Warwickshire Avon - Quims and Quomodocunquize

'Another' pass out from the Wife saw me venturing to sunny Spain where Benidorm was the first port of call for a night to blow the cobwebs away, and then 5 nights at my mate Wardy's place in Pilar de la Horadada. Good food, good wine, 26 degrees, and a much needed change from the daily grind I must admit, where as I get older those holidays and breaks are needed to keep me sane. Suppose working hard 😉 has its benefits. 

I'm not sure I could live in Spain personally (gets far too hot for me in the summer) however after cycling some nice irrigation canal routes within some nice scenery where the predominant species seemed to be carp, just the fact that I was in shorts and t-shirts appealed greatly I must admit. 

The wine too, apart from being rather cheap to buy in restaurants and supermarkets, I've been dabbling more in white wine rather than their red which so far have been right up my palate. Rioja and the like I've found hit and miss and for me a very much a marmite country where wine is concerned, and the fact I've a finger in the air when I've opened a bottle, or ordered a glass whether or not I'm going to like it or not. 

That couldn't be said for the Gambas Pil Pil, which I'm not quite manage to replicate back home as yet despite many many attempts. Saying that, they can vary quite a bit, some with more of a chilli kick, others overloaded with garlic, smoked paprika and then those with the distinctive flavour of sherry. 

Sat in the sun, a nice cold Albariño on the go with some crusty bread and garlic prawns that's a nice afternoon right there just watching the world go by talking all manner of subjects with good friends. Fishing has a taken a back seat and that chill time was certainly most welcome especially when I got back to work with a bang.  

Tony left me a sketch of an airduct I needed to knock-up in CAD that was needed for a cold climate test 48 hours later, so a CATIA model created and a 3D printer kicked in to life to appease the penny payers. At least the sketch gave me a chuckle even though after a nice break I was back to work with a bang.

I got back from Spain late Tuesday evening and Wednesday evening I was out with a mate for a curry and a few beers before some abstinence, before another holiday October half-term in North Devon. I'm actually really looking forward to that I must admit.

I'm meeting up with my twin brother for starters where hopefully I'll have a couple of trips out to try and catch a smoothhound from Westward Ho ! all being well. The conditions and tides have to be right but I'll be packing the rods anyway. The LRF gear too, some decent rockpooling down there. !!!

 Anyway I could have gone before this session but wasn't really feeling it, so decided to try and winkle out a chub locally from one of my favorite section of river. The Alne was shooting up as was the Stour after the recent rain, however the Avon was at a nice level however I needed to be quick as that was heading only one way, and that was up too.

The colour was all wrong but I had a variety of baits with me such as bread, meat, worms and a batch of newly concocted cheese paste.

It's not quite cheespaste weather yet because it's a great winter bait for chub I find, but with the water coloured it might just be the key to getting a bite. The fish had other ideas though because swim after swim the tip apart from minnow taps didn't move whatsoever.

I alternated the baits too and used worms for the last two hours where in the end after lack of action on the 'banker stretch' I ended up moving to the syndicate stretch. 

Sadly after my best efforts and around 8 swims fished the water was shooting up and getting more coloured minute by minute. I expect the bigger fish were grouping together to batten down the hatches before another deluge to contend with.

So sadly a blank, however after waking up with a headache that was gone when I returned home after the decent walk in lovely Autumn weather (well apart from that light rain that gets you wet for an hour) it wasn't all bad.

The River Arrow - Redeye's and Robots

I've had a really bad cold that thankfully on the way out as I'm in Spain next week for some chill 😎 time,  a couple or three lemsip hot toddies sorted me out throughout the day. So from a sore throat, to a cough, to a streaming nose, a painful cough and losing my voice for 24 hours, a proper one this one, the end is in sight. As I'm typing this though it's almost gone, I think eating everything in sight over the last few days has helped, feed a cold and all that. 

Anyway glutton for punishment I was back on the Arrow again for some reason. To be fair Sam wanted to try and catch a big perch and a couple of the match guy's I'd bumped in to down here, recalled some stories of some huge perch, and even bags of perch winning matches. (last week, 2 years ago, 20 years ago ? your guess is as good as mine)

The problem was Sam came down at 7.15am blurry eyed and yeap, you guessed it, he was going back to bed. Oh well, with the decision made the night before and the gear sorted. Didn't have much other choice now did I !!! 

Now talking about eyes !!!, before you unhook the next fish, look into its eyes. (OK, unless it's a pike, you've got to look into them one at a time, but you know what I mean.) When you've done it, you'll find yourself taking the hook out ever so gently.

We'll start with the roach and get her out of the way because, lovely though she is, her eyes are the least impressive. Gentle eyes, modest and unassuming, but not much else. Like the eyes of the faded daughters of the clergy or the military, who finish up running Olde English Tea Shoppes.

The bream has eyes that are sort of soft and sort of dopy. Like the girls who used to line the wall at the Palais and-in reply to your sophisticated opener of, 'Do you come here often?'-would reply,

'Yer...'

The gudgeon has eyes that are soft and warm, gently smouldering with a hint of restrained passion. If you met a girl at the Palais with gudgeon eyes, you knew that she would finish her chips quickly to make time for five minutes round the back.

(With your permission I'll drop the Palais before I get into any more trouble.)

Perch eyes are bold, brassy, indignant and challenging, saying, 'If I were four feet longer, I'd bite your bloody leg off-right up to your flaming ears!'

Chub eyes are hard and stubborn, like those of a Yorkshireman who is being badgered to pay his round, but who is standing there sullen and saying nowt. (Yorkshire readers over twelve stone and with any skill in the noble arts of self defence or clog fighting, please read 'Lancastrian' for 'Yorkshireman'.)

The tench has the African gold eye of the toad who turned into a prince after the beautiful princess had let him sleep on her pillow all night. But he doesn't have the same luck. There is not a single recorded instance of a tench shacking up with a princess.

(Remember the story of the toad who was still a toad next morning? The princess said, 'But you promised to turn into a prince', 'Just shows you, darlin',' said the toad. 'Some birds will believe anything.')

The eel has small, glowing ruby eyes, set in the most delicately featured face. Neither face nor eyes get looked at while the poor old thing is being bashed, hacked and stomped on. Being an eel is not much fun.

The pike. When he comes to the top those eyes frighten you to death. But look at them properly. You might see what T. H. White saw and recorded in the magical book, The Once and Future King. 'his great jewel of an eye was that of a stricken deer, large, fearful and full of griefs'.

It is, too. And the discovery is one of angling's deep and lasting revelations.

Only mind your fingers.

Anyway I don't know why I bothered, because after catching literally every single minnow out the river eventually some proper big sized perch baits appeared, where under the float they were ignored in the weir for a good 45 minutes, and also in the deep swim for nearly an hour that looked like it would harbour a predator. 

Nada, naff all, zilch, WTF !!!

Then after bumping in to a member who was making the pegs good for a match soon, "I've not caught a perch in ages, let alone a decent one" 😃 Errrrrrr ok !!! 

Maybe Pixel Farm Robotics that had their farming robot in the carpark could offer some advice for easing one's situation and to catch something to put a decent bend in the rod, because after fishing bread on the chub rod, the chublets were obliging, their mums and dads not so.

So the Arrow isn't fishing well for me on this stretch, the 3 cormorants wouldn't have helped that I spooked and the resident herons, but I did well towards the end of the last season, this season it's been pretty pants. Anyway the Avon is back in fishable condition so the Arrow can do one for a bit, and I'll pop back when it's much colder I think when I need that small river fix.  

The River Arrow - ATV's and Arachibutyrophobia

Nothing like a day's fishing in the country. Get away from all the smoke, muck and noise of the town. Into God's good air. But you must do it properly if you're to gain the full benefit. You need some distinctive transport for a start. Range Rover, Land Rover are fine. Japanese or American runabouts which look like an upmarket jeep or souped-up builder's truck, with names such as Shogun, Samurai, Maverick, Laredo, Mohawk, Cherokee, etc. The original trim is usually very butch, but you can improve on it by having it painted in full camouflage or with safari-park zebra stripes.

Mount a piece of plastic drainpipe on the top. This not only holds the rods, but makes it look as if you're about to zap a tank at any second.

The advantage of such transport lies not only in its looks. When you arrive at the spot you can drive across pasture and ploughland, sown land, mown land, down-land and upland, to get to the water. 

Leave the gates open behind you: saves a lot of time on the way back. The open gates also give you, on looking back or doing a U-turn, the full effect of the tracery made by your four-wheel drive over the different surfaces of the fields. Such interesting textures. 

And it might encourage you to try a few figure-eights on the more friable surfaces.

While you're at it, why not try rounding up the odd herd of bullocks, aided by nothing but the souped-up horsepower under the bonnet? Surprising how fast they run when they put their minds to it.

Here we are, at the water. Let's get cast out, then, and open a few cans. Ah, that's better. Nothing like fresh air for giving you a thirst. Save the empty cans. And the bottles. When things get quiet you can sling them in the water or range them along the top of a wall and get in some target practice with your .22 or air rifle.

Let's have the old CD's on while you're waiting for a bite. An earful of Groove Armada's Superstylin . Makes you feel you're right out there in the wide open spaces. Turn it up a bit. Spot of Mick's Angrybeats vintage Mixtapes as well. What a life those boys have, eh? Riding the range. Rounding up the dogies. Punching the old cows.

Talking of which those bullocks have come back through the gate from the next field. Never learn, do they? Let's give them a run for it. Hee-yah! Woah - hee! Round 'em up, head 'em out, Rawhide...! By heck, they didn't stay long. Never mind: we've got those sheep over there. Get your wellies on, lads! Maa- aaaah! Gerrup there!

Phew. Takes it out of you. Still not a twitch on the rods. Let's get some grub down us. Big fry-up. Nothing like it, over an open fire. Get one going under those trees, out of the wind. And let's have some stones off the top of that dry stone wall to hold it in. Don't want to set the undergrowth alight. Country Code and all that.

Sausages, bacon, eggs, tinned tomatoes, fried bread. Can't whack it. Just chuck the wrappings under that hedge. Soon get grown over. Sling a bit more wood on the fire: keep the midges off.

While it's quiet, let's stack some stones from that wall into the back of the van. Look smashing in that rockery back home. 

No luck with the rods yet? What kind of water is this? Anybody fancy climbing a tree? Tell you what, race you to the top. Me Tarzan. Aah-ahah-ah-ah-aaaaaaaah! Phwarh! That was fun. 

Can't trust those branches, though. It was touch-and-go when that big one broke. Right... let's look at those rods. Looks like a nibble on Hey up! Who's this? Looks like some sort of a farmer. None too pleased, at that. And what's that he's raising to his shoulder? Looks like a Eek!

Tell you what, you're not going to take this lying down. Having to leave all the gear at the water like that. Only just escaping with your life. There'll be a strong complaint on the club secretary's desk on Monday morning. My God, if you can't enjoy a quiet day's fishing in the country without some loony peppering the seat of your pants...

Anyway enough of that, back to business, a bit of fishing down the Arrow !!!

I had stopped off on-route to a convenient stretch of the Warwickshire Avon however despite the river being within the bank now, the problem was actually getting to the area I wanted to fish. The route to their was waterlogged and was wellie height easily so waders would have been required really. 

So it was to the Arrow to try and winkle out a chub or two. I've had some nice fish from here since I've started fishing it, my best chub so far 4lb 12oz which ain't bad for a small river.

However this 4 hour session wasn't exactly going that well for the bigger fish and it was clear they were not really on it. There was plenty of small fish nibbling the bread as soon as it hit the bottom where swim after swim all I was managing was chublets of this stamp.

At least it was better than last time here but despite the river losing lots of colour from the previous visit where there was now around a foot of visibility, those proper chub were suspicious in their absence. I do fancy trying for perch here though, because plenty of predator activity and plenty of small fish topping. 

When I headed back to the car I decided to drop in to the turbulent weir where after 5 mins two tentative pulls on the tip, which was unlike the fast bites I was getting, after 30 seconds the tip bounced in to the life again where I struck in to a solid fish. A DECENT CHUB !!! OH YES !!! the problem was within seconds it was heading towards the reeds by my feet where after steering away from the its first escape route, this time right under my feet.

I had to give it some stick and sadly the inevitable happened and the size 6 hooked pulled and the fish was GONE, GONE FFS !!!. The first decent fish I've hooked on a while and I'd gone and lost it 🙈. I fished on until I couldn't see the tip and sadly drove home with the tail between my legs !! 

A session I'd rather forget, as it looked a good fish too, send some luck my way please, Ive forgotten what a decent fish looks like thanks 😄

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.8

With work seemingly intensifying day by day with the countdown to the launch of the car I've been working on forever and a day, some much needed me time was needed so on the way back I stopped off at the convenience syndicate stretch.

The river had been over the banks and in the fields and when I arrived at the parking spot luckily the river was now back within its banks albeit I'd have to make my way through the waterlogged field to get near the river.

I walked the banks and thankfully found a nice swim with a decent slack because there was hardly any other swims that were not bombing through and looked as worryingly turbulent as the middle east at the moment. 

No messing around a spam bait on the hair with some worms on the hook to add to the attraction. A satisfying donk when the paste plugged lead fell to the bottom at least I knew the bait was being presented nicely. 

As the afternoon progressed heading in to dusk the skies were rather lovely indeed, especially when the sun was setting with the strong wind causing the clouds to move at a rapid rate. The fish had other ideas though because not even a pull or an enquiry despite the slack offering some sanctuary from the post flood conditions. 

After nearing two hours and a few recasts dusk arrived and went without any change of circumstances, the fish were either not there or just not interested.   

The wind nicely blew the cobwebs away because I do like fishing when the conditions are testing especially when its only for the duration of a good movie. Sadly that ending didn't play out for me but what it has brought, is some much needed colour in the water.

The Avon for months and months has been gin clear so fingers crossed when the fish have gotten used to their new habitat they will be up for feeding again. I've got to be realistic two and a bit hours is not a huge amount of fishing time but hopefully eventually these short sessions will bring up something worth blogging about. 

The River Arrow - Conkers and Consequentialisms

Sam was still welded to the duvet when I went to see if he was up for fishing, but as expected despite saying he would be up for it, he looked up at me, and said "I'll give this one a miss". It wasn't exactly early either because it was 7.10am and he is up that time for school, however much like his mother bed is his happy place.

What I didn't expect was 10 minutes later when loading the car, the kitchen door to the garage opened and a little face appearing it Sam had changed his mind 🤯. The Avon is still over its banks however the Arrow drops as fast as it rises so at least that would be fishable. 

The Jimny is 5 years old, and looking clean for once because of a recent service and MOT where it nearly ticked over to 40k miles on this trip out. It was a chilly morning at a nadger under 6 degrees however when we arrived at the river Sam was right out the door and was on the conker hunt. It's mad that he didn't play it in school (banned according to Sam in Health and Safety reasons) but he really enjoys it, because it suits his competitive nature. 

The earliest records of mentions of the game of conkers was in the early 19th century, with the first mention appearing in Robert Southey’s memoirs published in 1821. The game grew in popularity in the 1800’s across England.

Now the tradition way to score in a game of conkers is based on how many times a player wins / smashes an opponent's conker. The score is usually attributed to the conker itself, rather than the player. So for example, a conker that has smashed just one other conker is called a ‘one-er’; a conker that has smashed two conkers is called a ‘two-er’. 

 An added complication involved in scoring is that if your conker is a ‘two-er’ and you beat another conker that is a ‘two-er’ your conker turns into a ‘four-er’ (i.e. you add the two values of the conkers together - with the victorious conker taking the combiner value e.g. 2 + 2 = ‘four-er’.)

Other uses of the conkers include horse medicines, as additives in shampoos, and as a starch substitute. Chemicals extracted from conkers can be used to treat strains and bruises. There’s hearsay that if you place conkers around your house it will keep spiders away, but there’s no scientific proof that this is the case. (They didn't work for us !!)

The Victorians wrote recipes for making conker flour. The seeds were shelled, ground and then leached to remove bitter flavours. It’s not a common practise these days and if consumed in excessive quantities conkers are mildly poisonous.

The Arrow was within the banks but as expected it was the colour of chocolate and in most swims boiling and swirling. I had my chub with bread and worm as bait and I'd prime some spots before leapfrogging likely looking chub swims to try and catch one of the lovely chub that reside here.

Sam had his float rod with maggots and he was straight on to the fish from the off. There was about 5 inches of visibility and fishing shallow and maggots he was certainly being entertained.

Not the biggest of maggot munchers and minnows outnumbered this stamp 5 to 1. Anyway swim after swim the bigger fish didn't seem to be showing sadly. The bait(s) were presently nicely because the quiver was indicating small fish attacking their potential stomach filler, but not even a chublet graced my rod.

2 hours in Sam was getting bored catching tiddlers and he wanted a tussle with a bigger fish so we took it in turns to man the quiver rod. 

But unfortunately nothing whatsoever and we fished 6 or 7 swims I'd imagine. We disturbed a cormorant in one of those swims which was upstream of the banker. The banker it was motoring through however I managed to present a bait ok but after 15 minutes we were wasting our time.

The banker the fish are right on to the bait straight away if they are there but on this occasion their lair wasn't occupied. So around 3 hours fished and not a huge amount to show for it.....

...unlike Sam who not only outfished Daddy but he also collected a huge amount of conkers when I finished off in the weir for another biteless swim. There is more rain on the way but I watching the Avon levels like a hawk. 

I bet the barbel are out feeding when they can, and with a specific fish to target I'm hoping the river will tell me where it could be hiding out. The problem is, I need to be able to get to the river don't I. Anyway fingers crossed that won't be long, as I've not caught a decent fish in a while. 

On to the next one !!

The Tiny River Alne - Press Officers and Pen Rods

Who Runs the Club?

The Press Officer

Press Officer. It sounds grand, that. Conjures up images of high-level journalistic intrigue; influencing decisions in the corridors of power; mingling with the mighty; slipping high-powered crusading reporters the scoop of a lifetime.

What it boils down to more often than not is discovering the whereabouts of the local reporter and phoning him the results of the evening's match. (No £68,000-a-year taxpayer funded Angela Rayner official photographers to be seen here, you, yes you do as a favour)

The latter is often a difficult and lengthy operation because he can't hear you over the noise in the four-ale bar where he's putting back what the day has taken out:

'What's that? Bludgeon? Trudgeon? Dudgeon? Gudgeon! Why didn't you say so? That a fish? How do you spell it?'

However carefully you spell everything out, after the reporter has tried to translate his crumpled and beer-stained notes next morning there's no guarantee that the news will hit the streets in a totally accurate form.

'Prize for the individual weight went to the 2 oz nutter landed by Mr Alfred Gudgeon,' is what appears. '2 oz gudgeon landed by Mr Alfred Nutter,' is what you said. Curses! But at least you tried.

Even the smallest club needs a press officer if it is to get the publicity it needs to build up its membership and have its achievements recognised. 

Local reporters, though permanently hungry for copy, cannot always spare the time to go chasing after match results, and might not even know that a match has been held. So it's up to the press officer to make life easier for them, to save them having to stir too far from the pub.

Do not be put off from making personal contact by the popular image of a journalist - scruffy, stubble-chinned, chain-smoking, drunken, noisy and brash. Arrange to meet in a pub so that the contact will be friendly and informal, and which the journalist will suggest anyway. 

Recognition is no problem: just look for someone scruffy, stubble-chinned, chain- smoking, drunken, noisy and brash. Give a firm handshake, a welcoming smile and a warm sincere greeting: 'Miss Jones! So nice to meet you...'

Providing the local reporter with match results means that his or her valuable time is not spent attending the match itself. It means also that the results, barring accidents and misprints, are accurate; that impossible demands are not made on the club's hospitality fund; that the reporter doesn't stagger from the match HQ and fall in the water, and that he's not present for the statutory punch-up at the weigh-in.

Your duties include not only supplying information which reflects well on the activities of the club. You must also prevent leaks or rumours which would reflect badly.

'RUNAWAY TREASURER IN CLUB- HOUSE LOVE NEST DRAMA' is not the kind of publicity you want to attract, and it is your duty to put the record straight, i.e. flatly deny it.

Do not be too categoric in your denials, though. Do not ring up the reporter and tell him: 'There is absolutely no truth in the scandalous rumour that our treasurer, Mr George Thistlethwaite, 52, of Potbank Terrace, Sludge Thorpe, absconded last night with the social club funds and bar takings and is believed to be headed for the Cayman Islands. 

Nor that he was accompanied by Mrs Lulu Waghorn, 33, of Foundry Road, wife of the former chairman of the veterans' committee, Mr Josiah Waghorn, 73. And certainly no foundation for the scurrilous allegations that Mr Thistlethwaite and Mrs Waghorn have been indulging in anything untoward in the clubhouse broom cupboard after our Wednesday social evenings.'

Should you feel, however, that the situation demands such specific denials, don't waste them on the local reporter. Ring up the nationals and make sure you fix your fee in advance.

Make a special point of inviting the press to the club's important social events, particularly the annual dinner and dance. If there's one thing the average reporter can't resist it's a glittering social occasion such as a free booze-up. Provide him with a list of prizewinners and copies of all the after-dinner speeches before- hand, so that if he nods off or slides under the table he'll have missed none of the side- splitting jokes and pearls of wisdom provided by the speakers.

If any of the speakers has a fatal heart attack in mid-peroration, don't forget to mention this to the reporter when he comes round. He can then phone his news desk like a true professional and say, 'No story on the big speech. The speaker dropped dead."

Anyway enough of that, after a bit of a sabbatical Sam and I were back fishing again where the local Alne was about the best option. The Warwickshire Avon is in the fields however hopefully it will be fishable again where we are hoping to target Barbara the Barbel, some some renewed vigour.

Anyway nothing to write home about but Sam tested out his winter jacket and his new neoprene gloves where plenty of bites were to be had in the first swim, where oddly it was dead in the second. The Alne usually fishes well for the bigger fish in these conditions but they didn't show whatsoever, so my quiver rod didn't get much a testing.

'Return of the Sausages'

Life gets in the way sometimes, so picture heavy this one, but we all need a break from fishing and I did with a rather enjoyable trip to Glasgow for a long weekender just gone. The record label Selador and the like-minded were at the wicked Skyline bar with knob twiddlers Dave Seaman, Steve Parry, Kasey Taylor, Hannes Bieger and Tara Brooks. 

It felt like one big family of acid house lovers (very few under 30's 😂) and for those 13 hours of 💃&🔊, and to be fair, the whole weekend of good food and drink, one's mind was elsewhere and the world's ills forgotten about!!! Thankfully the Wife is on the mend and is back driving again, the pressure has eased off 👌, now where are those rods I can now manage more than a couple of hours.