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.