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.