Warwickshire Avon - Farmers Dogs and Fanfaronades

After what can only be described as an enforced sabbatical from the rods largely due to my sudden immersion into the world of joint domestic CEO I’m tentatively crawling back into some kind of fishing routine. You see, the Wife recently underwent a bit of shoulder surgery. Nothing too drastic, but enough that I was rapidly promoted from “Occasional Assistant” to “Reluctant Full-Timer” on the home front.

Now you don’t realise how many moving parts your domestic life has until you’re the one desperately trying to oil them. Cooking, cleaning, taxiing teenagers who claim they’re adults yet still can’t find their own socks it’s a full-time gig. So, when the Wife was given the all-clear to drive again (hurrah!), it was like the gates of freedom creaked open and let a shaft of light back into my world.

We celebrated the occasion in the most refined way we know: food, wine, and absolutely no responsibilities. With the kids otherwise detained Sam nobly taking on the challenge of babysitting Ben (a feat deserving of a small medal and at least three packets of crisps) we entered a phase I’ve dubbed "The Gastronomic Renaissance."

Now, one of our stops on this gloriously gluttonous tour was Clarkson’s “The Farmers Dog” at Burford. as the wife was desperate to go I went in fully expecting to loathe it, mentally preparing a scathing TripAdvisor review involving phrases like “style over substance” , “manure-scented ego trip.” , "inevitable tourist trap" 

But I must eat my metaphorical hat (after the 3 actual courses). The place was, dare I say it, rather good. Slick operation, excellent staff, and a menu that didn’t require a bank loan to pronounce (just to pay for).

Three courses. Three. That never happens. Usually, we’re too full after a starter and a bottle of wine, but this time we soldiered on in the name of matrimony it was, after all, our 17th wedding anniversary. Seventeen years! That’s longer than some Labradors live.

We left the pub stuffed, slightly poorer, but very content. The wine was flowing (for Sarah as I was driving), the dessert was shared (romantically, not begrudgingly), and I even found myself praising Jeremy  Clarkson and team, they have done good. (Well apart from the outside toilets they need work)

With marital bliss temporarily restored and a bit of extra brownie point credit in the bank, I figured it was time to wet a line. A short session was in order something to scratch the itch, shake off the cobwebs, and reconnect with the simpler things in life. 

You know like fishing for chub with floating crust in the middle of a salad-depleting drought.

So off I trotted to a stretch once known in hushed, reverent tones as Barbel Alley. Ah yes, those were the days: a snug little slice of river where the barbel used to queue up politely for your bait. Sadly, as is the case with all prime real estate, the locals were evicted this time by a band of squatting otters. No notice served, no compensation given. Just barbel evicted faster than a teenager caught nicking beer from the fridge.

The calm before the storm !!

Still, one must adapt. I arrived only to be greeted by a sight every pleasure angler dreads: cars. Loads of them. Parked haphazardly like some deranged angling car boot sale. The signs were there, and sure enough, the "Three Day Festival" was in full swing. Matchmen everywhere, and every peg occupied by someone in a seatbox fortress surrounded by enough tackle to survive a month in the Yukon.

So, off I went to the Stretch of Convenience. Not glamorous, not prolific, but reliable and mercifully empty. The river was gin clear and so low I half expected to see a teenager paddle-boarding past me sipping a matcha latte. But floating crust is a magic trick when used right, and I wasn’t messing about.

A few freebies flicked upstream and sure enough, the chub began to loiter. They're not subtle fish, chub. Like teenagers outside a corner shop they hang about, loitering suspiciously, occasionally darting forward in an uncoordinated flurry.

It didn’t take long to tempt the first one. A classic take: a hesitant nudge, then wallop, a broad flank erupts from the water, and off it motors like it’s being chased by a tax bill. A cracking fight too, all seen clearly through the trusty polarised specs, which, in this case, doubled as a filter for my disbelief at how strong these things can be on light tackle.

Two more chub followed from separate swims, each as belligerent and welcome as the first. Nothing monstrous, but in that clear water, on the float, each one felt earned. A purist’s joy. The barbel that had been milling about here the other week were conspicuously absent probably put off by the water levels or possibly holidaying in the deeper end. I might try again and fish into dusk next time, when the salad farms turn their pumps off and the river gets a bit of a breather.

So, not a bad session all things considered. Three chub caught on simple tactics. No boilies, no bait boats, no fancy rigs just floating crust and a little bit of watercraft. Sometimes fishing doesn’t need bells and whistles. Just a bit of crust and time on the bank.

Life’s returning to normal now the Wife is mobile again, and while I did my bit holding down the fort, I’m more than happy to hand back the reins and get back to my true calling pretending to be a fishing blogger with a wine habit and an unhealthy suspicion of otters.

Until next time tight lines, mind the crust, and if you're in Burford... book ahead.