Warwickshire Avons - Taskrabbits and Taseometers

"Kill two birds with one stone," she said, propped up on the sofa with her shoulder strapped up like a mummy. "Collect those parcels then take yourself down the river for a few hours."

Well, it would be rude not to, wouldn't it?

So there I was, back on familiar waters, as this new season I've not really gone anywhere else. The barbel had been milling about proper barbel too, not the usual suspects. Course, when there is barbel about on the Warwickshire Avon , you've got to have a dabble. Basic angling law, that is.

Now I didn't get bankside till gone eight. Had a proper chinwag with some familiar faces including Buffalo Si from river masters who had to pack up around the witching hour, as he was working a night shift later !!. After the mandatory river gossip and weather analysis, I bait-dropped some pellets into this deeper swim that looked promising. Let it rest while I buggered about in another spot for an hour, because that's what you do, isn't it? Can't just sit in one place like a normal person.

First swim was a complete washout. Had these decent chub cruising about like they owned the place, giving my baits the sort of look you'd give a dodgy kebab at 3am. Interested but not committed. Story of my fishing life.

Right, back to the pellet swim then. Soon as I settled in, the flying brigade arrived. Midges, mosquitos, things with more legs than a Yorkshire pub crawl the lot. Proper vicious they were. I'm there swatting away like some demented windmill when the rod tip finally does something other than collect cobwebs.

Now, I know what a barbel bite feels like. That proper thump that goes right through you. This was close enough to get the pulse racing. In the gathering gloom, with the insects still having a field day on my neck, I'm thinking "this is it, first barbel of the season."

Wasn't though, was it?

Nice chub mind. Proper lump of a chub that put up a decent scrap. But still a chub. The barbel are probably somewhere downstream having a right laugh at my expense. Again.

Still, wife's happy, parcels are collected, and I've been thoroughly reminded why fishing's called angling and not catching. Could be worse at least Buffalo Si wasn't there to witness the anticlimax. That 'women love me, fish fear me' cap he wears would've been shaking with laughter. 😁

Warwickshire Avon - Haybales and Haycocks

Well, not-so-little Sam decided to tag along for a meander down the gin-clear and ever-beguiling Warwickshire Avon. A fine decision it was too, especially with sight-fishing being on the cards  the bread-crust ballet that both of us hold dear. No feeders. No fancy rigs. Just rod, line, hook and a loaf of something white and indecently soft, oh and polarised sunglasses. 

First swim was quieter than a barbel in February. Not so much as a twitch. But no matter like any good river wanderers, we moved downstream with hope in our hearts and bread in our pockets (and, in my case, annoyingly in the bottom of my ruckbag too). Second swim, secluded and shady, looked positively fishy, like a place a chub might loaf about waiting for a snack. No freebies required  just a flick of flake and a bit of faith.

A bronze-flanked chub drifted up from the gloom like a ghost of summers past and with all the caution of a Labrador near an unattended sausage roll, snaffled the bread with aplomb. I was on the rod, heart doing somersaults. A spirited scrap ensued line taut, rod tip alive and soon the chub was sulking in the net, fat and glistening like a riverine gold bar.

Sam, naturally, declared it his turn, and who was I to argue? We wandered upstream via a third swim that seemed to contain nothing but water and a vague sense of disappointment. But the next spot looked the business nice flow, good depth, the sort of swim you imagine in winter daydreams when you’re stuck in IKEA pretending to care about curtain poles.

Barbel were there, just loafing about in the current like teenagers outside a corner shop. A few chub too, all shadows and suspicion. They gave floating crust the kind of disdainful look that says, “Really? Bit obvious, don’t you think?” So we switched tactics to slow-sinking bread, the piscatorial equivalent of lowering the bait into their inbox with a winking emoji.

The first few attempts were met with the kind of short takes and last-minute refusals that make you question if you’ve angered some river deity. Sam, though, with grim determination and a rather stylish flick, sent a piece tight to the far bank. One of the chub came up like a missile, nailed it, and instantly regretted everything. A proper scrap followed. Sam held the spool like a tiny gladiator and even when the fish snagged him, gave it slack with the cool confidence of someone who knows what’s what.

Fish was landed, applause was muted (save for the mad wagging of my internal dad-pride meter), and then… crack!

Sam lifted the net, and the landing net handle a old Drennan job, usually as reliable as rain at a barbecue gave up the ghost in spectacular, carbon-snapping fashion. 

A tragic moment, made all the more surreal by Sam’s genuinely innocent face of “Did I break the river?” Fortunately, after that time on the Wye when I had to abandon my gear mid-session and do a 5-mile yomp to a tackle shop, I now keep a spare net handle in the car. Always learning.

Now the rest of the swims were mostly empty or rather, occupied by chub with commitment issues. One swim was positively chub soup, fish everywhere but acting like the bread was laced with cyanide. Floaters ignored, crusts sniffed and snubbed. 

We managed a small chublet after disturbing a pike who’d clearly had enough of our nonsense. Then the pool went full shutdown fish vanished, silence descended, and it felt like the Avon herself was telling us to pack it in.

So we did the only sensible thing left: took a stroll down to the syndicate stretch for a nose at the farmer’s most recent hedge-trimming artwork and a glance at the big pool. Sadly, it was blown out with a wicked surface chop, more North Sea than middle England. No good for finesse, and certainly no place for floating crust. So we called it a day, laughed about the broken net, and rounded it off with a bacon sarnie that tasted of triumph, river air, and just a touch of disappointment the flavour of fishing itself.

Warwickshire Avon - Firesticks and Firkins

Now with the wife recently acquiring her second shoulder surgery like she’s collecting the full orthopaedic set the days of guilt-free fishing have taken a bit of a dent (Got to use the private medical insurance whilst it lasts). Last year’s experience taught me three things: she can't drive for a couple of weeks, one-armed dinner prep involves a lot of shouting, and me sneaking off fishing during this period is riskier than waving a red rag at a hormonal bull... while dressed as a matador.

But alas, the Summer Solstice! That annual planetary nudge that whispers “You’ve got daylight until forever, go fishing you fool.” So, with the kids fed, watered, and within arm’s reach of a pillow, I muttered something vague about “needing air” and was out the door before anyone could ask if I’d remembered the washing.

The destination was a handy stretch of the Warwickshire Avon, armed with optimism and a pint of pellets, hoping for a start-of-season barbel amongst the gravel glides and streamer weed. The kind of swim that screams “big whiskers live here!” but only ever seems to deliver chub with boundary issues.

Now, I’ve tried rolling meat under weed rafts before and, to be fair, a couple of barbel did oblige. But this time I fancied a more stealthy approach scaled-down tackle, ninja-like creeping, and only mildly audible swearing when a nettle found my shin.

The first swim I settled into was shallow, clear, and lively. One barbel (probably imaginary) and a gang of loitering chub were milling about like bored teenagers at a bus stop. The plan was to fish here for an hour, then move to a deeper, moodier swim for dusk where dreams of double-figure barbel live and, usually, die.

At 8:00 PM it was still 28 degrees. The sweat was real. I looked like I’d run a marathon in neoprene. But I was fishing, and that made everything else heat, guilt, the impending laundry pile completely irrelevant.

The first tug on the quivertip came quickly... could it be?

Nope. Perch. A small one. Possibly still wearing armbands. How it managed to suck up two pellets nearly its own size I’ll never know. Determination? Masochism? A death wish?

Then came the chub. One after the other, all desperate for a starring role in the “Shoulda Been a Barbel” documentary I’ve been mentally scripting for years. Two came to the net before the swim went quiet. Classic chub move smash and dash.

So off I went to the evening shift swim. A bit deeper, a bit quieter, and with pedigree. I've had barbel over 12lb here in years gone by though recently it feels like I’ve been fishing for ghosts and being outwitted by squirrels.

A few handfuls of pellets to butter them up, a couple of hair-rigged offerings on the dinner plate, and we were back in business. The chub, however, had followed me like bad luck. They battered the rig mercilessly, stripping baits like they were unwrapping sweets.

By this point, I was fed up. So I went full rogue: Peperami Firestick deployed. Let’s see you strip that, lads. And wouldn’t you know it, another chub bigger this time, a solid 4lb brute with a face like it owed me money. Smelled faintly of cured sausage, but then again so did I by this point.

The barbel? Still absent. Probably sulking in a weed bed somewhere, watching me through disdainful eyes and planning their next coordinated no-show. When the bats came out, the insect life turned up to eleven. I was engulfed in a swirling midge soup that made breathing risky and blinking optional.

Still, as I packed down under a star-pricked sky, rods unsnagged and spirits only mildly bruised, I couldn’t help but smile. Barbel? Next time, maybe. But the chub? Oh, they’ll always turn up uninvited like in-laws with keys to your fridge.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.26

After much debate, a few muttered expletives, and a daring expedition involving a GPS, an OS map from 1994, and the blind optimism only a Suzuki Jimny owner possesses, I finally managed to open up the ancient jungle trail known locally as the Syndicate Stretch. It had long since been claimed by nature or possibly just the nettles. 

Later on Keith Jobling, armed with his industrial-strength strimmer and the grim determination of a man who once trimmed an entire golf course in a day, set about reclaiming the land. Five hours of buzzing, sweating, and the occasional “this’ll be worth it, mate” later, we had something resembling a track. Not quite a road, but certainly navigable for anything short of a Sherman tank.

Of course, no good deed goes unpunished. A few days later, in true agricultural plot twist fashion, the farmer decided to literally make hay. With all the timing and subtlety of a Shakespearean villain, he brought in the machinery, flattened the lot, and cleared the field like a man who’d just discovered what fun it is to ruin other people’s hard work. All that effort reduced to nothing but anecdotal glory and a faint smell of petrol-soaked nettles.

Still, with work related stress multiplying like rabbits on Red Bull and future responsibilities lurking ominously on the horizon like unpaid council tax, I needed a break. A proper one. Not a coffee break. A fishing break. The kind where your brain slowly deflates like a lilo in the sun and you forget your own name for an hour, especially when I had to cancel my trip to the Wye the following day. 

Fishing, as every overworked soul knows, is the most effective form of budget therapy. It’s just you, the water, and the existential question of whether that thing you saw move was a fish or a leaf with ideas above its station.

Armed with nothing but a size 6 hook and a chunk of  bread crust, I took to the water. The sun blazed down like it had a grudge, the birds chirped away like they hadn’t read the room, and before long, a few greedy chub couldn’t resist my humble offerings. 

No alarms, no boilies, no twenty-piece tackle set that requires an engineering degree just crust and calm. Job done. Off the mark for the new season. Rod packed away, mind a little lighter, and sanity, for now, safely reeled back in.

The Avon is gin clear at the minute, often the most simple tactics outwit the often most cautious of fish. Oddly the tactics will work one day and not the next. This session they were on it !! I baited a spot with hemp and pellets at the start of the session, an hour later, only minnows and tiny dace to show for it. The Wife is having a shoulder op tomorrow, my fishing could be limited to a couple of hours like it was for the session. Fingers crossed she recovers a little faster when she had the other one done. 

Warwickshire Avon - Shandies and Shenangos

There’s something spiritual nay, borderline religious about the Glorious 16th. You could be forgiven for thinking it’s a pagan rite or the Queen’s second birthday, but no, it's far more sacred than either: the opening day of the coarse river fishing season. That date sits circled in the calendar like a holy pilgrimage. Forget Christmas, ignore Easter this is the date when men (and the occasional, sainted woman) abandon all pretense of normality, dust off their tackle, and head waterside in search of scaly redemption.

Now, I’d love to tell you I had a whole day planned. Thermos flask, sandwiches cut diagonally, hat with a feather in it, and a three-part Shakespearean monologue ready to deliver to a rising chub but alas, domestic life had other plans. A fleeting window opened between work and parental obligation, barely wide enough to fit a hook through, and I slipped out like a burglar, bread in one hand, rod in the other, heart full of hope and head full of excuses in case I came home fishless.

My destination was a local haunt conveniently close, modestly magical a little stretch of river where the chub sulk under overhanging willows like Victorian poets nursing brandy hangovers. On arrival, I clocked two cars parked up. One of them belonged to none other than Buffalo Si, a man who once described roach as "God's way of testing our eyesight." The other Bream master Dirty Mike, a chap with all the angling subtlety of a flaming chainsaw, but who, in fairness, always seems to catch.

So, I thought, this will do.

Now, the beauty of early-season fishing is its promise. The river, low and gin-clear, looks like bottled summer poured over gravel. Everything is visible: fish, flies, submerged objects from the mid-90s. The downside is, of course, the fish can see you too especially chub, who, upon spotting an angler, immediately pretend to be wood.

With only two hours before I had to return home and be transformed into Responsible Parent No.1 while my wife went out gallivanting with her friends (read: prosecco-fuelled conspiracy theorists), I kept it simple. Hook, loaf of bread, zero dignity.

Si greeted me with a shandy seemingly straight from the fridge, which was either an act of brotherly solidarity or a cunning plan to sabotage my already feeble concentration. We chatted. He’d been feeding a swim for some time but hadn’t cast in. Mike, meanwhile, had already winkled out a decent chub, because of course he had. I suspect if Mike dipped his toes in the water, the fish would line up to nibble them in gratitude.

After bidding farewell to the lads, I crept upriver, stealthier than a ninja with gout, and flip flopping like Starmer the Farmer Harmer, I adopted the “wandering fool” method drifting floating crusts from swim to swim, whispering sweet nothings to the fish like an aquatic Romeo with a soggy loaf.

Fish were everywhere. Big, thick-backed chub the colour of burnt bronze lurking under tree roots and marginal weeds, peering out like naughty schoolboys. But would they rise? Would they even look? Not a sniff. Even the flake trick, that old magician's flourish, didn't stir them. I’d have had better luck waving a Tesco Clubcard.

It was like being in a fishy Madame Tussauds chub frozen in suspicion, not one so much as twitching a fin. Occasionally, one would float out from the safety of cover, inspect the bait like a wine snob at a village fête, then turn tail in disgust. I began to suspect they’d unionised in the close season.

And so the couple of hours slipped away. My loaf now more pigeon buffet than viable bait, my spirits sagging like damp socks, I conceded defeat and sloped off, tail metaphorically and spiritually between my legs.

Back at the car, in the morning I learned Si had blanked (vindication!), while Dirty Mike had managed “a few more good 'uns” his method involving groundbait and micro pellets in a deeper swim. Typical. Always fishing a swim with more underwater furniture than IKEA. I mumbled some congratulatory gibberish, secretly plotting to sabotage his bait bucket next time.

Still, blank or not, it felt so good to be back on flowing water. The Avon perfume in the air, the flick of a wagtail, the whisper of reeds brushing your thoughts clean. There’s a peace to be had from just being there. Catching a fish is merely a bonus an often denied one.

So there it is. The season has begun. The bread is stale, the chub are laughing, and the river runs on, uncaring and glorious.

Roll on the next one, can I catch a fish next time ?

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.137 (Canal Zander)

So this blog ticked over 2 Million Views yesterday which was good, and even better the river season is nearly with us, for many like an impatient heron eyeing up a breakfast buffet, I find myself doing that thing again pacing around the garage over the last week, peering at my fishing rods like they're distant relatives I haven’t called in months. Truth be told, the closed season hasn't exactly had me leaping out of bed with bait box in hand. Odd that, considering I still enjoy being on the bank once I’ve actually prised myself away from the sofa, the biscuit tin, and the occasional existential crisis about the meaning of life 

But inspiration struck in an unlikely place the other day: Stratford-Upon-Avon. Shakespeare's stomping ground. I’d gone in search of coffee and perhaps a slice of existential drama, but instead found something considerably louder: a Ferrari Purosangue Italy’s answer to the age-old question “What if a lion mated with a spaceship?” 

The first Ferrari SUV, four doors, four seats, four-wheel drive and, presumably, four heart attacks per mile if you even dare scratch it. It looked, frankly, better than its publicity shots a bit like me, but in reverse. If I had the sort of money that gets casually lost down the back of Roman Abramovich’s sofa, I’d probably give it a whirl. Although I’d need to buy matching trousers just to be seen driving it.

Meanwhile, in news that made me feel equal parts proud and prematurely nostalgic, my time at Polestar is drawing to a close as I've applied for VR and it's been accepted, as sadly no more cars to develop are heading to the UK business side, which is a shame. But to be fair, I did get to work on the Polestar 5 from the first sketch right through to production with all 900 horsepower whispering like a caffeinated silent lion. 

Last week I was in the workshop surrounded by around 40 of the prototypes an oddly calming experience, like being in a very sleek, very Swedish zoo. I admit, it's a fine-looking beast. Let’s just hope the motoring press don’t get distracted by how many cupholders it has and forget to mention the fact it basically turns electroheads into poetry reciters. Sadly 400 jobs will be reduced to 130 or so, and it's time to move on with a few quid in my back pocket. 

What’s next? Well, there’s a whisper of something new, possibly back in a design studio, potentially working alongside clay modellers and 3D geniuses and many familiar faces. And let me tell you, there’s something weirdly satisfying about seeing a car go from Play-Doh blob to showroom sculpture. Of course, it all depends on a certain ‘thing’ being sorted what that is, exactly, remains classified, mostly because I haven’t figured it out yet. Still, fingers, toes, and even eyebrows crossed.

In the meantime, desperate to break the funk and remind myself what fresh air smells like, I headed down to the local canal for a quick zander session. My logic was: catch a couple before the river season kicks in, then retire the canal rods and ceremoniously dust off the river ones like a knight preparing for battle or at least mild wrist ache.

First chuck under some cover, and boom bite within seconds. Zander in the net, thank you and goodnight. Cast again to the same shady lair, another instant take two in the net before I’d even had time to grumble about my coffee being lukewarm. Small zander, mind you. About the size of an angry slipper. But still, fish are fish, especially when they arrive with the punctuality of a German train.

Of course, as fishing laws dictate, the action didn’t last. One more bite in two hours, and that one kept picking up the bait like it was doing a taste test, then spitting it out in disgust. Clearly not a monster the deadbait looked like it had been chewed by a toddler with commitment issues.

So, I packed up and headed home, fish tally at three, mood moderately perked. And then came a surprise: a Father’s Day present waiting for me a Lego Kingfisher. I hadn’t built Lego in years, not since the Great Pirate Ship Collapse of 1993. 

But Sam, recently 14 and already a grandmaster of the brick arts, reckons he can guide me through the construction without calling me an amateur more than three times. Which is progress.

So here I sit, torn between the anticipation of opening day on the river, the strange finality of leaving a fantastic job behind, the mild terror of building a Lego bird, and the unmistakable feeling that the best adventures whether on the bank or behind a design desk are just about to begin.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.136 (Canal Zander)

There comes a time, usually somewhere around the 73rd viewing of a YouTube carp rig tutorial or while daydreaming over a cup of lukewarm instant coffee, when the closed season begins to nibble at your soul. You find yourself polishing reels that don’t need polishing, untangling line that wasn’t tangled, and seriously considering whether your old unhooking mat could double as a yoga mat, if only for the mental discipline. This, blog readers, is when the mind starts to wander and wander it did, all the way back to the syndicate stretch.

Now, I’ll be honest. A bit of swim creation was on the cards, which sounds rugged and manly until you realise it mostly involved me standing in nettles, wondering how soil gets in your socks even when you're wearing boots. But needs must. The new season looms on the horizon like a long-awaited sequel, and preparation is everything. 

This season, the farmer saintly man that he is granted us permission to bring the car into the field. This may not sound like much to those unfamiliar with the sacred rituals of fishing logistics, but let me assure you, lugging gear across a field worthy of a National Trust walking trail was beginning to give me one leg longer than the other. So I took it upon myself to forge a track, skirting the periphery with all the majesty of a pioneer, minus the oxen and cholera.

After hours of this backbreaking terrain taming and swim creating (read: a couple of hours lazily hacking at grass with a half-blunt spade and pretending it was important), I was parched. 

Not just a little thirsty, but legend-thirsty the sort of thirst that demands a reward not found in tepid bottles of spring water or the dregs of last season’s energy drink. No, this thirst called for a pint.

And here’s where things got weird.

Now, you know when you’re tired, a bit sun-dazed, maybe mildly hallucinating from inhaling too much grass pollen and WD-40? Well, I walked into the pub and there it was. 

Like a shimmering golden idol on the bar McEwan’s Champion, Rum Cask Edition. My knees went weak. My pupils dilated. I could hear harps. “One of those please,” I said, as calmly as a man who just saw his long-lost love walk through the door after being presumed dead at sea. 

The bartender gave me a look of amused pity, the same look one might reserve for a bloke who confidently walks into a wedding reception he’s not invited to. “Sorry mate,” he said, “we don’t stock that. Never seen it before.” I looked down. My hand was empty. The pump was a figment. The Champion had never been there.

It was a dream. A beautiful, boozy dream.

But at least one part of this tale is firmly rooted in reality. Yes, believe it or not, I actually went fishing. Not prep, not tinkering, not wistful lawn chair based gazing at the water. Actual rods. Actual fish.

The canal was calling, specifically for zander a species so mysterious and misunderstood they probably have their own conspiracy theories about themselves. I hadn’t really been feeling the pull of the rod during the closed season, to be fair. I’d almost convinced myself that I was just in it for the gear fondling and excuses to buy tiny tackle boxes. But the zander whispered to me, probably in Hungarian, and so I went.

With only a couple of hours to spare, I didn't expect much. My first spot, tucked under some snarly cover, was as dead as disco. Not a tap. I began questioning my life choices, whether zander were even real, and whether I’d actually just gone mad and this was all a long dream within the beer dream.

But then, I moved.

And that’s when things got silly.

Four zander in under ten minutes. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Like watching someone accidentally sit on the horn of a clown car chaotic and glorious all at once. It was like they’d all got the same memo: “Meet by the reedbed at 4pm. Bring teeth.”

Then came the one that got away.

A bite. Out of nowhere. A proper thump. I struck, rod bent, line tight then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it: a boat. Not just any boat, but the kind of canal cruiser that looks like it should have its own jazz band and drinks trolley. It was steaming down the track like it had a hot date with the marina.

Panic mode engaged.

I had to bully the fish. No finesse. No letting it tire. It was a wrestle, a desperate haul to avoid an inevitable crossing of lines and shouted apologies from a skipper in a straw hat. The fish gave some serious boils, a real scrapper. But it wasn’t to be. The pressure, the angle, the chaos it slipped the hook. Off it went, leaving only my pride and a small plume of canal froth behind.

Still, I couldn’t be mad. I had a fishy smell on my hands, mud and dog poo on my walking boots, and an exaggerated tale for the pub.

And maybe just maybe next time the McEwan’s Rum Cask Edition will actually exist.

Until then, tight lines and steady pints, not long now !!!