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.