Warwickshire Avon - Cormorants and Corrigenda

The Newey Curry Night, for the uninitiated (and for those who will remain so), was a roaring success. A house full, a table groaning, and several revelations that will be sealed behind the four walls like ancient scrolls. The first rule of Curry Night is indeed that you do not talk about Curry Night. The second rule is that someone will absolutely overdo the garlic naan. By the time the last fork hit the plate, I was full of curry, beer, and confidence the most dangerous cocktail known to man.

At a civilised hour I sloped off to bed, leaving the Wife on a one-woman crusade to erase all evidence that a small Bangladeshi banquet had ever taken place. She was fuelled by what she described as “just one more glass” of wine, which history tells us translates to “enough to deep-clean a crime scene”. I drifted off dreaming not of serenity or wellness, but of float tips dipping and a big Avon chub doing that slow, deliberate pull that makes your heart do a little jig.

Morning arrived with that familiar curry-and-beer-rum afterglow. The Wife, true to her word, had turned the kitchen into something out of a showroom brochure. Dishwasher emptied. Dishwasher filled. Dishwasher emptied again, just for sport. I liberated the maggots from the fridge, confirmed the car was already packed (a rare administrative win), and pointed myself towards a certain stretch of the Warwickshire Avon.

Eight o’clock. Angler free. Bliss. I hotfooted it to the chosen peg like a man late for his own wedding. The swim was textbook: main flow easing off into a slack, a lovely crease running like a promise. Chub love it there. I love it there. Everything loves it there. Or so I thought.

Forty minutes passed. Not a sniff. Then, like a scene from a low-budget horror film, a cormorant erupted from the depths at the tail of the swim. I waved my rod like a lunatic scarecrow, only for his two accomplices to surface as well. They’d been in the swim. Living there. Probably paying council tax. Great. Absolutely marvellous.

A quick look elsewhere revealed more cormorants circling like they’d booked the place for a conference. Blood pressure rising, muttering commenced. I upped sticks and headed for another old haunt. Five minutes in, anglers everywhere. Retrace steps. New plan. Closer to home, where the chub are often large, street-wise, and deeply disrespectful.

To my surprise I had the whole stretch to myself. I knew exactly which swim I wanted, despite its… character flaws. On the surface it’s a trotting dream. Underneath, it’s a legal advice seminar waiting to happen. Snags left, snags right, cover everywhere, and an escape network that chub have been using since the Middle Ages. This is where fish go to embarrass anglers.

Twenty minutes of maggot rain later, the float buried and immediately made a beeline for the far snag like it had a dinner reservation. 

Cue an epic tussle, rod bent, knees shaking, internal monologue becoming external. Then… ping. The size 20 Guru MWG pulled. The noise I made was not dignified.

Two more fish followed. Lost. Then the one. A fish so powerful it felt like I’d hooked a passing submarine. 

Hugging bottom, unmoved by persuasion, it powered straight into a tangle of tree roots to my right. I could feel it for a while, grinding the line like a cheese grater. Outcome? Predictable. Vocabulary expanded.

Nic from Avon Angling was on another stretch and, somehow, could feel my frustration through the ether. He was catching. I was not. 

After a full re-setup and a quiet word with myself, I finally nicked two smaller chub in quick succession. Relief. Sanity returning.

Then another hook pull. Change hooklength. Another fish this one proper. And in a twist worthy of a soap opera, it avoided every snag, behaved impeccably, and slid into the net mid-river without fuss. Redemption! Balance restored! The universe smiling!

Naturally, fishing being fishing, that was followed by another hook pull and then one that buried me in the far-side snags. Brief thoughts of taking up knitting surfaced, but we don’t want it that easy, do we?

With the swim dying and the float miraculously recovered from the timber graveyard, I gave it another half hour. Bites aplenty. Returns… average. 

But that’s chub fishing. These fish are born wearing straight jackets, knowing every exit route, every weak link, every way to make you look like you’ve never held a rod before.

So yes, ups and downs. Frustration, laughter, mild despair, and a some lovely fish to show for it despite not landing one of the monsters. The curry night had consequences. The river delivered lessons. And despite everything, I drove home already planning the next visit because if chub fishing teaches you anything, it’s that hope is indestructible, and masochism comes free with the licence.

Operation Brazzers Breach - Silver Ghosts (Warwickshire Grayling Content)

Now you’ve heard the whispers. The legends....

....the half-remembered pub ramblings from men with weathered hands, glazed eyes, and that particular confidence that only comes from being wrong most of the time.

“Aye, Grayling round ‘ere once,” they’ll say, leaning in like they’re about to reveal the location of buried treasure. “Saw one back in ‘92. Or maybe it was ‘94. Looked funny. Probably just a Roach.”

And that, dear reader, is how myths are born.

Because according to most sensible folk, Warwickshire Grayling are about as real as honest tackle weights or a quick five-minute trip into a fishing shop. Eight anglers will laugh outright. One will choke on his pint. The last will insist he once saw one, but admit after further questioning that it might’ve been a leaf, a bar of silver paper, or a spiritual experience brought on by mild hypothermia.

Chinese whispers? No.
More like Chinese takeaway: comforting at the time, deeply questionable afterwards, and leaving you wondering what possessed you to believe any of it.

And yet…

Grayling do live here. Rare, sneaky, aristocratic little blighters. The sort of fish that make you question your life choices, your footwear, and whether that hat makes you look like a man who should be trusted near water. They favour rivers that look like they’ve been groomed by angels. Clean. Clear. Fast-flowing. Gravelly riffles and silky glides. Not the muddy, reed-choked puddles I usually frequent the ones that smell faintly of despair and discarded lager cans.

Prime territory? Certain stretches of the River Avon and a handful of tributaries whose names are spoken only in hushed tones. Ask for directions and you’ll be met with blank stares, nervous laughter, or vague instructions involving “third gate after the wonky oak, but not that oak.”

You see…
There is he who peddles the maggots.

You know the type. The tackle-shop oracle. The man who’s forgotten more about fishing than most of us will ever know, and who delivers information with the casual confidence of someone who absolutely will not be held responsible if it all goes horribly wrong.

When he sidled over the counter and muttered exact coordinates delivered in something that sounded suspiciously like a three-word-address format — ///no.f’ing.chance — I naturally assumed two things:

1. He had finally lost the plot

2. I was about to be led into the territory of a territorial badger with unresolved anger issues

But no.
The man spoke truth.

The first time I clapped eyes on this river back in 2019  Operation Brazzers Breach - The Reccy

I swear I heard a faint, angelic “AAAAAAHHHH” echoing through the valley. Either that or my brain had finally snapped  hard to say. It was textbook. Absolute perfection. The kind of water where, if you didn’t catch a Grayling, the river itself would politely apologise and offer you a voucher for next time.

Compared to my usual haunts rivers that look like they’ve recently survived a small explosion this stretch was a supermodel. Clear gravel runs, shallow riffles, neat little holding pools… a place that looked fishy in the way only proper rivers do.

Tactics were simplicity itself.
A pint of maggots (transported like unexploded ordnance to avoid spillage in the car), a small Dave Harrell Speci Stick float, and a heightened sense of paranoia.

Eyes in the back of my head fully engaged tracking dog walkers, suspicious rustling, and anything that might fancy nibbling my collar while I was trotting a line. 

You don’t survive many solo fishing missions without developing mild combat awareness. 

I’ve had a few from this magical little stretch of river, including that rather lovely 1lb 7oz specimen that still flicks its tail through my dreams like some silvery temptress. The sort of fish that makes you smile randomly at work and consider explaining yourself to HR. I’ve promised myself I’ll keep slipping back here. Quietly. Respectfully. Like a man revisiting an old flame just to see if any bigger, wiser, more sarcastically inclined Grayling are lurking beneath those riffles.

I arrived at dawn like some half-cut heron with a rucksack, a flask, and wildly optimistic expectations. The great unwashed were still drooling into their pillows while I was drip-feeding maggots with the solemn dedication of a monk illuminating a manuscript. Tea was poured, steam rose, and the river lay there pretending innocence. It looked prime which in angling terms means “this will either be brilliant or an absolute insult to my existence.” Clearer than expected, yes, but with just enough green tinge to convince me the grayling hadn’t all emigrated overnight.

The swim, however, was shallower than a politician’s apology. I’d have liked another 10–20cm of water, but no, instead I was trotting a float through what felt like ankle-deep disappointment. The float was set at a couple of feet, the little in-line olivette neatly sandwiched between grippa stops, and yet in places it was still dragging bottom like it was looking for loose change. To add to the circus, there was a branch from a tree on my left which meant I had to crouch like a badly designed garden gnome just to see the float at the end of the run. Dignity was abandoned early doors.

Thankfully, the fish hadn’t read the memo about making things difficult. After about fifteen minutes just enough time to convince myself I was a genius the float plunged. Plunged, mind you, not drifted or dithered. I struck and immediately knew it was a grayling: that unmistakable fluttery, indignant, “how very dare you” fight. Heart in mouth, knees wobbling, I guided it into the net like a man defusing a bomb with a size 16 hook and two maggots holding firm. Yes! Another Warwickshire grayling to add to the ever-growing but still mysteriously unimpressive tally.

Then, as is tradition, it all went a bit pear-shaped. I lost one right at the end of the trot that came to the surface, flashed like a silver insult, and popped off after five seconds just long enough to hurt. I bumped another two off for good measure and began explaining to myself, out loud, why this was definitely the hook’s fault. Cue the change from a Guru MWG to a lighter wire QM1, because nothing restores confidence like fiddling with terminal tackle while muttering darkly at the river.

A few trots later, after missing what I’ll be telling people was a “sure-fire bite,” the float buried again. Whammm. I struck and I was in. Fantastic. Not the stamp of fish I was dreaming about, but Warwickshire grayling are shrouded in mystery mainly the mystery of where the bigger ones are and why they reside here. Still, fish on the bank is fish on the bank, and I was feeling rather smug until, naturally, the swim died. Not just quiet proper dead. Like a pub after last orders and a fire alarm.

So I stomped fifty yards upstream in a sulk, drip-fed bronze and red maggots like a man bribing invisible gods, and second trot down the float buried again. Strike. 

Another grayling. Then another soon after. At this point I was riding that dangerous wave of optimism where you start planning future visits, imaginary captures, and how you’ll casually mention all this to someone who didn’t ask. After another biteless half hour, I decided to quit while ahead mainly because I had beef to marinate.

Because nothing says “serious angler” like leaving the river early to prep for Newey’s Curry Night. The Hairy Bikers’ Beef and Coconut Curry was on the menu, a guaranteed hit where everyone brings a pot of curry and roughly three times more booze than is strictly legal to transport. I’ll be back, though. I want a big-un. Next time I’ll wait for more colour in the water, a bit more height maybe a finger and thumb stretched apart and, ideally, fewer branches trying to humiliate me. Objective met, a happy angler. 

The Tiny River Alne - Turkey Teeth and Turbidimeters

Christmas Day had been one of those full-contact affairs where food and drink don’t so much get consumed as administered. By bedtime I was less a man than a festive storage unit, sloshing faintly when I turned over. So when dawn crept in the following morning and asked the question, “Fishing or sofa?”, I answered like any sensible angler would: bugger it, let’s go fishing. After all, the Warwickshire Alne had been dishing out chub like a dodgy croupier only days before, and I wasn’t about to let roast potatoes be the boss of me.

I arrived just before sunrise and a fifteen minute journey down the country roads, not one other car in sight!! Now that peculiar time when everything looks promising because you can’t see enough to be disappointed yet. 

The river was almost back to its fighting weight levels still carrying a hint of colour, and every swim looked like it was quietly harbouring something with opinions. Recent form suggested optimism was justified I’d caught chub hand over fist here not long ago and besides, I hadn’t seen another angler on this stretch in so long that I half-expected the fish to have forgotten what hooks were.

The plan, such as it was, involved two rods and a sense of misplaced confidence. One maggot feeder rod for sensible business, and the usual scaled-down bread feeder rod for artistic expression.

Last time I’d been plagued by lightning-fast bites that felt suspiciously dace / roach-like the sort of taps that mock you so today was about confirmation. Science, if you will, but wetter.

Half an hour passed. Nothing. No bites, no liners, not even a courtesy knock. I stared at the motionless tip like a man trying to hypnotise a television. Maggots ignored. Bread snubbed. The river sat there pretending innocence. Something wasn’t right, and it took an ill-advised rove back to the car for the penny to drop. Maybe the float next time ? would that fair any better ?

 The Alne, traitor that it is, had cleared. Not “a bit clearer”, but near gin-clear, the sort of clarity that lets fish see your mistakes, your rig, and possibly your soul. 

In a couple of deeper swims I could actually see the bottom, where chunks of bread sat on the gravel glowing like a 60 year olds Turkey teeth. It was less “subtle presentation” and more “HERE IS FOOD”. No wonder the fish had legged it they’d be practically gift-wrapped for every cormorant with ambitions.

Still, I was there now, and anglers are nothing if not stubborn. I set off on a proper rove, leapfrogging swims like a man searching for lost car keys. 

Swim after swim went by with nothing more than optimism erosion, until eventually somewhere around the fifth or sixth the rod tip finally twitched. 

Then again. Then bent. Two small chub followed, near-swingable and entirely unremarkable, but glorious all the same. A blank avoided is a victory worth celebrating, even if it only merits a quiet nod and a sip of lukewarm tea.

At that point wisdom or possibly lethargy intervened. With the river in exhibition mode and the fish clearly attending a different engagement, I called it early. Besides, the Jimny looked like it had been auditioning for a clay-pigeon shoot. 

Recent field driving had left the wheel arches carrying geological layers, and drastic action was required preferably involving someone else’s driveway. Mission accomplished. Mud redistributed, windows rediscovered, vehicle vaguely recognisable again. I even found a colour under there I don’t remember buying. 

As for the surplus maggots, they’ve been sentenced to swimming lessons, which means the next outing will involve trotting and renewed optimism a dangerous but necessary condition.

So no Boxing Day blank. Not a classic, not one for the archives, but a proper little ramble all the same. Sometimes fishing isn’t about numbers or monsters it’s about getting out, getting muddy, and reminding yourself why the sofa never really stood a chance.

Job done.

River Arrow - Festive Fluvial and Fettle

 “So where to go, what to do?” Shakespeare never actually said that while staring into a grey Warwickshire sky with an easterly wind knifing through his thermals, but if he’d been an angler instead of a playwright, he absolutely would have. Boy it was cold the wind was proper biting !!

Now Christmas Eve normally finds me grafting away, dutifully shovelling hours into the working week like a Victorian chimney sweep, helping to prop up the nation’s delicate financial ecosystem of 29% public sector pension pots, unwanted hotel dwellers, and people who seem to have mastered the art of not going to work but moan more than I do !!. But not this year. No. This year I decided in a rare flash of self-preservation that I was taking time off. Proper time off. The sort involving rivers, bread mash, and talking to birds that don’t answer back.

With that decision made, and my halo of festive goodwill already beginning to slip at a jaunty angle, I found myself pointing the car toward the River Arrow, downstream of the familiar Alne haunts I’ve been haunting for years. 

The Arrow, for me, has always been one of those “I really should fish it more” rivers the angling equivalent of a dusty gym membership. The stretches I have fished are the proper countryside bits, where the only witnesses to your casting disasters are cows, pheasants, and the occasional judgmental heron. This time, though, I fancied something closer to town  but not too close. Close enough to be convenient, far enough away to avoid dog walkers with opinions.

The wind, of course, had other ideas. A proper bitter easterly the kind that doesn’t just chill you, but actively resents your presence. Still, I was the only angler daft enough to be out there, which immediately lifted the spirits. 

There’s something deeply satisfying about having a river entirely to yourself on Christmas Eve, like you’ve somehow booked the whole thing out for a private function. The setup was simplicity itself: roving tactics, liquidised bread doing its floral-powered thing in the margins, and a thumbnail-sized piece of bread on the hook. Honest, humble, and faintly ridiculous just how chub fishing should be.

The first swim was a classic “this should work” effort: snaggy, a back eddy, a bit of flow and absolutely lifeless. Not even a nibble. Just the river quietly judging me. Then, on the tail of the back eddy not where I’d have put money on it the rod hooped over like it had been insulted. Chub number one. Then two. Then three. All on subsequent casts, all but one taking the bait on the drop, all apparently furious about it. The swim was shallow, absurdly so, and completely against the rulebook which is exactly why the chub had set up camp there. Fish love nothing more than proving anglers wrong.

Each one gave a cracking account of itself, scrapping their way straight into the fast water like they’d just remembered they were late for something important downstream. Eventually the swim died, as good swims always do not with a whimper, but with a smug sense of completion. So on the rove I went, weaving along the Arrow and skirting stretches of the Alne, picking swims like a magpie picks shiny things. Nine chub followed. Not monsters, not record breakers, but perfect little powerhouses on light, balanced tackle. My sort of fishing. The sort where every fish feels like it matters.

Now, I’ll admit, there’s a special place in my heart for a float burying itself with theatrical flair, but these bites were something else entirely. Savage. Proper “are you awake at the back?” takes. Some of the hardest-hitting chub bites I’ve had since I dedicated a rod specifically to the species. No dithering, no committee meetings just instant, decisive violence. Christmas goodwill clearly does not extend to bread-on-the-drop.

Wildlife sightings added to the day’s entertainment. I disturbed a cormorant the black death itself which flapped off looking mildly inconvenienced rather than ashamed, which tells you everything you need to know. Later, I had a cracking chat with a club committee member who’d been fishing the river for fifty years. Fifty years. A walking archive. 

Sadly, he’d only been shooting grey squirrels with his air rifle, not the aforementioned aquatic menace, but still a man with stories. He spoke of decline, of changes, of rivers that once gave more freely post the introduction of the otters. The usual tale, told quietly, without theatrics. The river listened. So did I.

All in all, I faired rather well, and it reinforced something I already knew but occasionally forget: roving is king on small rivers. Keep moving, keep thinking, keep avoiding the trap of sitting in one place convincing yourself that “it’ll happen any minute now” while your toes go numb and your optimism evaporates. Rivers like this reward curiosity, not stubbornness.

So there we have it. A Christmas Eve spent exactly how it should be alone by the river, hands smelling faintly of bread, mind cleared out by cold air and moving water. Not a bad way to press pause on the grind before launching headfirst into another year of it.

Merry Christmas, blog readers. Tight lines, warm fingers, and I’ll catch you on the other side, I'm off to the pub !!

Warwickshire Avon - Muck and Malfeasance

I woke up at a time usually reserved for milkmen, burglars, and people who claim they’re “just popping out for a paper” and are never seen again. My body clock, once a reliable Swiss affair, is now more like a novelty sundial purchased at a garden centre in 1994. The daily grind has seen to that. Wide awake. Brain fizzing. Outside: pitch black, the sort of black that makes you think the sun has formally resigned. Middle of summer, I’d have been gone like a ferret down a trouser leg, rod under arm, optimistic to the point of delusion. But this is winter, and winter does not negotiate.

So there I lay, tossing, turning, and mentally fishing rivers I wasn’t yet allowed to see. The Alne made a brief appearance, as did the Arrow, the Leam, and the Stour, all filing past my half-asleep conscience like contestants on some damp, provincial version of MasterChef. Nice rivers, all of them. Worthy rivers. But then the Warwickshire Avon cleared its throat, shuffled forward, and quietly won without having to say a word. The Avon does that. Top trumps. Or at least it usually does.

I want a decent chub, I've not caught one in a while !!

By the time I arrived, daylight had grudgingly switched itself on, like a teenager being dragged out of bed. The river was coming down nicely, having recently visited every field in the county and taken notes. It looked alive, purposeful, and as it turned out suspiciously foamy. Not the cheerful, champagne fizz of healthy water, but the sort of foam that looks like it knows things. Brown things. Things you’d rather not think about while holding a loaf of bread and a lump of cheesepaste.

Now as I stood there, watching turd-coloured accumulations hugging the margins like guilty secrets, the phrase “River Trumps” took on an altogether more literal meaning. I’m no scientist, but when a river starts looking like a badly poured pint of stout that’s been left out overnight, one’s confidence takes a knock. Still, this stretch is dear to my heart. I know every nook, cranny, crease, lie, slack, and treacherous ankle-twister. If there was a fish willing to ignore whatever Severn Trent had been up to, surely it would be here.

It wasn’t.

I roved. I persisted. I alternated between bread and cheesepaste like a man conducting a scientific trial with a control group of zero. The river was still well up, but those slacks the good slacks, the ones that have whispered sweet promises in the past were utterly mute. Not a pluck. Not a pull. Not even a half-hearted nibble that lets you pretend something is happening. Nothing. The rod tip may as well have been attached to a fence post.

Eventually, I did what all anglers do when optimism finally packs its bags: I moved. Off to the syndicate stretch, where at least the scenery is familiar enough to disappoint you politely. 

Here, at last, the rod tip twitched. A pluck. Then another. Small fish, almost certainly, doing that infuriating thing where they mouth the bait with the delicacy of a tea sommelier. 

Nothing strikable. Nothing you could put a name to. Just enough activity to stop you leaving immediately, which is the river’s cruellest trick.

And then because anglers are nothing if not hopeful idiots  I moved again.

On route to another stretch, I passed that swim. You know the one. The sort of place that stops you mid-stride, where fast water is checked by a fallen tree and spills into a crease of slower, darker water downstream. It looked criminal. It looked illegal. It looked like it should come with a warning label. So naturally, I stopped.

Five minutes later five actual, honest minutes the bite came. Not a question. Not a suggestion. An unmissable, arm-wrenching, full-blooded bite. And I missed it.

Blog readers I missed it so comprehensively that I briefly considered whether I’d imagined the entire thing. 

The fish felt the prick of the size 6 hook and, quite reasonably, decided it had better things to do with its life. I stood there, replaying the moment in forensic detail, wondering if it had been one of the big chub that used to live here. Many of them died, or were moved, during the pollution incident two and a half years ago an event still spoken of in hushed tones and expletives.

I roved on. Three more swims that looked perfect. Textbook. The sort of swims you photograph and bore non-anglers with. Nothing. Not even a courtesy knock. Eventually, I returned to the scene of the crime. The swim where I’d had the bite. It stared back at me with complete indifference, like a pub that has barred you for life.

And that was that.

No fish. Plenty of steps. Cold fingers. A head full of questions, most of them beginning with “Why” and ending with “again”. But still and this is important it was better than being stuck behind a computer screen. Better than emails. Better than meetings. Better than pretending to care about things that don’t live in rivers

As I trudged back, it struck me that I hadn’t seen another angler all morning. Not one. Which leads me, inevitably, to Severn Trent. So go on then, lads. Fess up. Have you been opening the poop floodgates again? 

Because the river looked like it had been through something. And while the fish may forgive, forget, or simply leave, the rest of us are left wondering why a perfectly good morning on a beloved river has to feel like casting into a plumbing experiment gone wrong.

Still… there’s always tomorrow. And anglers, like fools and poets, never really learn. 🎣

Warwickshire Stour - Tumble and Tatterdemalion

The Warwickshire Avon, having recently decided it would quite like to impersonate the North Sea for a few days, was clearly in no mood for sensible conversation, so I did what any right-minded angler does when faced with several thousand tons of angry brown water and floating detritus: I legged it up one of its tributaries and pretended this was Plan A all along. 

The Warwickshire Stour, bless it, was doing that lovely post-flood thing where it looks apologetic, as if to say, “Yes, sorry about all that nonsense earlier, I’ve tidied myself up now,” and had settled into that deep olive green that makes you believe against all evidence that today might be the day. Roving a small river with a quiver rod is one of those pursuits that sounds idyllic when written down but in reality involves a lot of heavy breathing, slippery banks, and talking to yourself while wedged between hawthorn and nettles wondering how you’ll get back out again without ringing Mountain Rescue.

You do need to be reasonably fit for this sort of fishing, or at least reasonably optimistic about your own fitness, because every swim is either two feet lower than expected or six feet further away, and gravity is always watching, waiting for you to relax for just one second.

Which is precisely what happened in the very last swim of the first stretch, when I went from “carefully transferring weight sideways onto my left foot” to “Eddie the Eagle Edwards about to launch from the ski jump” in roughly the time it takes a chub to reject a maggot. I’ve met Eddie, incidentally, and I can now say with some authority that I briefly understood his life choices. 

I went arse over tit in a manner that would have delighted any passing dog walkers (thankfully no public access), landing firmly on my backside while clinging to the TFG River and Stream rod like it was the last helicopter out of Saigon. The rod survived. I survived. My dignity is still somewhere up that bank, possibly lodged in a bramble.

I arrived at dawn, as all proper fishing stories insist you must, to find the river wearing a rather fetching shade of green one of those colours that makes you feel clever for noticing it. George Burton, of Float, Flight and Flannel fame, has been poking about these hallowed waters recently and apparently couldn’t believe just how featured the place is, which is true if by “featured” you mean “every swim looks perfect until you try to fish it.” 

This is one of those club stretches that feels like it ought to be guarded by a medieval charter and a bloke called Geoffrey who disapproves of your footwear. A few days earlier the river had been over its banks and rearranging the furniture, but now it had fined down nicely, and although it wasn’t chocolate brown always a colour that smells faintly of hope it was in that in-between state where you convince yourself a big roach might finally slip up and make a mistake.

Of course, olive green Stour water doesn’t whisper “roach,” it bellows “chub,” and sure enough that’s what turned up. Nic from Avon Angling was on a different stretch altogether and had spent four hours trotting maggots for precisely nothing, which immediately filled me with sympathy and the quiet, shameful relief that it wasn’t me.

I managed four chub and lost one in the reeds, with the best nudging 3lb 1oz, a solid fish that fought like they’d been personally offended by my presence. It was tough going, though far fewer bites than expected and that’s the sort of day that slowly eats away at your confidence while pretending everything is fine. You tell yourself it’s “interesting” and “making you think,” when really it’s just the river politely declining all your invitations.

After the now-legendary arse-over-tit incident thankfully conducted out of sight of the general public, though possibly observed by a squirrel I decided the river upstream had had enough of me and headed downstream to another stretch of the Stour, the scene of a recent personal tragedy involving a roach of frankly unreasonable proportions. 

Three swims later, nothing of note had happened unless you count the odd minnow rattling the tip as “action,” which I don’t, no matter how desperate I am. Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about fishing a place that gives you nothing back; it feels honest, like it’s reminding you who’s really in charge here.

All told, it was a tough morning, the sort that doesn’t produce heroic photographs or exaggerated pub stories, but it felt good. Fishing during the working week has a slightly illicit thrill to it, like bunking off school but with better sandwiches. 

And as I packed up, muddy, sore, and faintly greener than when I arrived, it occurred to me that we’ve turned a corner now. The days will start to stretch themselves out again, slowly but surely, and before long this fall, this cold, this slipping down banks like an underfunded ski jumper will all seem like part of the bargain. Which, of course, it is and I’ll be back for more