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 ?