to do with a bloke sitting on a damp basket at 5:00 AM waiting for a quivertip to slam round. Everything. Absolutely everything.

You see, my quest for that elusive, mythical monster barbel—that double-figure whiskers I’ve been chasing through weedbeds and gravel runs for longer than my lower back cares to remember—isn't just about the fish. It’s about the ritual.

 Fishing, in its truest, most Piscatorial sense, is an ecosystem of tradition. You pack the rods, you obsess over the river levels, you freeze your fingers off threading line through iced-up guides, and you do it all knowing there is a specific reward waiting at the end of the line. 

For decades, that reward was a pint of Burton’s finest. Pedigree, or on those truly special, frost-bitten winter evenings, a sneaky bottle of Owd Rodger (god rest its soul, since they took that away from us prematurely I've stashed a few bottles away).

There’s a spiritual tie between the River Trent and the water that brewed those beers. It’s the same land. The same subterranean alchemy. When you sit on the Trent, targeting a specimen barbel, you are fishing in the shadow of giants—both piscatorial and industrial.
So how does the closure affect the quest?

Logistically, it doesn't change the weight of the fish. A 14-pounder doesn't care if the local brewery is open or closed. It still wants its halibut pellets. It still wants to play keep-away in the snags.
But emotionally? Philosophically? It changes the whole damn landscape. Stripping Marston's out of the Trent valley is like stripping the gravel out of a barbel's favourite feeding shelf. It leaves the whole thing feeling a bit hollow. 

A bit sanitized. If we lose the heritage surrounding our rivers the pubs, the local brews, the history then we’re just men pulling digital scales out of plastic bags in a world that’s forgotten how to appreciate the finer things.

They say they are looking for "independent custodians" to save Pedigree. I bloody hope they find them despite bugger all help from the government as expected. 

Because if I finally net that history-making, net-filling, whiskers-trailing beast of a Trent barbel sometime (Nic we need to sort a date out), and I can't toast it with a proper pint of Burton ale... well, it’ll still be a magnificent fish, but the victory will feel just a little bit flatter.

Keep your lines tight, and your glasses full while you still can.

Anyway another week, another series of dawns witnessed not from the tranquil, reed-fringed margins of the Warwickshire Avon, but through the smeary glass of the commuter bus while clutching a lukewarm travel mug. 

Don’t get me wrong the walk into the office has been surprisingly civilised of late. Sunrise over the office puts on a lovely little vista a fleeting bit of golden-hour drama before the curtain comes down and the day’s drudgery proper begins. 

But as the calendar ticks on and the light shortens, I can’t help noticing a grim piece of arithmetic: the days are pulling in, and my window for slipping away on a proper fishing trip is shrinking by the week.

After thirty-seven solid years in full-time employment thirty-seven years of memos, redundancies, mild peril, and staring blankly at CAD terminals and clay models while pretending to care about cars and vans I'd never buy,

I think we can all agree there are vastly superior ways for an aging chap to spend his finite time on this earth. Which brings me to the grand, glorious nonsense of angling.

It isn't just about fish, is it? It’s the entire coping mechanism. It’s sitting at your desk on a Monday morning, completely numb to a four-way email debate about unfeasible passenger airbag positions, cup holder dimensions and the latest NCAP protocols , while silently planning the next stealth offensive. 

Which stretch of the river? Is the flow right? Do I target those craftily cynical chub under the far-bank willow, or go full optimist for a proper Avon barbel? Then comes the real therapeutic magic: justifying the next vital equipment purchase. You convince yourself that a new centerpin reel, or that delightfully obscure tub of flavoured paste, isn't just a gadget it’s a certified, non-negotiable mental health booster. 

A prescription for the soul, wrapped in bubble wrap and delivered to the front door before the Wife notices.

The older I get, the more this little dose of bankside madness feels less like a hobby and more like a mandatory survival strategy in a world that’s gone completely off its rocker and only Lucy's or Microdots could be the temporary solution for some escapism . 

So, I’ll suffer the day's drudgery for another quadrennium (fingers crossed). But in my head, I’m already bankside, smelling the damp silt, watching a float bob gently in the crease, and letting the madness of the modern world just float right on down to Tewkesbury.

Anyway enough of the waffle !! to the fishing, this stretch of river has been dear to my heart over the years, specifically the swim known in my own personal, highly scientific lexicon as the Tragus. 

You see, the river in plan view has a funny way of mimicking the human body, or maybe it’s just that a lifetime on the banks of the Warwickshire Avon makes you see ears, noses, and questionable anatomical features in every passing ripple. 

If you find a stretch where the bank pinches in a sharp bend, a deliberate flap of clay and reed projecting right out into the flow like the tragus of an ear you don’t walk past it. 

You stop, you drop the heavily laden ruckbag with a thud that dislodges three vertebrae, and you watch. On the Avon, a feature shaped like that is an absolute goldmine for proper, whisker-twirling big barbel. The Tragus Swim is home to my best barbel from the river caught on a huge piece of spam, so it would be downright rude not to give it a go, especially considering I’ve been doing quite well on the barbel front lately.

Now, this spot is located well away from the young’uns, the gatecrashers, and the late-night party people who think a riverbank is a grand place for a Bluetooth speaker and lemon-flavored cider. Back in the day, this very bank was prime territory for the Gravers and yes, I proudly count myself as one of them, with my next rave scheduled for this weekend up in Glasgow alongside progressive house legends Nick Warren and Hernán Cattáneo, an event for which my knees are already filing a formal written complaint in advance. 

Looking at the silent, mysterious water today, I couldn't help but wonder whether the old Gravers were still in residence around here, or if they were all currently at home strapped to heat pads, nursing bad backs, and sipping chamomile tea while debating the merits of orthopaedic insoles. 

Only one way to find out, I suppose: cast a rig right into the crease, collapse heavily onto the unhooking mat, and turn the water quality up to eleven.

I settled into the bankside grass, adjusted my layers, and prayed for the tip to wrap around before the strict curfew called me home to the chaos. 

 It’s a delightfully mental game, angling one minute you're analysing hydrodynamic eddies with the laser precision of a hydraulic engineer, and the next you're practicing your 1992 rave moves in full camo waterproofs just to keep your toes from dropping off while a rogue chub nibbles your boilie blind. 

I better prepare itself for the Glasgow onslaught this weekend, but for now, the deep rhythmic bassline of the river was more than enough, and the wait was officially on.

Now, what I certainly didn’t expect, having barely settled my aching carcass onto the bank and flipped open a lukewarm flask of questionable tea, was a whacking, rod-rest-rattling chub bite within five short minutes of the bait touching down. 

"Here we go," I muttered to the startled reeds, puffing my chest out like a triumphant kingfisher. "I am indubitably on for a fish here."

Alas, the angling gods are cruel, mocking creatures who delight in inflating a man’s hopes only to pop them with a rusty hook.

Despite the swim looking absolutely prime for a bite nestled comfortably along the deep, mysterious outside bend where monsters surely lurked—those promising initial minutes ticked away into absolute, crushing silence. 

Dusk arrived with unseemly haste, creeping across the water like a wet blanket, closely followed by the suffocating gloom of my self-imposed curfew. Before I knew it, I was packing away slinking back to the motor with nothing to show for my misplaced optimism but a blank notebook and cold toes.

I shall return, of course. A glutton for punishment, I’ve already scouted a couple of alternative swims in my endless, quixotic quest to track down that elusive, mythical big barbel. The real snag, as ever with this magnificent stretch of river, is that there is simply too much glorious water to go at and in the convoluted mind of an obsessive angler, having too many good options is the greatest catastrophe of all.