Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.28

It all began with a trip to Caffeine and Machine last Friday, a place I usually associate with quirky motors and overpriced cappuccinos, not a full-blown air raid by winged kamikaze nutcases in yellow jackets. I don’t know what’s going on at the moment, but the wasps have absolutely lost the plot. Step one toe out from under the relative safety of the pub’s awning pint or pastry in hand and you’re immediately swarmed like you’re starring in your own apian horror flick. 

Stratford wasn’t much better. Even the garden back home became a no-fly zone unless you fancied a side of wasp with your burger. And I did twice.

That said, life isn’t all sting and vinegar. On a more celebratory note, with VR now accepted and a tidy little wedge en route to my bank account, I’ve landed back where I belong: Principal Studio Engineer, rubbing shoulders with clay modellers and Alias aficionados. 

Much more my scene than faffing about with endless design loops and emails asking if the fillet radius can be reduced by 0.2mm “for aesthetic flow”. Straight in to a job though, no rest for the wicked, I've got to earn those extra taxes for those with ever growing hands in the public purse. Not that I had to put out feelers either this one landed sweetly in my lap like a tench on a warm summer evening.

Oh, and the Polestar 5? Finally heading off to the automotive press soon. Good. I’ve seen enough of it to last me several lifetimes. Let the journos poke, prod, and publish their hot takes. I just want to stop dreaming about cup holders and GD&T tolerances.

Anyway, with the heat and the insects conspiring to make everything sticky and infuriating, I’d not been overly motivated to fish. Yes, I could fish maggots and bag the usual crowd of maggot-munching misfits, but what I really wanted was something bigger, beardier, and more bronze: a proper barbel.

After another day working from the office and a series of chores that felt never-ending (and involved a particularly spiteful flat-pack shelving unit), I finally carved out a couple of twilight hours to wet a line. Got to the stretch around 8:30pm and fished ‘til just after 11. Baited one swim with hemp and pellets and then did the ceremonial sit on hands technique to let things rest. Eventually cast out a 14mm halibut pellet with all the hope and enthusiasm of a child releasing a balloon and believing it’ll reach space.

It was one of those warm but blowy evenings hoodie required, Nigel, the jammy so-and-so, had a mint double-figure barbel out of here just a few days ago. So the hope was there. I mean, it's a low stock stretch, sure, but there’s something about the challenge that keeps me coming back. Barbel, though, they’ve been my bogey species of late. I can catch chub with my eyes closed, but barbel? They laugh at me. Literally. I’ve heard it.

Now I got a chub pull not long after settling in, which gave the heart a little flutter, and as dusk settled in and darkness crept over, I was sure—sure!—that rod would eventually go full Keith Moon. It didn’t. One more nudge, then nothing. Not even a courtesy nibble.

Still, the skies were clear, the air was calm, and aside from a minor argument with a bramble on the way back to the car, it was all quite serene. Left with my tail between my legs again but at least I got a dose of that glorious solitude that keeps us all coming back. You can’t put a price on it. Not unless you’re fishing on a day ticket at Linear.

I might give the well-trodden BAS waters a go next time. At least there, the barbel occasionally make the mistake of feeding. Until then, it’s back to dodging wasps, assembling shelving units incorrectly, and pretending that I don’t have a vendetta against an entire species of fish.