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.