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 !!

Warwickshire Avon - Baitcasterisation and Bankchairmanship

Sam has, somewhat unexpectedly, started showing a bit of interest in fishing again, which is obviously a good thing although I'm not entirely sure whether my bank account is going to agree with that assessment. There was a time when trying to get him interested in fishing was a bit like trying to persuade a cat that having a bath would be an enjoyable experience, so any sudden enthusiasm has to be encouraged before it disappears again.

Consequently, when he said he was happy to join me at the BIG Fish N Show at Baden Hall Fishery on Saturday, I wasn't going to start asking awkward questions about exactly why he wanted to go. Sometimes in life you simply accept a minor miracle when it happens and ask questions later.

The BIG Fish N Show is a relatively new addition to the angling calendar and it was the fact that it was being held outside that initially sparked my interest. I'm not quite sure what this says about me because the words "outdoor fishing show" and "British weather" aren't exactly a combination that normally fills me with confidence. 

Still, there were apparently loads of well-known anglers going to be there and I thought surely it couldn't be that bad, could it? Famous anglers, tackle manufacturers, fishing lakes and the prospect of spending several hours looking at fishing gear I didn't know I needed seemed like a reasonably good way of spending a Saturday.

The journey up wasn't too bad either and after about an hour and fifteen minutes travelling up the M6 we rolled into Baden Hall at around 9.00am. The car park was already pretty busy, which suggested that a significant proportion of the British angling population had independently arrived at exactly the same conclusion as us.

You always know a fishing show is going to be reasonably well attended when you start wondering whether you've accidentally parked at the wrong event. There were cars everywhere and people wandering around with the unmistakable look of anglers who had already mentally spent money despite not having got through the entrance yet.

Having never been to Baden Hall Fishery before, I was actually quite impressed with the place. The lakes looked pretty decent and there was plenty of space, although obviously my first thought was less about the quality of the fishery and more along the lines of "I wonder what's in there?"

There was one lake absolutely full of match anglers, all looking incredibly serious. They had the sort of concentration normally associated with bomb disposal, despite the fact that most of them appeared to be fishing for things that probably wouldn't have eaten the contents of my bait box if I'd thrown the entire thing in.

Another lake had more specialist anglers fishing, which was much more my sort of thing. There is something about specialist fishing that appeals to me because nobody seems quite as stressed about whether they've had 37 fish by lunchtime and whether the angler next to them has had 38.

The show itself had a reasonable turnout from the tackle manufacturers, with Trakker and Fox being particularly prominent. The carp anglers were absolutely loving it, especially the latest bivvies and bedchairs, and I have to admit that the modern bedchairs are bloody impressive.

They've come on enormously since the days when a fishing bed was essentially a folding metal frame with a thin piece of material stretched across it. Some of the modern versions look more comfortable than the bed I sleep in at home, and I'm beginning to think the only thing missing is somebody bringing you a cup of tea and asking whether you'd like the curtains drawn.

The Tempur mattress might have finally met its match. If you can get a bedchair with adjustable lumbar support, memory foam, a pillow and enough room to turn over without waking up your neighbour, I'm not sure why anybody would ever go home again.

The obvious problem is that the modern carp angler now seems to require more equipment to go fishing than I have in my entire house. Rods, reels, bivvies, bedchairs, sleeping bags, alarms, tables, chairs, cooking equipment and probably enough spare clothing to survive the Battle of the Somme.

I suppose if you're going to sit beside a lake for 72 hours waiting for a carp to eat a boilie, you might as well be comfortable. Personally, if I'm going to spend three nights beside a lake without catching anything, I generally just call it a holiday.

The Predator tackle stand was probably the busiest stand there, certainly from what I could see. There were people absolutely everywhere, and judging by the amount of tackle being carried away I suspect they must have had a fairly successful weekend.

Predator anglers are an interesting bunch because there seems to be an almost unlimited number of lures available for catching fish that are quite capable of eating virtually anything. Yet somehow you still need 47 different colours, four different sizes and something that looks like a diseased duck.

Sam was particularly taken with the Predator stand and eventually picked up an Abu Black Ops rod and reel. To be fair, it looked pretty cool, and there is something about black fishing tackle that makes you feel considerably more serious about your fishing even when you're standing on the bank wearing an old fleece with a crisp packet in the pocket.

I suspect that was probably at least 60 percent of the reason he bought it. The other 40 percent was probably because it looked like something you'd expect to see being used by a special forces operative in a film.

The Korum boys were there too and I had a chat with Harry Pardoe, who I've met before riverside where I put him on to some river Zander. It's always nice bumping into people you know at these things because you can immediately stop pretending you're interested in whatever stand you're standing in front of and have a proper conversation.

I've got a slightly complicated relationship with Korum gear these days. Some of their stuff is genuinely very good, while other items leave me wondering whether somebody has simply walked around the warehouse shouting "we need another product" and then put a logo on whatever happened to be lying on the floor. You just have to cherry-pick the good stuff from the dross. It's a bit like shopping in a charity shop, except everything costs more and there is considerably less chance of finding a decent pair of curtains.

The Winning Ways guys were there as well and there were loads of other familiar faces wandering around. Jeremy Wade was apparently there, which seems entirely appropriate because if there's one man who looks as though he could find a prehistoric monster hiding underneath a pallet, it's Jeremy Wade.

Terry Hearn was also apparently there, although despite wandering around for quite some time I never actually saw him. This has led me to believe that Terry has perfected some sort of advanced camouflage technique involving a hat, a hoodie and standing quietly behind a display of terminal tackle.

Then there were the YouTubers. Quite a lot of YouTubers, actually, which is probably something that every modern fishing show now has to have or the younger generation might suddenly remember that they could be outside actually fishing. Cal and Dani and Tom Wilshaw pedalling his coffee it's nice to actually see these people in person. 

The queue to see Carl from Fish With Carl was absolutely enormous. It seemed to stretch on forever and people were patiently waiting for their chance to meet him, have a photograph and presumably tell him how many times they'd watched his latest video. The queue was so long that I started wondering whether some of them had brought camping equipment. Which, given the amount of carp gear available at the show, wouldn't actually have been difficult.

Alan Blair was there as well, although by the time I saw him it looked as though he was having to make do with what could only be described as the dregs. I suspect this was probably exaggerated in my head because Alan still seemed to have plenty of people around him, but compared with the Carl queue it looked like he had been allocated the overflow car park.

I'm sure he wasn't bothered though. If you're Alan Blair, you're probably quite used to people wanting to talk to you, although I would imagine there comes a point where you start hoping somebody will ask you about the weather just so you can have a normal conversation. 

I managed to have a chat with Matt Hayes, which was one of the highlights for me. I've watched countless hours of his television programmes over the years, so it was quite strange standing there having an ordinary conversation with somebody whose face has been on my television for years.

Thankfully he was a thoroughly nice chap and very easy to talk to. There's always a slight danger when meeting someone you've watched on television that they turn out to be completely different in real life, but fortunately there was none of that. I didn't ask him whether he'd ever wondered what happened to all the fish he'd caught on television. I'm sure the answer is probably more complicated than "they're still in the river".

I also had a good chat with Jack Perks, who is much more on my sort of wavelength. He's one of those anglers who seems equally happy targeting the smaller species as he is going after the bigger stuff, which is something I can relate to.

There is something very satisfying about catching a small fish that you've deliberately targeted. You don't always need a fish that looks like it needs its own postcode to make a fishing trip worthwhile.

Apparently Jack is going to be fishing for tuna and blue shark soon, which is quite a leap from some of the smaller species he targets. I did briefly wonder whether he would be taking a 10ft feeder rod and a tin of luncheon meat, but presumably he'll have something slightly more substantial.

I bought a book from Jack as well and got him to sign it. I now own a signed book by Jack Perks, which makes me feel considerably more cultured than I actually am.

Of course, owning a signed fishing book doesn't necessarily mean you are going to read it. At the moment it's sitting somewhere safe, which is usually the first stage in ensuring that you never see it again. Cal and Dani were there too, along with Tom Wilshaw and Danny from Danny's Angling Blog on the Korum stand. There really was a decent selection of people there and, for a relatively new show, it seemed to have attracted a fair amount of interest.

The weather, inevitably, had decided that it wasn't going to make things too easy. We had a series of showers coming through, which meant everybody was repeatedly putting waterproofs on, taking waterproofs off and then putting them back on again five minutes later.

It's the traditional British outdoor experience. You don't actually dress for the weather, you dress for all possible weather conditions simultaneously and then spend the day carrying the clothes you aren't currently wearing.

The Angling Trust had clearly identified an opportunity. They were selling umbrellas for a tenner to people stuck in the queues and, judging by the number of them being carried around, they must have shifted quite a few.

There's something very British about paying ten pounds for an umbrella because you've voluntarily attended an outdoor event in September. Somewhere in the distance, a weather forecaster was probably laughing. I did think about buying one, but then remembered that I already own approximately 14 umbrellas, none of which are ever where I need them. This is one of the great mysteries of domestic life.

You can have six umbrellas in your house and still leave home in the rain without one. They don't disappear exactly, they simply relocate themselves to places where they become completely useless. Eventually we'd seen enough and decided to head home. It had been a good day though and, considering we'd spent most of it walking around looking at fishing tackle rather than actually fishing, I'd say it had been a success.

Then came the small matter of the M6. The motorway had apparently decided that Saturday wasn't difficult enough already and there was gridlock traffic, so eventually I ended up using the M6 Toll.

Twelve quid.

Twelve bloody quid.

There is something deeply offensive about paying £12 for the privilege of driving on a road because the free road has decided to stop functioning. I kept expecting somebody at the toll booth to hand me a small complimentary packet of crisps as compensation.

Still, we got home eventually and Sam was keen to try out his new baitcaster the following morning. This was rather encouraging because the last thing I wanted was for him to spend a load of money on a rod and reel and then leave it sitting in the corner looking decorative.

So Sunday morning saw us heading off to a new water for me this season. The river was low, clear and sluggish, which are three words that don't exactly fill you with confidence when you're hoping to catch a predator. Still, we gave it a go. We tried numerous lures, changed colours, changed sizes and generally went through enough tackle to make it look as though we'd been commissioned by a lure manufacturer.

The river looked absolutely beautiful though. Gin clear water, low levels and that sort of quiet Sunday morning atmosphere where you can convince yourself that the fish are definitely there and you're merely waiting for the right moment.

Eventually there was a sign of life and a reasonable pike took a Replicant lure. Suddenly everything changed because when you're lure fishing for pike and something actually grabs the lure, all the previous hours of fruitless casting are immediately forgiven. Unfortunately the pike didn't seem particularly interested in remaining attached to the lure. After the first proper pull off the rod, it simply came off.

There was no dramatic conclusion, no photograph and certainly no fish in the net. Just that horrible moment where you realise that the thing you've been waiting for all morning has happened and lasted approximately three seconds. The pike presumably swam away feeling rather pleased with itself. I imagine it is now telling the story to other pike about the day it encountered two anglers who spent several hours throwing things at it and then managed to lose it when it finally decided to cooperate.

Sam, meanwhile, seemed to take to the baitcaster remarkably quickly. He got the hang of casting it almost immediately, which was slightly irritating because I was expecting there to be a reasonable amount of shared suffering.

Instead, he looked as though he'd been using one for years. There is nothing quite like watching someone else pick up a piece of fishing tackle for the first time and immediately work it out while you're standing beside them wondering why yours has just produced a bird's nest.

For me, the baitcaster represented a considerably steeper learning curve. There are knobs everywhere. Little knobs, big knobs, magnetic knobs, braking adjustments and various other things that apparently need to be altered depending on the lure, the wind, the line and presumably the phase of the moon.

I spent a considerable amount of time fiddling with things. Every adjustment seemed to produce a different result and I was beginning to feel less like an angler and more like somebody repairing a malfunctioning washing machine.

Eventually you get a cast that works beautifully and think you've cracked it. Then you make another cast and the reel immediately explodes into a bird's nest that looks like you've been knitting with fishing line.

Still, Sam was getting on with it brilliantly. If he continues at this rate, he'll soon be teaching me how to use mine that is gathering dust, which would be quite humiliating but probably inevitable. After Sunday dinner I decided that I needed some peace and quiet, so I headed off to the syndicate stretch. There is something rather nice about going fishing after Sunday dinner, particularly when everybody else is occupied doing something that doesn't involve you.

The river was still low and clear and, once again, the fish appeared to have decided that today wasn't the day. I had a couple of small pulls, but nothing materialised into anything meaningful.

Sometimes you can spend hours fishing a swim knowing there is almost certainly a fish somewhere nearby, but getting it to actually do anything is another matter entirely. It's like knowing somebody is in the house because you can hear them moving around but they refuse to answer the door.

I stayed into dark anyway. There's always that thought that perhaps the fish will switch on as daylight disappears, and if you've already spent several hours sitting there, you might as well give yourself the opportunity to be disappointed in the darkness as well.

The beauty of fishing into dark is that everything becomes more mysterious. Every little pluck feels significant, every swirl could be a fish and every noise in the bushes becomes either an otter, a deer or something that is about to murder you.

Usually it's a leaf.

On this particular occasion I had my comfortable chair with me, complete with lumbar support. This is another sign that fishing has gradually changed over the years because once upon a time I would have happily sat on anything that vaguely resembled a chair.

Now I'm apparently looking for ergonomic support.

The lumbar support was actually very good. So good, in fact, that I began to wonder whether it was perhaps working a little too well. At some point during the evening I became aware that I had apparently drifted off. Not a full night's sleep obviously, but enough of a nodding session to make me question whether I was actually fishing or simply conducting a long-term experiment into the sleep-inducing qualities of riverside chairs.

The worst thing is that you wake up and immediately look at the rod as though you've been keeping a close eye on it. Nobody needs to know that you were asleep.

You look around, adjust the rod slightly and adopt the facial expression of somebody who has been intensely analysing the water for the last twenty minutes. Meanwhile, your chair is sitting there looking extremely guilty. There is something very peaceful about fishing into darkness though. Even when you're not catching, there's the sound of the river, the occasional movement in the margins and the feeling that you're temporarily removed from all the normal nonsense of everyday life.

And sometimes, apparently, the lumbar support removes you a little further than intended.

So the weekend produced one escaped pike, a new baitcaster, a signed book, another fishing beanie, some leads, several conversations with anglers I've watched on television and enough tackle browsing to make my bank account feel slightly nervous.

Sam seems to have rediscovered his interest in fishing, which is probably the biggest success of the whole weekend. If nothing else, we've now got somebody else in the house who can justify buying fishing tackle, which is an opportunity that absolutely must not be wasted.

The BIG Fish N Show was actually a very good day out. The weather could have been kinder, the M6 could have been less ridiculous and the M6 Toll could perhaps have been £12 cheaper, but I'd definitely go again next year. And if the show continues to grow, I expect the queues will get even longer, the tackle stands will get even bigger and the carp bedchairs will eventually become indistinguishable from actual beds.

At which point I may finally give in.

Because if I'm going to spend a few hours beside a low and clear river catching absolutely nothing, I might as well be comfortable.

In fact, if anybody knows where I can get one of those modern carp bedchairs with lumbar support, memory foam and a built-in cup holder, let me know.

I'll probably need somewhere to put the kettle while I have my afternoon nap.

Because clearly this is what fishing has become.

BIG fish, expensive tackle, baitcasters, celebrity anglers, motorway tolls and a comfortable chair from which to watch absolutely nothing happen.

And, if you're lucky, one pike that falls off.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.55 (Big Barbel)

There are certain news stories that make you stop what you’re doing, read them again and wonder if someone has accidentally put the wrong location on the press release. Five Mexican men, a secret meth lab and remote farmland near Furnace End in Warwickshire meanwhile I’m sat here preparing to go barbel fishing on the Warwickshire Avon, which suddenly feels like a slightly more questionable evening activity than it did this morning. 

I had been looking forward to a peaceful few hours by the river, watching the light fade over the Avon while waiting for a chub or barbel to do something vaguely interesting. 

Now, having read about Furnace End, I’m wondering whether every unoccupied farm building in Warwickshire has a secret second purpose and whether I should be checking the postcode on my fishing ticket before setting off. 

The timing is particularly unfortunate because I’ll be fishing into dusk, which is normally one of my favourite times to be beside a river. The planes from the local airfield and wildlife quieten down apart from the resident barn owl, the river takes on that lovely evening glow and, if you’re lucky, a fish comes charging through the swim like it’s just remembered it left the oven on.

But suddenly every rustle in the hedge is going to sound suspicious. Normally I’d assume it was a rabbit, pheasant or someone else fishing illegally close enough to me to become personally irritating, but now I’ll be wondering whether I’ve stumbled across Warwickshire’s answer to Breaking Bad while trying to catch a fish.

The irony is that fishing in to dusk requires a certain amount of preparation. Rods, reels, leads, bait, landing net, unhooking mat, headtorch and enough other assorted fishing paraphernalia to make a casual observer wonder whether you’re actually going fishing or preparing to establish a small outdoor branch of Angling Direct.

I can imagine the conversation if the authorities happened to wander past. “What are you doing here?” they’d ask. “Barbel fishing,” I’d reply. “And what’s in those bags?” “Pellets.” A pause. “What sort?” “Halibut.” Another pause. “Right, carry on.”

The real problem is that fishermen already look slightly suspicious when sitting motionless beside a river after dark. Add a headtorch, a couple of bait tubs and an unhealthy interest in secluded stretches of countryside and suddenly you’re only one clipboard away from needing to explain yourself to several different government departments.

Still, there is one reassuring difference between me and the unfortunate occupants of the Furnace End operation. I’m hoping to produce a barbel, whereas apparently they were hoping to produce something rather less desirable. My only chemical reaction this evening should hopefully be the one that occurs when a strong Avon barbel picks up a pellet and converts my peaceful evening into several minutes of frantic rod-holding.

So off I’ll went, into the Warwickshire dusk, armed with fishing tackle and a slightly heightened awareness of remote farm buildings. If the fish were feeding, I’ll be perfectly happy; if they aren’t, I’ll probably pack up early rather than sit there wondering whether that distant generator is agricultural machinery or something that definitely isn’t mentioned in the Angling Trust rulebook. Because there’s nothing quite like a relaxing evening beside the river. Although after this week’s news, I might stick to the swims with good mobile phone reception. You know, just in case, don't want any agro now do we !!

I rocked up at the syndicate stretch at around 6.40pm, which, when you consider dusk was allegedly somewhere around 8.10pm, didn't leave me with an enormous amount of time to actually do any fishing. Still, this is the Warwickshire Avon and when it's low and clear like it is at the moment, there's absolutely no point rushing about like a caffeinated meerkat because nothing much tends to happen until the light starts disappearing.

I lobbed a couple of cricket-ball-sized balls of groundbait into the swim, each one liberally seasoned with a few freebie pellets, and then retired to the car to avoid the rain. At one point it was absolutely hammering down with such enthusiasm that I briefly contemplated the sort of sensible decision that normal people make, namely driving home, putting the kettle on and pretending I'd never been fishing.

Thankfully, after about ten minutes the biblical deluge subsided and I got the gear sorted out. The plan was a PVA bag of freebies, a large 15mm Robin Red pellet on the hair and the whole lot wrapped in a homemade paste which smelled strongly of spicy, savoury meat, or possibly the contents of a particularly questionable butcher's bin.

By about 7.30pm the rod was finally out, at which precise moment the heavens decided that my waterproof clothing needed a proper field test. Fortunately, the waterproof trousers and soft-shell jacket appeared to be doing their job, so I settled down beneath a very overcast, slightly peculiar-looking sky, with a decent breeze rattling through everything.

And despite the weather, it was actually rather pleasant. There's something about being sat beside a river in miserable conditions, with the rain in your face and everything smelling damp, that seems to amplify the senses, probably because you're concentrating very hard on not getting wet.

As darkness approached I was expecting the usual Avon nocturnal shenanigans to begin. The resident owl made an appearance and then disappeared off to conduct more important owl business, the bats milled around for a while before gradually thinning out, but the fish appeared to have collectively agreed that tonight was going to be a sponsored silence.

In fact, even 45 minutes after dusk it was still surprisingly light. I could probably have walked to the end of the field and back without a headtorch, although obviously I wasn't going anywhere because I'd imposed a strict 9.00pm curfew on myself and, unlike most of my fishing plans, this one appeared to have some vague connection with reality.

Then, approximately 30 seconds before my self-imposed bedtime, the rod absolutely detonated.

It was one of the most violent bites I've ever had, catching the baitrunner completely by surprise and sending me into action with all the grace and composure of a man who has just discovered he's left the oven on. The fish made an alarming amount of ground almost immediately and I could actually feel the line grating as it headed for somewhere considerably more solid than where I wanted it to be.

Initially I thought it might be a big chub, which would have been lovely, but as I kept the line tight and tried to get another angle on it, the fish eventually came out from the snag. Under the beam of the headtorch I finally got a proper look and thought, in the highly articulate manner fishermen adopt in moments of excitement: "Errrrrrrrrr... that's not a chub."

It was a big barbel.

At this point the peaceful evening descended into complete chaos. The fish was absolutely determined to return to its snag, I was equally determined that it wasn't going back there, and somewhere in the middle of this argument I managed to convince myself that I had everything completely under control.

I didn't.

There was a particularly hairy moment during the netting attempt when things went spectacularly wrong, the sort of moment where time slows down and you can see your carefully prepared fish of a lifetime swimming off into the darkness while your landing net is apparently working for the other side. Somehow, though, the fish remained attached and eventually I managed to get it safely into the net.

Result.

It was clearly a double, so I let the fish rest in the extended landing net while the C-shaped snag rest stood guard like some sort of aquatic security officer. I packed the car away, sorted myself out and then, with the adrenaline beginning to subside, finally got the fish onto the scales.

11lb 15oz.

Not quite twelve pounds, which is obviously a devastating blow to its self-esteem, but close enough to make absolutely no difference whatsoever to the grin that was spreading across my face.

A few trophy shots followed before I gave the fish another good rest and then watched it disappear back into its lair under the beam of the headtorch. And just like that, the syndicate stretch had once again produced one of its big residents, 30 seconds before I was due to pack up.

So there we have it: less than three hours of preparation, groundbait, pellets, paste, rain, bats, owls, darkness and absolutely nothing happening, followed by thirty seconds of complete mayhem and an 11lb 15oz barbel. Sometimes the river doesn't just test your patience; it waits until you're literally reaching for the car keys before reminding you who's actually in charge.

I drove home with a grin from ear to ear, which is generally considered a perfectly acceptable symptom of having just landed a cracking barbel. The 9.00pm curfew had been obeyed to the second, the fish had gone back safely, and once again the Warwickshire Avon had demonstrated that if you're prepared to sit there looking miserable for long enough, it may eventually reward you for your stupidity.