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 ?