Warwickshire Avon - Carnage and Carboxyhemoglobinopathy

I arrived at the fabled 'Piccadilly Circus' with the gear still in the car and the rod and landing net on the roof for another after work session before curfew. Now I’ll be honest, it isn’t my favourite place to dangle a pellet, but when you’ve got limited time and a dangerous addiction to catching things with whiskers, convenience trumps romance every time. Besides, it would’ve been downright rude not to have a quick smash-and-grab session while the gear was already in the motor.

As I pulled into the car-park another vehicle rolled in behind me and out stepped the youngish match lad who’d popped down previously for a nosey. After the usual angling pleasantries —“Any luck yesterday?” and the traditional fisherman’s translation of the truth I admitted I’d had “only a couple of chub, but a nice one.” That’s angler-speak for “I’m still dining out on it three days later.” He asked where I was heading and I told him I fancied a peg a hundred yards upstream from where I was before, mainly because I like the idea of walking just far enough to look committed.

During this tactical discussion we noticed a van had driven straight into the field and parked right by the gate like it had been abandoned by someone who’d mistaken fishing for a drive-through service. Now parking on the field is only allowed on match days, and this definitely wasn’t one of those unless the match was called “Laziest Parking of the Year.” Naturally we assumed there was either a rogue poacher about or someone whose sat-nav simply gave up.

The match lad went ahead on a reconnaissance bailiff mission while I sorted my tackle out at the pace of a man who knows he’ll forget something important if he rushes. Once I’d lugged everything riverside and dumped it in the peg I’d chosen, I wandered over to join them. It turned out the mystery van belonged to a club member a friendly enough chap who had just casually dropped the bombshell that he’d caught a double-figure barbel from the exact swim I’d earmarked.

He even showed us the photo, which revealed the poor fish had clearly had a run-in with an otter because half its tail looked like it had been trimmed by a very angry hedge trimmer. The fish had been returned safely and the angler had decided he’d done enough from that spot and was now roaming about like a wandering monk of the riverbank.

Despite this revelation I stubbornly stuck to my guns. If someone has just pulled a double from a swim, common sense says you should probably fish there immediately before the barbel realise what’s happened and move house. The match lad stayed for a quick natter while I baited up and then headed back to his car, leaving me alone with the river, my rod, and a suspiciously optimistic feeling.

Ten minutes later the rod nearly launched itself into the county next door.

After a few teasing plucks on a chunky 15mm robin red pellet wrapped in paste, the rod tip slammed round so hard I briefly wondered if I’d hooked a passing submarine. 

The Korum bolt rig with a 2.5oz lead did its job perfectly the fish had basically hooked itself and was now extremely cross about it. Moments later I was playing a barbel from the exact swim the double had come from.

It fought like a caffeinated torpedo despite not being enormous. Smaller barbel seem to think they’re auditioning for the Olympics, whereas the big ones just sulk like grumpy old landlords. 

Still, after a cracking scrap I slipped it into the net, admired it briefly, took a quick trophy shot and slipped it back into the slightly green water where it swam off no doubt muttering about lawsuits.

Then the carnage began.

And when I say carnage, I mean the sort of fishing madness where you start to suspect someone upstream is tipping buckets of fish into the river when you’re not looking. 

I could barely keep a bait in the water because the chub had clearly held an emergency meeting and decided to launch a full-scale assault.

Five chub later I realised they were practically hooking themselves out of sheer enthusiasm. Each time I recast I pinged a few pellets into the shallow water after returning the netted fish downstream, which apparently acted like a dinner bell for every greedy chub within postcode range.

Every bite was ridiculous. With the bolt rig set properly and the 2.5oz lead doing the anchoring, the rod tip would twitch about three feet like it had been electrocuted. No delicate taps, no subtle indications — just full-blown “HELLO I AM A FISH AND I’VE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE” lunges.

The chub ranged from a couple of pounds up to well over four, all of them clearly determined to audition for the role of “Most Reckless Fish in the River.” It was one of those sessions where you start laughing out loud on your own because it’s so absurdly busy.

Sadly curfew arrived far too quickly, as it always does when the fish are behaving like lunatics. I packed up reluctantly, convinced that if I’d had another hour I might have needed a second landing net and possibly counselling.

On the walk back the other angler had already climbed into his van and was heading off, so I never found out if he’d added anything else to his tally. But honestly, after the chaos I’d just experienced, I half expected him to say he’d caught a carp, a salmon and a confused duck.

All in all it was one of those sessions you remember for ages the kind where you only nip out for a quick hour and end up witnessing absolute aquatic bedlam. Proof, if it were ever needed, that sometimes the humble smash-and-grab trip turns into something far dafter and far more entertaining than you ever planned. Anyway get on the Robin Red, it just works !!

Warwickshire Avon - Chubulence and Contemplation

The annual River Teme trip is creeping up on me at a rather uncomfortable pace and, if I’m honest, I’m nowhere near as organised as I should be. Every year I promise myself I’ll have everything sorted well in advance, neatly tied rigs, bait prepared, tackle checked and ready to go. And every year I find myself a few days before the trip rummaging through the garage like a man searching for buried treasure.

This year due to the lack of time I even went as far as buying maggots from Willy Worms, which is something I rarely bother with. To be fair they arrived well packaged and were a decent size, proper healthy looking specimens. The only problem was they needed riddling big time, which meant I had to dig out the maggot riddle for the first time in what must be at least fifteen years.

I’m fairly certain the last time I riddled maggots was sometime around 2010. The riddle itself was buried in the garage under a layer of dust and various bits of tackle that I don’t even remember owning. Once located, it felt less like fishing preparation and more like an archaeological dig. Still, after a bit of shaking and a small carpet of wriggling escapees, I eventually ended up with a respectable tub of clean maggots. Which, in my world, probably counts as being very well prepared indeed for a trip to the Teme.

Anyway there is a very particular type of fishing trip that exists somewhere between “carefully planned angling expedition” and “accidental loitering with fishing equipment.” This particular outing firmly belonged to the second category. The plan, if we can use such an ambitious word, was simple: finish work, drive to the river, chuck a bait in, and attempt to extract a fish before the curfew descended like an overenthusiastic nightclub bouncer who’s had three red bulls and a clipboard.

Now in a perfect world I’d arrive hours earlier, stroll along the riverbanks like some contemplative Victorian naturalist, and select my swim based on watercraft, fish movement, and subtle features in the flow. In reality I arrived like a man late for a dentist appointment, slammed the car door, grabbed the rucksack, and waddled down the path while trying to remember whether I’d actually packed any hooks. This is what I call “efficient angling.” Some might call it chaos. I prefer efficiency.

The river itself still carries the faint air of a soap opera following the infamous oxygen crash incident a couple of years ago. Prior to that event the place was positively brimming with barbel (15 years ago), chub, and the sort of fish that made you walk back to the car grinning like you’d just discovered a forgotten tenner in an old coat pocket. Afterwards things became a bit… contemplative. Fish catches dropped, anglers scratched their heads, and the local tackle shop owner developed the haunted expression of a man watching his regulars buy fewer pellets. 

To be fair, rivers are resilient things. Fish move about like aquatic commuters, stocking has occurred, and every now and then someone lands a fish that reminds you the river hasn’t completely packed up and moved to France. A few proper barbel have appeared during floods, some cracking chub have shown themselves, and every angler within fifty miles immediately starts muttering, “Ah yes… they’re coming back now,” while secretly hoping to be the next person holding one.

On this particular evening I had roughly sixty minutes to fish, which in modern life is actually quite luxurious. Sixty minutes without emails, traffic lights, or someone asking if you’ve “seen the latest update on the group chat.” 

Just a rod, a river, and the faint hope that something with fins and questionable judgement might take an interest in a pellet wrapped in paste.

Travelling light was the order of the day. One rod, one net, a few pellets, and the vague confidence that if I forgot anything important I could simply pretend it was part of the strategy. 

Anglers are very good at this. Forget the landing net? You’re now “practicing hand-landing techniques.” Forgot the scales? You’re “not fussed about weights these days.” Forgot the rod entirely? You’re birdwatching.

The rig itself was simplicity incarnate: a 2oz lead, a long hair rig, and a 15mm Robin Red pellet wrapped in matching paste like a delicious spicy dumpling for fish with refined culinary tastes. 

Alongside it went a small PVA bag of freebies, which I like to imagine drifts down to the riverbed like a tiny underwater care package accompanied by a polite note reading, “Dear Fish, Please Consider Eating This.”

I flicked the rig out into the flow, settled down, and prepared myself for the traditional period of staring intensely at a rod tip while convincing myself that every tiny vibration is definitely a fish and not the river doing river things. The rod had barely stopped wobbling when the tip gave a little twitch.

Ten minutes.

Now bites that happen that quickly are rarely from large, wise, bearded fish with PhDs in avoiding anglers. More often they involve something small, enthusiastic, and possessing the decision-making skills of a Labrador confronted with a sandwich. Sure enough after a brief but energetic scuffle a small chub appeared in the margins looking like it had just completed the aquatic equivalent of a bar fight.

It wasn’t exactly going to make the headlines of the angling press, but it had performed the most sacred service a fish can offer an angler: preventing the dreaded blank. There is a special psychological relief that occurs when you avoid a blank. You instantly become a far better angler in your own mind. You stand taller. Your casting becomes smoother. You start nodding knowingly at the river as if you and it have some kind of professional arrangement. The chub was slipped back with thanks for its cooperation, the hookbait was refreshed, and another PVA bag was attached. Back out it went into the current like a tiny edible missile aimed at the dinner table of some unsuspecting river resident.

Then came the waiting, which is the bit of fishing where the mind begins to wander into increasingly strange territories. Some anglers use this time for quiet reflection. I use it to mentally reorganise tackle boxes that are not currently present and to wonder whether otters ever look at anglers and think, “Honestly lads, you’re making this far more complicated than it needs to be.” The only drawback to this particular swim is that it’s about as peaceful as a bus station during a rail strike. Rather than open countryside and birdsong you’re treated to the gentle ambience of suburban life: dogs barking, distant televisions, and the occasional mysterious clattering noise that nobody ever investigates. 

On this evening the entertainment arrived in the form of a father and daughter performing yoga on the roof of a garden room upstream. Now I’m not against yoga. It seems like a perfectly healthy activity. But when you’re trying to concentrate on rod tip movements, watching someone attempt a rooftop downward dog introduces an unexpected level of distraction. At one point the father attempted what I can only describe as a manoeuvre involving one leg, two arms, and a level of balance that suggested he had perhaps watched half a tutorial video and decided that was sufficient training. I briefly wondered whether I might end up landing both a chub and a falling yogi before the evening was out.

Eventually dusk began doing its magical thing where the river turns slightly mysterious and every shadow feels like it might contain a fish with serious intentions. The rod tip gave a few delicate taps the classic chub plucks that make you lean forward like a suspicious pigeon.

Pluck.

Pluck, pluck 

Pause.

This is the moment where anglers stare so hard at the rod tip that it becomes a battle of wills. Somewhere down there a fish is inspecting the bait like a detective examining evidence. Meanwhile above the water a man is whispering encouragement at a piece of carbon fibre.

“Go on… have it… you know you want it…”

Then the rod absolutely slammed over.

Not a polite bite. Not a suggestion. This was the aquatic equivalent of someone grabbing the bait and legging it down the street with your wallet in San Antonio. My setup includes the Korum Bolt and Run system in bolt mode, which basically means the fish hooks itself against the lead. When it works it produces bites that resemble a small explosion at the rod tip. The rod lunged forward repeatedly and I grabbed it with the enthusiasm of someone trying to stop their phone falling into a canal.

The fish immediately started that unmistakable nodding fight that screams “chub.” Not the long, dogged plod of a barbel, but that punchy, darting, slightly argumentative battle where the fish behaves like it’s deeply offended by the whole situation. With the current still pushing through nicely the fish used the flow to its advantage, zig-zagging around like a drunk shopping trolley before eventually rolling in the margins. When the net slipped under it I could see straight away it was a proper chunky specimen the sort of fish that looks like it spends its spare time doing resistance training with gravel.

Out came the scales, which is always a slightly ceremonial moment accompanied by the silent hope that the needle swings just a tiny bit further than expected.

4lb 4oz.

Not a monster by any means, but a cracking chub and one of those solid river fish that looks like it’s been eating well and avoiding gym memberships because the river current provides all the exercise it needs. A quick photo later and the fish was slipped back into the water where it disappeared with the calm dignity of something that had just briefly humiliated a human being. By this point the curfew had arrived and there was no point pushing my luck with another cast. The rod was packed away, the rucksack zipped up, and I made my way back to the car feeling quietly satisfied.

Not bad for what was essentially a fishing drive-by.

And sometimes that’s the beauty of these short little sessions. No grand expedition, no elaborate plan, just a quick visit to the river, a couple of bites, and a reminder that even on a busy weekday evening the river is still quietly doing its thing.

Also, somewhere upstream, a man was probably still attempting yoga on a roof.

Which, if nothing else, proves that rivers aren’t the only places where balance can occasionally be lost.

Warwickshire Avon - Piscatorial Perseverance and Pugnaciousness

Now if ever there were a lesson in listening to one’s body, I chose to ignore it somewhere between shin splints and the third time I drove back and forth over the bridge at River Avon like a man trying to convince himself the water level might drop out of sheer embarrassment. The trip to Glasgow had clearly taken more out of me than I was prepared to admit. 

Shin splints announced themselves the moment I returned to work, my right knee has since been sending strongly worded complaints to head office, and yet there I was, peering at a river the colour of builder’s tea, thinking, “Yes, this looks ideal.” Mrs Newey, saint that she is, had already organised an evening out in Stratford-upon-Avon with the promise of food, wine and most seductively of all waking up without Ben launching himself into the room at 6:02am like a caffeinated ninja. 

The main field was flooded. Not romantically flooded, not artistically misted, but properly, squelch-in-your-soul flooded. The footbridge over the brook was underwater after finding an access point, bugger  !!. “Go home, Mick,” it whispered, in the gentle lapping tones of inevitability. But I pressed on, because I had barbel on the brain and a bag of spam that wasn’t going to disgrace itself by remaining unused

Any sensible man would have put his feet up. I, however, turned right instead of left and effectively volunteered for additional suffering adjacent to the M40 motorway, because nothing says “rest and recovery” quite like a mile’s hobble (yes a mile I've just measure it) with a fishing rod while your knees and legs are screaming.

The river, recently a handsome olive green, had transformed overnight into something resembling liquid chocolate mousse with anger issues. Visibility was non-existent. If you’d dropped a hippo in there it would have vanished without so much as a ripple. Perfect barbel conditions, I told myself. The sort of water that makes them swagger about with their whiskers twitching, looking for trouble and processed meat products.

I began in a swim that had previously gifted me a near double in similar conditions, which of course meant it now behaved like a sulking teenager and refused to acknowledge my existence. A huge lump of spam went out first, backed up by groundbait pungent enough to make a lesser man question his life choices. An hour passed. 

Not a tremor. Not even the polite tap-tap of a curious minnow. The only thing nibbling was my confidence. I moved downstream to a peg that looked so good it practically posed for a calendar. “Here,” it seemed to say, “is where heroic things happen.” Another hour. More spam. Still nothing. The only action came from small fish discreetly trimming the meat in the first swim, which at least confirmed I hadn’t somehow cast into a parallel universe.

Deciding that subtlety might succeed where brute luncheon meat had failed, I scaled down to pellets on the hair with a robin red paste wrap, adding enough aroma to suggest I was marinating the entire river. Fifteen minutes later the rod tip gave a sharp pull. Not the tentative peck of a time-waster, but the sort of tug that makes your spine straighten despite its objections. 

Then another pull, and this one meant business. I struck into something solid. For a split second I suspected a chub, but it pulled with a determined thump that travelled right through my faithful Korum Big River rod and into my already aggrieved joints. 

This was no half-hearted participant. After a spirited scrap in water the colour of cocoa catastrophe, a barbel materialised from the gloom like a whiskered submarine. Not a monster. Not a record breaker. But a barbel. And in those conditions, on that knee, with those shins, it might as well have been a personal best.

I scooped it up first time always a minor miracle and admired the bronze flanks gleaming despite the pea-soup backdrop. A small’un, yes, but as welcome as central heating in January. There’s something deeply satisfying about being the only fool on the bank and being vindicated, even modestly. 

I had braved floodwater, wind chill and my own questionable judgement, and here was proof that sometimes the river rewards stubbornness rather than punishes it. I slipped it back, watched it disappear into the murk, and immediately began feeling chilly enough to question every decision that had led me there since birth.

With one fish safely ticked off, I decided not to push my luck or my ligaments any further. The walk back felt longer, naturally, because gravity only assists when you don’t need it. But there was a quiet glow beneath the top layer of thermals and self-reproach. 

You cannot catch fish sat at home. You also cannot aggravate shin splints sat at home, but that’s a detail we’ll gloss over. Rivers like that up, coloured, full of mystery often bring the best out of barbel. They seem to revel in the chaos, rooting about with cheerful abandon while anglers debate the wisdom of waterproof socks.

So yes, I probably should have turned left. I probably should have elevated my legs and sipped tea while preparing for our child-free sojourn in Stratford-upon-Avon. 

But then I wouldn’t have stood alone beside a chocolate torrent, clutching a rod, muttering encouragement to a pellet wrapped in something that smells faintly illegal. 

I wouldn’t have felt that jolt, that surge, that brief, glorious reminder that even when your body is protesting like a striking workforce, the river can still surprise you. And as Mrs Newey and I later clinked glasses, knowing no small person would burst in at dawn, I could at least say I’d earned it one small, spirited barbel at a time.