Warwickshire Avon - Barbel and Barodynamics

With Sam and his mate Matthew turning the house into something resembling a low-budget episode of Gladiators (complete with makeshift swords, questionable logic, and an ambient soundtrack of thudding limbs), I did what any peace-starved angler with a pulse would do I legged it. The Warwickshire Avon beckoned like a siren with scales, and I answered the call quicker than you can say "Two Tier Keir"

The plan, as ever, was as simple as it was effective: plonk in a few freebies, let the swim marinate like a Sunday joint, and then lob in a PVA bag stuffed tighter than my tackle shed drawers. I wasn’t expecting much until the light faded and the bats started performing aerial acrobatics worthy of a Cirque du Soleil understudy.

After a couple of hours with more inactivity than a teenager on a Sunday morning, the first sign of life came in the form of a pint-sized chub, which managed to inhale the gobstopper-like bait with all the grace of a dustbin raccoon. Re-baited, re-armed, and re-focused (with just a smidge of misplaced optimism), I chucked the rig out again and resumed my riverside loitering.

Soon enough, the other three anglers on the stretch had buggered off perhaps unnerved by my choice of bank snacks (spicy Mini Cheddars and a can of dandelion & burdock, naturally) or my habit of talking to the river like it's an old drinking buddy. The last to leave stopped for a quick chinwag, and as we were lamenting the state of modern pellets (not what they used to be, I tell thee), bang the rod tip did a full-on homage to The Exorcist, and I was in.

A barbel. I knew it. Not just by the power of the bite, but by the way it powered off downstream like it had a dentist appointment in Evesham and was already late. A couple of drag-singing runs later and I had it under control, my arms doing their best impression of a badly wired puppet.

Into the net she slid bronzed, whiskered, and full of attitude. A quick weigh-in confirmed what I’d already suspected: 9lb 14oz two measly ounces off the hallowed double. Typical. Still, a cracking fish, a cracking scrap, and proof that patience, timing, and knowing when to escape the domestic mayhem can all conspire to deliver the goods.

Back she went, a gentle flick of the tail, and off into the now inky depths leaving me with that smug, quietly contented glow only a barbel angler will understand.

Until next time, tight lines and tight lids on the Mini Cheddars.

The River Arrow - Mosh Pits and Mogigraphia

With the kids now set free from the shackles of school and presumably launching themselves into a six-week campaign of minor destruction and crisps consumption  I’ve discovered that keeping them occupied requires more tactical planning than a Normandy beach landing. Thankfully we've a week in North Devon and 11 days in the canaries to look forward to in August where hopefully I'll get the some sea fishing in. 

The LEGO kingfisher a majestic thing, apparently modelled on the avian equivalent of James Bond  was meant to buy me at least three afternoons of peace. I'd barely got the kettle on before Sam had polished it off with all the calm focus of a neurosurgeon. Impressive? Absolutely. Disappointing? Only if you were banking on an extra hour to do anything else with your Friday. 

What’s more, the box was deceptive one of those “looks manageable” jobs that turns out to be the size of a small Vespa once assembled. Still, he was proud. I was knackered. So with Sam's mate Matthew due over for a weekend stay (I suspect to test the structural integrity of our furniture), I thought: let’s go full old-school Dad mode pork joint from Freemans in Alcester and some classic riverbank frolics. Two birds, one stone. Or two boys, one slow-sinking lump of Warburtons.

Now the River Arrow, bless its babbling soul, is in dire need of a drink. Bone dry in parts, a bit like my wit after too many family BBQs, but ideal for the kids to paddle, splash, and do their best to disturb the peace for any resident barbel within a three-mile radius. 

Our first chosen spot was already occupied by what I can only describe as a group of small humans enthusiastically attempting to relocate the riverbed via splash. I was about to mutter something curmudgeonly and retreat upstream when lo and behold  they all buggered off to do TikToks in a field or whatever kids do these days. Swim cleared, rods ready, bread pinched. Perfect.

It always amazes me how even little rivers like this have features. You think it’s just a wet ditch until you realise there’s a marginal shelf deeper than my overdraft. Years of flooding have carved out channels, hollows, and prime ambush spots for sulky chub who’ve probably seen more loaves than a bakery.

But sure enough, within minutes of casting, there’s that wonderful moment the slow flutter of bread through the gin-clear water, the silence, the anticipation then bam, a chub shoots in like a teenager spotting the last sausage roll at a buffet and nails it without hesitation. Didn’t even need polarised glasses, though I did wear them anyway because it makes me feel like a professional and hides the bags under my eyes. 

Sam, who’d been standing precisely where those other kids had churned up the bottom like paddle-tailed piranhas, decided to fish the very same swim. You’d think it would be ruined, but nope  apparently, the local chub are used to the aquatic equivalent of a Napalm Death mosh pit. 

As soon as his bit of bread sank just a whisker below the surface, it vanished and like a coiled spring (a short, slightly startled one), Sam struck. Fish on! It wasn’t exactly Moby Dick, but on his little 6ft Scope rod it gave a cracking account of itself. I stood back, offered sage advice like “Keep the rod up!” and “Try not to fall in!” while secretly praying the hook held. It did. Result.

A few more fell to floaty bread, lazily plopped in under overhanging branches while I tried to keep Ben from testing the water depth with his knees. All in all, a cracking afternoon. 

Fish caught, pork joint acquired (complete with enough crackling to give your fillings PTSD), and two boys thoroughly knackered by tea time. Which, as any parent will tell you, is the greatest trophy of all.

And the kingfisher? Still perched proudly on the shelf. Glaring at me every time I pass, as if to say: “You thought I’d take all day, didn’t you?” Cheeky plastic show-off.

Warwickshire Avon - Bad Knots and Baculiforms

The little Jimny stood there, lonely as a wet spaniel in a thunderstorm, parked dutifully on the desolate third floor of the multistorey staff car park. No other cars in sight. Not even the chirpy red Fiat 500 with the missing hubcap or that dubious Skoda that smelled like old ham and regret. Just the Jimny. Just me. Just corporate decay.

You see, when you’ve had three rounds of redundancies in six years, it doesn't take a spreadsheet wizard to realise the writing is probably not just on the wall it's been etched in with a Dremel and underlined in red marker by the lovely Katie from HR with no soul and a collection of novelty mugs. The "Fun Committee" stopped funning years ago, and even Julien from operations, usually an eternal optimist with a drawer full of biscuits, had recently started referring to life as "a long wait for cake and disappointment."  

So, yes, working from home seemed a more appealing option, especially when your office resembles a library post-apocalypse and the vending machine only stocks stale crisps and those monster energy drinks. But I’m not bitter. Not me. I’m off soon  to pastures new! A new job! A design studio again! People who actually want you around. I might even have a chair and my OWN desk that doesn’t slowly descend of its own accord during Team's meetings.

9lb 11oz River Wye 

But until then, a couple of days a week in the office suits me just fine. Gives me a chance to say goodbye to the survivors, exchange awkward half-hugs and “we must stay in touch” lies, and spend a few last moments with the Jimny, who, like me, enjoys solitude and making unwise choices in mud.

Now, last weekend's salvation arrived in the form of the River Wye, which for me is like a warm bubble bath for the soul, albeit one full of silt, chub, and the occasional crisp packet. 

Honestly though, if heaven had a postcode, it’d be somewhere near Hereford with a tackle shop just down the road and a tea van that did bacon rolls so strong you could re-attach scaffolding with the grease. That said, the fishing's not just a hobby anymore. 

It's a necessary form of mental therapy cheaper than a psychologist and sometimes comes with a slug of tea. Retirement dreams may be a little way off, but I’ve been chipping away at the pensions, like a squirrel stashing nuts and occasionally checking the value with all the wide-eyed optimism of someone opening their electricity bill.

The property’s 'almost' paid for, and if it weren’t for the fact I’ve got mouths to feed and a lawn that still needs mowing, I’d probably sack it all off now, buy a battered old campervan do a Phil Smith, and follow the barbel runs like some sort of leathery-skinned fish-obsessed roadie ready to swim jump at every available opportunity. 

But alas, here I remain. At least for now.

The plan was simple after raiding the freezer and getting a Crosta & Mollica Stromboli Pizza at the parking place of convenience, scalded pellet and method feeder the same method that had done the business down the Wye. 

Light gear, subtle approach, and the tactical deployment of a chair that had seen better days. Down on the Avon, the water was low, slow, still, I was hopeful for a bite, there seems to be some good fish here. 

It's only 20 minutes away this stretch which is about the same as the WBAS syndicate stretch where those barbel are few and far between and ok I've caught them on the stretch before, but not for a while. It's nice to have one's string pulled once or twice now isn't it. Anyway those other anglers on this stretch, you know who you are, ta for the info, it's always appreciated. 

Now there’s something about a quiet river at dusk that whispers of promise, especially when you’ve spent the best part of two hours sat behind rods that might as well have been in the garage, for all the interest they’d had. Not a tremble. Not a twitch. Nothing. I’d have had more action watching paint dry in a wind tunnel. But optimism is a dangerous thing in angling, and mine was beginning to feel like a bad investment.

Now, it’s one thing to fish poorly quite another to start lobbing gear into trees like some overzealous chimp at a casting competition. One enthusiastic swing too many and off goes one of my prized method feeders, soaring majestically into the nearest sycamore like a Newtonian experiment gone wrong. If there was a robin nesting in there, it’s now got a new garden ornament.

Grumbling like a pensioner in a bus queue, I re-rigged with my barbel standby an open-ended feeder setup I could tie in my sleep, assuming I hadn’t already nodded off due to the sheer inactivity. Light was fading, stomach rumbling, and just as I was mentally weighing up whether a man could survive the night on half a packet of smoky bacon crisps, BANG! A bite. A real one.

Cue the chaos. Rod hooped, line zipping an honest-to-goodness barbel with steam in its fins. We battled. I imagined victory. And then... slack. The kind of slack that makes your heart fall into your boots and your vocabulary turn blue. One minute I’m connected to a brute, the next I’m reeling in line like a man pulling up a kite with no string. Rig gone. Hook, feeder — the whole lot. I sat back in stunned silence, reviewing the crime scene. Knot failure? Fish too clever? Cosmic punishment for that feeder-flinging incident earlier?

Still, as I stared into the now-barbel-less gloom, trying to resist the urge to launch my entire tackle box into the 'Von, I had to concede at least the fish are turning up. That’s progress, isn’t it? Small mercies and all that. I re-rigged in a sulk and saw out the last half hour under a sky now as empty as my landing net.

They say you learn something every session. Tonight, I learned that sycamores don’t like feeders, dusk is the most treacherous time for dreams, and barbel have a wicked sense of humour.

River Wye - Damp socks and Damnification

Now somehow and I’m still not entirely sure how this happened  Ben turned sixteen over the weekend. One minute he’s eating crayons and posting Pokémon cards through the toaster, the next he’s wanting a Fat Hippo “Born Slippy” like a seasoned burger connoisseur and swiping ID-checked mocktails like he’s about to DJ at Ministry of Sound. Time, it seems, is no longer on our side.

Ben having left 'school' will now go to the Welcome Hills 'hub' which is for 'life skills' where he will be until he is 19. We've a few years to decide where he goes from there, answers on a postcard !!

So anyway what better way to celebrate his coming of age than with something greasy, followed by something loud and wildly overpriced? 

Cue the Fat Hippo in Birmingham for burgers dirtier than a Somerset tractor tyre, and then on to the F1 Arcade for the kind of simulation racing where the only thing more dangerous than the virtual crashes is the price of a pint.

Ben’s younger brother Sam, however, doesn’t quite share the same enthusiasm for airshows or faux-driving Grand Prix cars into a digital Monaco chicane. So while Sarah dutifully took Ben and a small gang of turbo-charged teenagers to Fairford Air Tattoo the following morning to ogle jet engines and fried dough, I’d booked Sam and I something a little more... tranquil.

Fishing on the River Wye. Man and boy. With rods, reels, and enough scalded pellets to open a small branch of Nash Tackle.

Now, Sam had been absolutely buzzing for this trip. He’d got his first pair of proper waders for his birthday, the kind that makes a lad feel part man, part frog. I’d barely got the car packed before he was in the driveway dressed like an amphibious knight, armed with a landing net and asking if we could camp “for at least a week.”

When we finally arrived, the Wye looked... well... thirsty. Desperately low and as gin-clear as the posh optics behind a Waitrose bar. The streamer weed, which had been playing hard to get in recent years, was back doing its leafy dance, and there, tucked just off a gravel bar, were the tell-tale flashes of flanking barbel – more barbless ballet than feeding frenzy, but encouraging all the same.

Our swim was marked with a forgotten pair of socks someone had clearly sacrificed to the river gods, then I did what all sensible river anglers should do: fed the swim and didn’t rush in like an over-eager labrador. A half-hour of soaking and some hopeful muttering to the river spirits later, I prepped for the Method approach – on the advice of Nic from Avon Angling, who’d been here two days prior and winked like a man who knew a secret.

Scalded pellet mix. 12mm halibut pellet on the hair. Standard stuff. Except what wasn’t standard was what happened fifteen minutes in. I noticed the line collecting a bit of weed, went to tweak it and then WHACK! The rod tip went full Shakespearean tragedy. A violent lurch, a screeching clutch, and suddenly I was connected to what can only be described as an aquatic freight train with fins.

Now this, my friends, was no chub.

Sam, to his credit, had the net ready and was pacing like an apprentice zookeeper watching his first lion get loose. The fish wasn’t happy. The line was grating. Streamer weed was wrapping around the line like a sullen teenager in a duvet. After some heart-stopping lunges and a final defiant burst, Sam did the honours and netted it like an absolute pro. What a lad.

At first glance, I guessed 7lb. Maybe 8. But once I hoisted her up and felt the weight thumping through my wrist like an angry metronome, I revised my estimate. Scales don’t lie. 9lb 11oz  a proper Wye bruiser and my personal best from the river.

After some resting and obligatory admiration, Sam released it with all the grace and seriousness of a junior fish priest. The barbel, perhaps sensing our awe, didn’t linger. She flicked once and surged away with purpose. Job done.

The rest of the day unfolded like a greatest hits album of classic Wye moments. We swapped between float and ledger tactics. The “gully swim” produced some chub (nothing big), taken on little cubes of luncheon meat trotted through a pacey glide that made the rod tip twitch with anticipation. Sam, despite being only 13, fished like a lad with gills. 

I suppose dragging him to rivers since he was 4 has paid off. He’s got the touch now  the soft flick of the float, the patient wait, the instinctive strike. I mostly just watched, passed him sandwiches, and felt a quiet swell of dad pride.

As the day wore on, clouds began to grumble in the distance like an old man realising he'd left the immersion heater on. We took the hint. Packed up. Began the long trudge back to the car, rods on shoulders, boots clagged in riverbank clay. 

We’d barely shut the doors when the heavens opened in a deluge of biblical proportions. Torrential rain lashed the windscreen with all the grace of a toddler wielding a watering can.

Perfect timing. Perfect day.

And so, after burgers, barbel, and big skies full of Red Arrows and thunderclouds, we returned home damp, satisfied, and carrying the faint but glorious stink of river fish and dirty waders. 

Roll on the next session.

Warwickshire Avon - Grockles and Grammaticasters

There’s something inexplicably comforting about knowing you could knock up a pepperoni pizza mid-session while waiting for a chub to inhale a 14mm halibut pellet. The Jackery Explorer 1000 v2 what a name, like it ought to come with its own cape had arrived, and with its 1500 watts of fishless potential, the River Wye trip now had the culinary support of a high street takeaway. Sam won’t starve, that's for sure. Airfryer, kettle, USB fan, and possibly even a disco ball if the barbel get frisky.

With Sunday’s gastronomic angling expedition prepped, I fancied a few hours at a local stretch to scratch that barbel itch. Arriving at a well-trodden haunt, I was relieved to see just two cars in the carpark a rarity, like finding a tench in your garden pond after a storm. 

Alas, within minutes of picking a peg with a “hot” reputation, a fellow angler appeared who seemed to be auditioning for Swim Wars: Episode III – The Peg Spreader. Not content with one pitch, he baited three like a Victorian land baron claiming territory. A bit much, I thought, so I gathered my gear, muttered something unrepeatable, and wandered off in search of solitude.

The weir it was then clear, shallow, fizzy with oxygen, and free from both peg pirates and loud social media live streamers. 

I baited with some trusty groundbait and pellets, then let it rest while I had a saunter along the bank, which is where I bumped into Jon Pinfold. After the customary bank-side natter (which in fishing time equates to two cups of tea and the synopsis of three seasons’ worth of barbel blanks), he headed off downstream, and I trudged back to the foamy sanctuary of the weir.

The first cast in and the bait was getting instant attention. That gentle rattling, the kind that screams “I’m not the fish you’re looking for” echoed up the line. A suicidal gudgeon proved the point, followed by a roach with delusions of grandeur. Evening crept in, and I decided to double down with two 14mm halibut pellets, because nothing says “come hither Mr. Barbel” like a bait the size of a gobstopper.

With the centrepin poised, ratchet armed, and tea in hand, I relaxed into the last hour before dark. Then, a tug not a full-blooded wrench but enough to get the ratchet moaning briefly like an annoyed pensioner on a mobility scooter. I struck... into air. A chub, most likely, cheeky sods. Then, just as I’d re-entered that contemplative space where your brain flits between philosophical musings and wondering what happened to Wagon Wheels, all hell broke loose.

The rod buckled, the ratchet sang its song of war, and the fish surged. This, I thought, this is it. The barbel of prophecy. The one. The beast. The holy grail of whiskered dreams. But then... a lolloping swirl on the surface. And I knew.

Bream. 🙈

The barbel’s doughy, silt-loving cousin. It wallowed like a drunk grockle at an open mic night, and while the fight had lasted all of fifteen dramatic seconds, it was clear the finale had already been written. Five pounds and ten ounces of pure heartbreak. A fish shaped disappointment. Covered in the sort of slime you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy’s sleeping bag.

I fished on for a bit, more out of principle than optimism, fed a bit more bait, and hoped in vain for redemption. It didn’t come. On the way back to the car, I met Jon again who’d had a lovely evening bagging up on chub, naturally.

Back home, the bream slime was a pungent reminder of what could have been. The clothes went straight in the wash before they walked there on their own. Honestly, I don’t know what it is about bream mucus, but it seems to bond at a molecular level to anything it touches like some kind of piscine superglue with notes of corpse flower and disappointment.

Still, with pizza planned for Sunday’s session and tea on tap, hope springs eternal. Because that’s fishing. One moment you’re dreaming of barbel, the next you’re reeling in aquatic bin-liners. But we carry on. Because somewhere, beneath the gin-clear water, a barbel waits. Fat, wary, smug.

And probably laughing.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.28

It all began with a trip to Caffeine and Machine last Friday, a place I usually associate with quirky motors and overpriced cappuccinos, not a full-blown air raid by winged kamikaze nutcases in yellow jackets. I don’t know what’s going on at the moment, but the wasps have absolutely lost the plot. Step one toe out from under the relative safety of the pub’s awning pint or pastry in hand and you’re immediately swarmed like you’re starring in your own apian horror flick. 

Stratford wasn’t much better. Even the garden back home became a no-fly zone unless you fancied a side of wasp with your burger. And I did twice.

That said, life isn’t all sting and vinegar. On a more celebratory note, with VR now accepted and a tidy little wedge en route to my bank account, I’ve landed back where I belong: Principal Studio Engineer, rubbing shoulders with clay modellers and Alias aficionados. 

Much more my scene than faffing about with endless design loops and emails asking if the fillet radius can be reduced by 0.2mm “for aesthetic flow”. Straight in to a job though, no rest for the wicked, I've got to earn those extra taxes for those with ever growing hands in the public purse. Not that I had to put out feelers either this one landed sweetly in my lap like a tench on a warm summer evening.

Oh, and the Polestar 5? Finally heading off to the automotive press soon. Good. I’ve seen enough of it to last me several lifetimes. Let the journos poke, prod, and publish their hot takes. I just want to stop dreaming about cup holders and GD&T tolerances.

Anyway, with the heat and the insects conspiring to make everything sticky and infuriating, I’d not been overly motivated to fish. Yes, I could fish maggots and bag the usual crowd of maggot-munching misfits, but what I really wanted was something bigger, beardier, and more bronze: a proper barbel.

After another day working from the office and a series of chores that felt never-ending (and involved a particularly spiteful flat-pack shelving unit), I finally carved out a couple of twilight hours to wet a line. Got to the stretch around 8:30pm and fished ‘til just after 11. Baited one swim with hemp and pellets and then did the ceremonial sit on hands technique to let things rest. Eventually cast out a 14mm halibut pellet with all the hope and enthusiasm of a child releasing a balloon and believing it’ll reach space.

It was one of those warm but blowy evenings hoodie required, Nigel, the jammy so-and-so, had a mint double-figure barbel out of here just a few days ago. So the hope was there. I mean, it's a low stock stretch, sure, but there’s something about the challenge that keeps me coming back. Barbel, though, they’ve been my bogey species of late. I can catch chub with my eyes closed, but barbel? They laugh at me. Literally. I’ve heard it.

Now I got a chub pull not long after settling in, which gave the heart a little flutter, and as dusk settled in and darkness crept over, I was sure—sure!—that rod would eventually go full Keith Moon. It didn’t. One more nudge, then nothing. Not even a courtesy nibble.

Still, the skies were clear, the air was calm, and aside from a minor argument with a bramble on the way back to the car, it was all quite serene. Left with my tail between my legs again but at least I got a dose of that glorious solitude that keeps us all coming back. You can’t put a price on it. Not unless you’re fishing on a day ticket at Linear.

I might give the well-trodden BAS waters a go next time. At least there, the barbel occasionally make the mistake of feeding. Until then, it’s back to dodging wasps, assembling shelving units incorrectly, and pretending that I don’t have a vendetta against an entire species of fish.

Warwickshire Avon - Staff Curries and Steganography

Now after years of pretending I could tell the difference between "notes of molasses" and "caramelized oak whispers," I've finally found a rum that makes me actually nod like a smug connoisseur: 

Gosling’s Family Reserve Old Rum. 

This isn't your average mixer no, sir. This is the kind of rum that shows up in a tuxedo, offers you a cigar, and then quotes 19th-century literature while sitting by a fireplace that crackles with self-confidence. 

It comes in a nice box, for heaven’s sake. A box! That’s how you know it’s fancy it arrives like a treasure chest and tastes like one too.

From the first sip, it whispered sweet nothings of baked apples, burnt sugar, and what I assume is the flavor of a pirate’s retirement plan. 

I’m not saying it changed my life, but I did start swirling it in a Glencairn glass while making unsolicited tasting notes to rolling eyes Sam. So this is my new sipping rum. It’s smooth, rich, and just pretentious enough to make me feel accomplished without needing to win a Nobel. Cheers to the good stuff and to finally drinking a rum that doesn’t demand a splash of Coke to be tolerable. Oh and it was £50 quid in the Prime sale, it's so nice I buy another one or two whilst it is still on offer !!

Now there’s something gloriously contradictory about sitting in the full glare of a summer sun, sweating like a giddy spice merchant at a naga chilli convention, and still somehow convincing oneself that today yes, today is the perfect day for a curry. 

The mercury was past thirty degrees, the sort of heat where even the foxes walk around in flip-flops and sunglasses, but there I was, menu in hand, peering at the usual lineup of balti belters and tikka twiddlers.

Now, I’m no stranger to the odd chicken jalfrezi or king prawn dopiaza when the weather has a bite in the air, but in this sort of swelter? Madness, surely. Or was it? Because really, when isn’t it a good time for a curry? Funeral? Wedding? Fishing trip? Jury duty? Yes, yes, probably, and if it’s not too messy, why not.

This was a new gaff never darkened their doors before. But you get a sense for these things, don’t you? From the soft hum of the extractor fan to the comforting clatter of pans behind a swing door, there was a vibe. And there it was, tucked between a korma and something likely to induce both hallucinations and tears: Staff Curry. That rare, coveted dish whispered about in curry houses across the land. Not dressed up for the punters. No frills. No cream swirl, not dumbed down for the westerners. Just good, honest, home-style spice designed to bring comfort to a weary chef and possibly a hangover to a curious diner.

I asked what meat was in it for today. "Lamb," the waiter said with a knowing look, the sort of look that says, You’re in for it now,. And by heavens he was right. It was the sort of lamb curry that hits all the right notes: rich, earthy, gently molten. Chilli heat somewhere between a madras and a vindaloo, but without the bravado. More of a warm handshake than a slap round the face with a chilli-stuffed slipper. Proper chunks of meat, and most of it still on the bone, and thick sauce so deep you could moor a barge in it.

But man cannot live on curry alone. Well, he can, but he’ll likely sweat out the soles of his shoes. So, I did what any rational angler would do in 30°C heat after a meal designed to initiate transcendence I went chub fishing. Naturally.

I had no plan, no time, and frankly no right to be on the riverbank carrying a rod, and radiating cumin like some sort of sentient spice rack. But the river looked seductive, all glimmer and glide, like a mirror with a secret. A quick smash-and-grab, I told myself. Just me, the river, and maybe, maybe, a plump-cheeked chub who hadn’t had a curry yet and fancied something off the top, or slow sinking !!

Slow sinking seemed to work as I flicked a piece under the branches with all the subtlety of a hungover ninja and watched it drift. The sun beat down. I could feel the curry reactivating with every heartbeat. And then, out of the shadows, came that wonderful boil, that sudden bulge of water, and WHAM! A chub worthy of a pub sign lunged at the bait with reckless abandon.

It fought like it had something to prove. I sweated like I’d been caught shoplifting samosas. But eventually, the net was slipped under a nice chunky bronzed fish. Not a record, no, but certainly a specimen. 

And in that moment, crust-crumbs still on my fingers and turmeric likely seeping from my pores, I realised something profound: the only thing better than a curry in a heatwave… is a curry and a chub in a heatwave, if that’s not living, I don’t know what is.

2 more fish succumbed to the bread and I bumped one off but it was so nice being stood in the water I must admit, despite not knowing what the pollution levels were like. Not much more than an hour, but that fishing fix satisfied and I went home a happy man. 

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.27

There are whispers again on the WBAS stretch. Whispers of leviathans stirring of barbel that don’t so much run as migrate, and of chub the size of spaniels slipping quietly into nets like bashful burglars. Big Barbel catcher Dave W, the lucky swine, clung to his rod as a barbel motored off towards Stratford-upon-Avon with the sort of purpose usually reserved for late trains or startled deer, only for the line to go slack, the hook to pull and his dreams to unravel like a bad alibi. 

Not to be defeated, he settled for a perfectly respectable 5lb 6oz chub, which, in the grand theatre of river exaggeration, now features suspiciously often in pub retellings.

Seduced by the promise of glory and the convenience of a car park within staggering distance, I assembled the gear. Chair with lumbar support? Check. 12mm pellets of questionable origin? Check. Hope? Ha. Two swims were lovingly peppered with goodness grenades (©Buffalo Si) neat balls of groundbait optimism hurled out like the orange throwers in at the festival in Spain. 

The plan, bold in theory and sketchy in execution, was to fish each swim in rotation, into dusk and beyond. In my head, it was poetry. In practice, it was more interpretive dance meets light loitering.

As the light faded and the sky put on its clear, star-pricked cloak, a cormorant barged in uninvited, all neck and indignation, flapping about like someone who’s taken a wrong turn at the canal. Later, just as I was beginning to feel at one with the moment  and questioning all my life choices an otter ghosted into view. It paused, stared, and then vanished as if to say, “Mate, even I’m not bothering tonight.” It was, if nothing else, deeply atmospheric.

Despite adopting an all out big fish approach™, the result was one half-hearted chub pull and several hours of enthusiastic nothing. I packed up when I could no longer see the quivertip and was just waving my rod around like a wizard with no spells left. But if catching fish is the only metric, then you’ve missed the point entirely. 

The river was alive: predators chasing baitfish like it was Black Friday, dace launching themselves skyward in cartoonish arcs to escape the jaws of unseen pike and perch. It was chaotic. It was beautiful. It was... totally fishless.

Still, it was nice to be out. The air was good, the stars were out, and I didn’t fall in or cry once which by modern standards is a roaring success. There’s always next time, of course. Just me, the river, and a wildly misplaced sense of optimism.

The sunset, well it was rather nice I must admit !!

It reaffirmed that I really struggle to sit behind a motionless rod, any tips to counteract the restless legs ?