Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.32

It’s fair to say that, in angling terms, I’ve developed the stubbornness of a donkey that’s just been offered a salad instead of a carrot. I keep trudging back to the syndicate stretch like some misguided pilgrim, convinced that if I just sit there long enough with my bread, meat, pellets and optimism, the barbel will eventually give in. 

But as Einstein allegedly once muttered (probably after losing a big tinca), “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” By that logic, I am officially insane. I should probably have this stretch of river registered as a care facility for the terminally optimistic.

The “master plan” and I use the term as loosely as one might describe a politician’s expenses claim  was to target the chub specifically. None of this “wait four hours for a single barbel pull” nonsense. Oh no. This was to be tactical, deliberate, laser-guided piscatorial warfare. Armed with bread mash, a chub rod delicate enough to register the hiccups of a passing gudgeon, and a misplaced sense of destiny, I felt sure I’d crack it this time. Spoiler alert: I did not crack it. The only thing cracking was my patience, like a Rich Tea biscuit in a builder’s tea.

Bread mash went in. I let the swims rest, as one does when pretending to be a seasoned campaigner rather than someone who Googled “how to fish for chub” while in the works toilet. Then came the moment of truth. Rod out, bread flake on, sat there with all the poise of a man who had forgotten he had Willis-Ekbom and would soon be flapping about like a demented heron trying to swat invisible flies.

The bites came quickly enough with a tame moorhen watching in awe. Trouble is, they were less “chub confidently wolfing down my offering” and more “minnows trying to whittle away a loaf of Hovis one molecule at a time.” Each twitch on the quivertip was amplified to seismic proportions by my delicate glass tip. NASA probably picked up the tremors and are currently re-routing satellites. I struck at a few, of course, and each time succeeded only in providing the minnows with slapstick entertainment. Somewhere down there, there’s a shoal of them doubled over in hysterics.

And then  miracle of miracles one bite had that unmistakable oomph. The sort that makes your heart skip and your arm go into autopilot. For a split second I was certain it was a barbel, until I remembered I wasn’t actually fishing for barbel and had only myself to blame for such treacherous thoughts. Anyway, I missed it. Naturally. I could miss a fish if it threw itself at my landing net wearing a hi-vis vest.

As dusk arrived, I told myself: This is it. This is prime chub hour. This is the bit where the blog post gets interesting. What actually happened was that the swim went as silent as a library in a power cut. No pulls, no plucks, not even a cheeky liner. Just me, staring at the glow of a torch-illuminated tip like some budget airport runway attendant waiting for a plane that never lands.

After forty minutes of this lunar vigil, my restless legs were in full swing and I looked less like an angler and more like a man performing interpretive dance to an audience of moths. 

Eventually, dignity or what was left of it demanded retreat. Another blank. Another tail-between-legs march back to the car. At this point I think the river’s playing hard to get, but frankly it’s getting boring.

I know I should change something tactics, venue, species, underwear brand anything really, just to break the rut. But instead I’ll almost certainly return, convinced once again that this is the time, this is the session, this is the blog post that doesn’t end with me confessing failure. Until then, dear readers, you’ll just have to enjoy the comedy of errors. Because if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. And I’ve already done enough of that on the riverbank.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.31

It’s funny really, how many hours of my life have been spent perched like some slightly bewildered garden gnome by the side of the Warwickshire Avon, staring at a quiver tip that does absolutely nothing of note. Well, that’s not strictly true sometimes it twitches just enough to get the heart racing before returning to its usual statue-like stillness. Still, when you’ve paid your money to join a syndicate, you’re not just buying access to a stretch of water, you’re buying into the unknown. And let’s be honest, the unknown is often just another way of saying absolutely sod all is going to happen.😀

Now Sean, smug as a cat in a creamery, only went and caught what we think is Barbara the Barbel the other week. Thirteen pound ten ounces of sheer bronze magnificence. A fish so wide across the shoulders you’d half expect it to have its own postcode. Meanwhile, yours truly is still waiting for even a polite enquiry. If Barbara is the duchess of the syndicate stretch, then I’m the poor fool loitering outside the palace gates with a Tesco meal deal and a rapidly cooling flask of tea.

But still, there’s something about this bit of river. Maybe it’s the fact I usually have it to myself, or maybe it’s the nagging thought that one day just one day I might actually catch something that isn’t small enough to fit in a Kinder Egg capsule. 

The solitude is priceless, though, especially when you factor in the convenience. For short sessions it’s perfect—though "short" is relative when you spend most of that time moaning about the wind, re-tying hooklinks you didn’t need to change, and regretting that extra slice of pork pie.

Ah yes, the wind. If there’s one thing guaranteed to turn me into a muttering, hat-wearing misanthrope, it’s a stiff, cold crosswind that whips the bank like an over-enthusiastic dominatrix. Out came the beanie hat, the one that makes me look like a budget extra from Fargo.

The plan was simple enough. A feeder packed with krill groundbait, small mixed pellets, and topped off with a delicate little wafter something dainty enough to tempt a chub, but still suggestive enough that Barbara might fancy a nibble. Within half an hour I had a few plucks. Plucks! Not full-blooded wallops, mind you, just the piscine equivalent of a teenager poking you on Facebook circa 2007. But it was contact, and in this game that’s often as good as it gets.

Now, I should probably mention that my youngest son Sam is something of a pioneer in the field of bite detection. While most anglers rely on bobbins, quiver tips, or alarms that sound like an ambulance reversing through a kebab shop, Sam came up with the “bottom bite” method. This involves sitting squarely on the cork handle of the rod, so that any vibrations are transferred directly to the angler’s backside. Ingenious. Not exactly something NASA will be patenting anytime soon, but effective nonetheless.

I, being slightly less masochistic, have evolved the technique into a thigh-based system. Rod butt jammed against leg, wedged into the chair. It works too so well, in fact, that even when a suicidal minnow managed to impale itself on my hook, I felt the vibration. Poor little thing swam off afterwards, looking a bit like someone who’d just walked into a glass door at full pelt but pretending they meant to do it. I can only hope it survives to tell the tale to its minnow mates down at the reed bed.

Then it happened. As dusk closed in and the wind died down for a blessed five minutes, the tip slammed round in a proper three-foot twitch. Not one of your namby-pamby trembles, this was a bite so violent it nearly catapulted my beanie hat straight into the river. I struck like a man possessed visions of Barbara already dancing before me only to be met with absolutely sod all resistance. Nada. Zilch. Fresh air on the other end. My heart said barbel, my brain said chub, but my hook said, “You’ve been mugged, son.”

After that? Silence. Forty-five more minutes of complete and utter nothingness. The river went deader than a Nokia 3210 without Snake. No plucks, no twitches, not even the faintest tremor on the line. The sort of silence where you start questioning life choices, wondering why you didn’t just stay at home and rewatch Inspector Morse with a whisky in hand.

And yet, despite all that, I’ll be back. Probably this week, in-fact as I type this afterwork. Probably with bread flake hair-rigged in some daft over-complicated way. Probably still chasing that greedy old Chevin that’s got my name etched into his scales. That’s fishing though, isn’t it? Eternal hope in the face of endless disappointment.

So yes, if you’ve got a spare bag of luck lying around, do send it my way. Either that, or point me towards a river where the barbel queue up like tourists outside Greggs.

Until then, it’s back to blanking.

Warwickshire Avon - Stripeys and Strumpetocracy

There I was, plonked down at Piccadilly Circus this time not for barbel. Not the one with the neon lights, pigeons, and tourists trying to out-selfie each other in front of the giant screen, but the one of my own making. An amphitheatre of swirling water, whistling wind, and the faint perfume of groundbait wafting downstream, which I like to imagine must smell to a perch what a freshly fried bacon sarnie smells like to me on a Saturday morning. It was all rather idyllic in my mind’s eye, until, like a clown bursting into the middle of Hamlet, a lure angler arrived stage left and decided to conduct his casting display directly into my carefully prepared swim.

Now, ordinarily, I’m a man of peace, content with nothing more than a flask of lukewarm coffee, a bag of maggots crawling suspiciously faster than they should, and the chance to watch a float perform its aquatic ballet. But I’m also an angler of principle, and to see a lure splashing down in my territory was like someone cutting into your Sunday roast before you’d sharpened your knife. So I politely voiced my concern. 

To his credit, the chap apologised none of that territorial chest-puffing you sometimes get from anglers who think they’ve bought the exclusive rights to the riverbank along with their packet of soft shads. No, he was all smiles, turned his rod tip the other way, and before he left me to my contemplations, asked if I’d caught anything.

“Errr… nought sadly,” I replied, with all the enthusiasm of a man describing his tax return. He, however, grinned like a lottery winner and informed me that he’d just had the biggest perch he’d ever seen follow his lure right up to the bank. A proper beast. The kind of fish that turns your knees to blancmange, makes you question every knot you’ve ever tied, and leaves you muttering in the bath later that evening about “the one that got away.” 

Only in this case, it wasn’t even his fish it was just a very large, very smug perch that had deigned to inspect his lure before shrugging its scaly shoulders and sauntering off. A damn shame, yes, but perhaps also proof that age brings wisdom. After all, if I’d been around long enough to see every trick in the book wobbling plugs, rubber worms, and feathers dressed up to look like a Harlequin’s wardrobe  I too might decide that a bellyful of bleak and a mid-afternoon nap was preferable to taking another swipe at a suspiciously wriggling lump of plastic.

Now, for me, the perch is a curious creature. Beautifully barred, crimson-finned, and blessed with the kind of haughty expression that suggests it knows it’s the best-looking fish in the canal. And yet, for all my years dangling a line, I’ve yet to bag one over three pounds. They’re always just shy of it, like pub landlords who measure your pint with an extra millimetre of froth. 

I remember the Warwick Racecourse Reservoir in my younger days, a water now closed and, I imagine, paved over with something ghastly like a housing estate or a retail park where you can buy all the polyester socks you’ll never need. Back then, it was my perch playground. I’d spend hours trying to tempt those stripy thugs, with varying degrees of success, usually ending up with more tales than trophies.

So, having been reminded of the circus lurking beneath the waterline, I decided that today, well into my advancing years and supposedly wiser for it, I would scratch that itch. The plan was beautifully simple: lure the small fry in with a sprinkle of groundbait and a sprinkling of wriggly maggots, wait for the perch to start sniffing around like hungry punters at a pie stall, and then present them with a lure they simply couldn’t refuse. In theory, the perfect plan. In practice, somewhat less so, for fish rarely read the script.

The float dipped occasionally little dace and roach queuing up like extras in the background of a film. But that big perch, the star of the show, remained elusive, just offstage, probably running through its lines before deciding to pull out of the performance altogether. Still, that’s fishing for you. You make your plans, tie your rigs, sprinkle your maggots like confetti at a wedding, and hope the bride doesn’t run off with someone else before the vows. And even when they do, you go home with a story, a chuckle, and maybe a flask that still has half a cup of cold coffee left in it.

Because, at the end of the day, fishing isn’t about the fish at all. It’s about the circus. The clowns with their lures. The floats that dip like trapeze artists. The perch that follow but don’t commit, teasing you with the promise of greatness before flouncing off in a stripy huff. And me, standing there with my rod, my groundbait, and my eternal optimism, waiting for the curtain to rise on the next act.

Warwickshire Avon - Mageircophiles and Maggotoriums

Now it is a well-known medical fact, and I shall not be taking questions, that ninety-seven percent of the nation’s anxieties can be dissolved by sitting beside a river and staring suspiciously at a float. This is not quackery; this is science of the highest order, albeit the kind that involves sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil and trousers smelling faintly of bait. 

Fishing, dear blog reader, is not merely the pursuit of fish. It is the art of professionally doing nothing, with tackle. And in a world where everyone is hectically doing everything, all at once, this is the sort of glorious, rebellious idleness we must cling to like a tench in the reeds.

Now, the keen angler will tell you that fishing teaches patience. This is misleading. It doesn’t teach patience; it straps you to a stool for five hours and insists you develop it or else lose your mind. A bite may come, or it may not. Often it does not. The float drifts, the clouds gather, and you begin to reflect deeply on life, mortality, and whether you remembered to turn the oven off. By the end of the day, even if you’ve caught nothing but sunburn and a faint whiff of despair, you are calmer than you’ve been in weeks. You have, in short, meditated without ever sitting cross-legged in Lycra.

The physical benefits are a pleasant side dish. A trudge along the towpath, the noble art of lugging a tackle box the weight of a small anvil, the sunlight scolding your skin into providing vitamin D all these things add up to a kind of stealthy exercise. And should you happen to catch something destined for the frying pan, there is the wholesome joy of eating a meal you provided yourself, rather than ordered off a glowing screen while half-asleep. ( I jest, I'm still not eaten a canal Zander, have you see the quality of the water ?)

But the true medicine is the comedy of failure. For every grand tale of leviathans landed, there are 437 stories of lines snapping, hooks catching in jackets, and rods being yanked into the drink by a carp with attitude problems. 

These indignities remind you that life, like fishing, is not about perfection but perseverance. If you can laugh while watching your £20 lure disappear into the reeds forever, you can survive your boss’s Monday morning emails.

But let us not forget the communal element, that peculiar and delightful fellowship of anglers. One cannot underestimate the power of mumbling to a stranger about maggots for two hours without ever exchanging names. Fishing friendships are built less on small talk than on shared silences, and perhaps this is why they last. Some bring their children, passing on the sacred lore of knots and patience. Others turn up at club events, ostensibly to fish, but mainly to compare thermos flasks and complain about cormorants. It all counts, and it all stitches people together in a world that loves to pull us apart.

I've never seen the Warwickshire Avon so clear as it is now !!

So yes, fishing is good for your mental health. Not because it is glamorous, or exciting, or productive heaven forbid but because it offers precisely the opposite. It is a rebellion against hurry, a gentle protest against screens, a quiet classroom where patience, presence, and perspective are taught free of charge by the river itself. And on a grim Tuesday, designed by bureaucrats, that may be exactly the medicine you need.

Now, I am not so daft as to claim fishing is a miracle cure. No, it does not eliminate your tax bill, nor will it mend the curious squeak in your knee. But there is something unarguably medicinal about the process of failing, repeatedly, to catch a fish. Each missed bite, each artful escape, becomes a lesson in patience and humility. 

You learn resilience because, quite frankly, you have no other option. And when, eventually, the line tugs and a small, confused perch flops onto the bank, the sense of achievement is quite out of proportion with the actual size of the beast. Triumph at six inches. Glory at half a pound. Who needs corporate promotions when you have this?

So, my prescription: take one rod, apply liberally to a riverbank, and repeat until you feel vaguely human again. If side effects include muddy shoes, strange tan lines, and a faint smell of maggots and pellets well, that’s the price of sanity itself. And on a grim Wednesday, designed by bureaucrats, that may be exactly the medicine you need.

Anyway to the fishing there’s something to be said for meals that don’t involve half the contents of the spice rack, a Himalayan yak butter churner, and a saucepan you’ll only ever use once. Pad Kra Pao has become my guilty pleasure. It’s quick, fiery, and best of all leaves me just enough time to sneak off to the river under the guise of “popping out to check the car.” 

Truth be told, if you lean in close enough, the only evidence of my absence is the extractor fan still wheezing away like an asthmatic trombonist, the faint whiff of seabass clinging to my jumper, and the absence of the last beer from the fridge. But as far as cover stories go, it holds up under light interrogation from the missus. (which to be honest never happens thankfully)

With dusk nosing in around half seven these days, it’s the perfect window for a swift sortie. No faffing about. Barbel have a habit of clocking in right at the witching hour, and I’ve no intention of missing the handover. Tonight’s destination? 

Not the syndicate stretch with its self-important chub parading about like minor celebrities in a provincial panto, but rather the more dubious charms of “Piccadilly Circus.” Not the London one, mind though the pigeons there probably fight harder than some of the fish I’ve hooked lately but a bend in the river that has about as much elbow room as a Ryanair flight. Still, it’s been itching away at me, and the only cure is to soak a bait.

So to cut a looooooooooooooooooong story short !!

Well a blank !! I fished almost 45 minutes past official dusk too without even a proper chub pull really. The skies were clear above me, the wind was rather cold but just nothing doing and this was in a swim that is always reliable.

So there I was, slipping into the swim with a head full of misplaced optimism. Five minutes later I was convinced the barbel were in on the joke, sitting downstream in a committee meeting, passing a resolution to ignore me. But that’s fishing, isn’t it? Sometimes you’re the hunter, other times you’re the bloke sitting in the dark wondering if you should have just stayed home and had seconds of Pad Kra Pao. Still it wasn't just me as I got back to the car and two other anglers were packing away and they had blanked too. Oh well on to the next one !!

Warwickshire Avon - Wands and Wanchancy

There comes a point in every angler’s season when the sensible thing to do would be to stay at home, polish one’s reels, and make peace with the ever-growing pile of tackle catalogues that have gathered by the side of the armchair. But alas, sense and angling are rarely bedfellows. 

No, instead I found myself pulling on muddy boots at a time of morning when only milkmen, insomniacs, and owls should reasonably be awake. Why? Because I’d finally tracked down a Cadence Wand CR10, that mythical 10ft contraption that’s been seducing me through late-night eBay scrolling like a barmaid with a wink and a well-poured pint.

Now, the thing about buying a new rod is that you have to christen it properly. A rod sat at home, propped up in a corner, is like a Labrador that’s never seen a stick thrown it just won’t do. So, off I went to the River Alne, that sultry ribbon of Warwickshire water that I’d joined a new club specifically to molest with maggots. 

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Alne (My PB dace of 12 ounces came from there) . She’s fickle, she’s narrow, and she’s got more character than the local parish newsletter. But she’s also been hammered in recent years by cormorants and otters, the sort of predatory landlords who arrive uninvited, eat everything in the fridge, and then disappear without paying the rent.

After negotiating a padlocked gate, a small herd of suspicious-looking bulls, and the creeping thought that my life insurance probably doesn’t cover “death by bovine trampling in pursuit of dace,” I finally reached the water. 

The river, though, wasn’t exactly playing the temptress.  It was low, thin, and glittering in the morning light like a teenager’s bottle of cheap aftershave. 

Still, I dutifully lobbed out the new Cadence with a mini feeder stuffed with groundbait and a couple of sacrificial maggots. Cue the minnows. !! Now, I’ve nothing against minnows. They are, after all, the river’s equivalent of a kebab shop always open, always busy, and slightly greasy if you hold them too long. 

But dear Lord, this was biblical. No sooner had my bait touched the water than the Cadence tip was rattling away as though I’d hooked Moby Dick. Strike after strike resulted not in dace, nor chub, nor barbel, but in minnows the size of a man’s thumb, each one flapping indignantly as if to say, “What did you expect, mate? It’s all us down here.”

After half an hour of this nonsense, I abandoned maggots entirely and switched to breadflake. Bread, I reasoned, is the thinking man’s bait. Civilised, wholesome, the staff of life. Unfortunately, the fish disagreed. A couple of swims later, with not so much as a pluck, I admitted defeat and tramped back to the car in search of more forgiving waters.

The Warwickshire Avon was my next stop. Now, the Avon at this time of year is clearer than a freshly polished gin glass. You can practically see the chub swimming along muttering, “Not him again.” I dropped into a favourite swim, a shady bend with a few obliging branches and, on occasion, chub that fancy themselves as heavyweight boxers. Out came the breadflake again, and out came the TFG chub rod, because if you’re going to get mocked by fish, you may as well use the proper stick for it.

For the first half an hour, nothing. Not even a twitch. I began to suspect that the chub were attending some sort of sub-aquatic committee meeting where the agenda read: “1) Avoid Newey. 2) Destroy bread. 3) Laugh behind weedbeds.”

Eventually, I decided to trot a few lumps of crust down the surface. Now, this woke them up. One by one, the chub appeared, ghosting up from the depths like fat policemen approaching a buffet table. Some of them were real bruisers too, the sort of fish that make you calculate, mid-cast, whether your landing net is entirely adequate or whether you should have brought scaffolding.

But here’s the rub. The chub were cautious. Ridiculously cautious. They’d nose the bread, roll it about a bit, then nibble off tiny pieces like fine diners dissecting a Michelin-starred canapé. My hookbait drifted down, and they’d follow it like great white sharks scenting a surfer, only to peel away at the last second with what I can only describe as an audible snigger.

I fluffed two strikes in quick succession one too early, one too late and on the third attempt managed to actually connect. The fish bolted straight under my feet and wedged itself in a snag I hadn’t even noticed. Cue some muttered oaths, and me staring at the water like a man who’s just had his wallet nicked on payday.

Finally, mercifully, I managed to net one. A modest chub, hardly the leviathan I’d been taunted with, but as fellow piscator Baz Peck sagely observes, “a fish is a fish.” Unfortunately, that was enough to send the rest of the shoal into absolute hysterics, vanishing upstream as though I’d turned up with a barbecue.

I tried another couple of swims on the trudge back, but by then the angling gods had clearly packed up for the afternoon. So, I conceded defeat, returned to the car, and drove home reflecting on the morning’s catalogue of errors. Still, the Cadence Wand had its baptism, I’d christened it with minnows, and in the peculiar mathematics of angling, that counts as a win.

Because here’s the thing: no matter how frustrating the fish, no matter how sunburnt the ears or muddy the boots, it always beats gardening.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.30

Well, the cost of living isn’t letting up, is it? Every time you think you’ve got a bit of wiggle room in the wallet, Rachel from Accounts creeps out from behind her HMRC spreadsheet and drags another tenner off you with the efficiency of a pickpocket at a football match. 

You’d think we’d have earned a break by now, but no, every budget feels like being mugged in slow motion, with the Chancellor smiling politely as he rifles through your trouser pockets. 

The minimum wage goes up, fair enough, but of course that means the price of beans goes up, the price of bread goes up, the price of absolutely everything goes up. 

Even my usual pint of ale in the local has now hit a price where you start checking whether there’s been a clerical error. £4.80 for a pint? Kenilworth, well some pubs >£6 😱

For that sort of money I expect it served in a cut-crystal goblet, delivered by a butler called Charles, with a plate of pork scratchings thrown in for good measure.

So imagine the relief when I popped into the new Wetherspoons in Kenilworth the other day. £1.49 a pint. I thought they’d mislabelled it. 

Honestly, I was half tempted to check under the glass to see if there was a loyalty card hidden underneath. In Kenilworth, where most pubs are charging nearly four times that, Tim Martin must be laughing his mullet off. Say what you like about Wetherspoons, but they’re the last bastion of affordability in a world where even lemonade looks like it’s been imported from Monaco.

But let’s not get carried away Wetherspoons are still exposed to the same rises in labour, energy, and food costs as the rest of us. You can only shift so many curry clubs before the accountants start tutting. Even their prices will creep up, because Rachel from Accounts has her fingers in every pie, pasty, and packet of Scampi Fries in the land.

Meanwhile, the latest borrowing figures came out for August, and surprise surprise, they’re the highest since the middle of the pandemic. Borrowing over the first five months of the financial year? £83.8 billion. That’s £16.2 billion higher than the same period last year. 

If it was a credit card bill, you’d cut it up, stick it in the freezer, and start buying scratch cards in desperation. But no, we’re all told to buckle up for the budget, and be prepared to have our pants pulled down again. You know the drill: tax more, spend less, smile through gritted teeth.

And here’s the thing: it’s simple economics. Tax people less, they’ll spend more. But no, instead we’re trapped in this cycle where you need to remortgage the house just to buy a round of Guinness.

Anyway, enough of the political commentary. I had fishing to do, and unlike Rachel, the chub and barbel don’t collect direct debits.

This time it was back on the drivable syndicate stretch, and not a moment too soon. 

The forecast was for gales, rain, and more rain, the sort of day where if Noah floated past on his ark you’d just nod and say, fair play mate, good timing. 

At least with the car nearby I could retreat, kettle on, and sulk in heated comfort rather than under a tarp flapping like a cheap gazebo at a windy wedding.

The plan was the big pool. Now, I’d dropped the sonar down here when we first got the stretch, and it lit up like a Christmas tree. 

Features everywhere: shelves, creases, overhangs, snags. The kind of features that make you think you’ve found the aquatic equivalent of a Premier Inn. 

The first time I fished it, I had a rather nice chub, so confidence was high. And as any angler knows, confidence is the first step towards disappointment.

I started with a few goodness grenades lobbed in. A recipe so potent even I was tempted to lick my fingers afterwards. Then I went for a wander with some meat, hoping for a quick bite. Forty-five minutes later, nothing but the occasional small fish nudging the bait, as if to say: We appreciate the offer, but we’re fasting at the moment.

So I returned to the main swim for dusk, rods out, waiting. The air was mild, the autumn evening surprisingly pleasant, the rods however behaving like inflatable tube men outside a dodgy second-hand car dealership, flapping all over in the wind.

Then it happened. A bite. Not just any bite, but the kind of bite that could wake the dead. The kind of bite that even a drunk sloth, blindfolded, would have connected with. Line tight, rod tip hammering it was unmissable. And of course, I missed it. Struck into absolutely nothing. If there’s one thing the Warwickshire Avon does better than anything else, it’s humiliating you with precision timing.

I carried on into the dark, but the swim had gone quieter than a politician asked a straight question. Another blank to add to the ever-growing collection, my museum of fishing misery expanding one exhibit at a time.

The Warwickshire Avon is a funny bugger. It desperately needs some colour right now. As it stands, it’s like fishing in a freshly drawn bath clear, lifeless, and about as productive as dangling a sausage in the shallow end at the local leisure centre.

So that’s me done. Wallet lighter, liver slightly more seasoned, another blank chalked up. At least Wetherspoons still delivers on price. Until Richard the Third gets her claws into that too, of course.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.29

I’d not been down to the untrodden for a while, but like a rogue toenail snagging your favourite socks, it was an itch that just had to be scratched. Conveniently, it’s also on my way home from work, and the river runs close enough to the road that I can drive along its banks pretending I’m on some angling safari, David Attenborough whispering in my ear about the migratory habits of the elusive Homo piscatorius (i.e., me). 

Of course, it wouldn’t be the English countryside without sheep, and there they were, munching away, looking at me like I’d just walked in wearing Crocs to a funeral. Thankfully, the farmer had honoured our WBAS track, and the electric fence respected the sanctity of our boot-worn pilgrimage route. Always a relief when you don’t have to limbo dance under barbed wire just to wet a line.

Now, I had a plan always dangerous when I start with one of those. The blueprint was simple: lob some bread mash into a few swims, work my way up, and then plonk myself in a pre-baited swim with a bit of hemp and mixed pellets, ready to settle in till dusk like a badger in a deckchair. But fate, as always, likes to stick its oar in. 

As I wandered downstream, I was greeted not by rising chub or bow-waving barbel but by the rather sad sight of a dead sheep. Not exactly the omen you want on a fishing trip. Naturally, I did the responsible thing and fired up the syndicate’s WhatsApp group, only to find the farmer himself had arrived, piloting some monstrous bit of agricultural machinery carrying a water butt. Honestly, it looked like something NASA rejected for being over-engineered.

Turns out the sheep wasn’t news to him. He wandered over for a chat and what a surprisingly cracking fella he was. We had a solid twenty minutes nattering about everything from Starmer (or “the farmer harmer” as he’s apparently christened in these parts), the cost of living (spoiler: too much), and the infamous pollution / fish kill of 2023, which he’d witnessed first-hand. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Ah yes, that’s exactly what I want when I’ve got half a pint of maggots wriggling in my pocket a debate on British politics.” But honestly, it was a proper chinwag, and if I’d had a pipe, I’d have puffed it thoughtfully.

Anyway, back to the fishing. The river was as clear as a freshly polished pint glass, which is great if you’re a tourist taking Instagram shots, but less so when you’re trying to convince a wily chub that a lump of bread flake isn’t, in fact, a booby trap. An hour and a half slipped by as I tried swim after swim, hurling out hunks of bread like some deranged riverside baker. The quiver tip rattled away merrily as small fish nibbled like drunks at a buffet, but anything capable of bending the rod remained firmly off the guest list.

Reports from the other syndicate members hadn’t been much better nothing but tiddlers lately, the sort of fish you’d struggle to find with a magnifying glass. Still, my ace up the sleeve was the pre-baited swim. I swapped rods for the big guns: a barbel setup with a couple of 12mm pellets, tip light glowing a seductive green in the fading light. I was in stealth mode too no blinding headtorch this time, just the dim glow of hope and midges plotting their evening feast on my ears.

Then, just twenty minutes in, the tip went absolutely ballistic. A proper barbel-esque wrench, the kind that jolts your heart and has you fumbling for the rod like it’s just rung the fire alarm. I struck, felt the nod, and instantly knew. 

Not a barbel. Not a river monster. A chub. Of course it was. Despite the hair rig, despite the plan, despite everything the chub had mugged me off once again. Not even a decent one either (a 3lber not one of the 6lbers that reside here), just your bog-standard chub. The sort of fish that doesn’t so much bend the rod as politely ask it to lean slightly left. Still, it wasn’t a blank, and in these parts that’s a win.

Quick photo, quick release, back out with the bait, and that was me till dark. No encore, no curtain call. Just me, the glow of the tip, and the hum of sheep chewing away in the background like an unimpressed audience. Another evening on the untrodden: plans hatched, sheep met, politics debated, and a solitary chub to show for it.

Fishing, eh? If it were easy, they’d call it shopping.

Warwickshire Avon - Circuses and Circumincessions

Now here I was, visions of tranquillity in my head, a lovely Avon evening with only the gentle plop of pellets disturbing the peace, when reality smacked me square in the face like a wet spod. A voicemail from Nic at Avon Angling “sharpen your elbows, mate, it’s getting busy.” Busy? I thought he meant maybe a couple of lads dotted about, a polite nod and “any luck, mate?” sort of affair. Nope. I turn up and I’m the TENTH car on the stretch. Ten! It was less Warwickshire Avon and more like Piccadilly Circus on a Friday afternoon, only with more camo, fewer indicators, and the faint smell of spicy sausage oil lingering in the air.

Honestly, stepping onto that bank felt like walking into a particularly niche branch of IKEA. Rods sticking out at every angle, bivvies lined up like garden sheds at B&Q (I jest), and men all pretending they’re not secretly keeping score on who’s blanking. If you squinted, you half expected a tannoy announcement “Attention anglers, meat-based boilies now half price in Aisle 3.”

After a chinwag with Nic and his mate, I slotted myself into a swim opposite a snag that screamed “barbel hangout.” I even baited up a cheeky margin line too, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that barbel enjoy behaving like moody teenagers one minute sulking under a tree, the next hanging about in the margins like they’ve nicked a bottle of cider.

Confidence was high. I had the old faithful setup: two 12mm pellets one robin red, one halibut. It’s basically the tapas menu for fish: spicy, oily, and guaranteed to give them the munchies. And unlike last season when I lost a lump to a knot failure (the sort of disaster that makes you want to take up golf), I now test every rig like it’s being inspected by MI5. Hooklinks? Replaced after every fish. Line? Checked like I’m examining the crown jewels. I’m not risking another fish of dreams pinging off because I got lazy with a granny knot.

So there I am, waiting for dusk, PVA bag dutifully dispatched near the snag, water bottle in hand, contemplating life’s mysteries (why does bread always fall butter-side down? why do carp anglers need wheelbarrows the size of Ford Transits?, how the heck did Keir Starmer get to be prime minister). And just as the Avon started to look barbel-y, what comes chugging along but another motorboat. 

Not one, but TWO trips past, the second at actual dusk, complete with a couple of yappy dogs onboard. Lovely. If there’s one thing guaranteed to fire up an angler, it’s watching your carefully planned trap get turned into a Jacuzzi. Recasts required, blood pressure elevated, muttering strong enough to make the reeds blush.

As the light faded, I was expecting the classic chub pulls the little confidence-building rattles that at least make you feel alive. But no, both rods remained as motionless as the last slice of pork pie at a vegan picnic. Nic and his mate at least landed a bream, though I use “at least” loosely, because let’s be honest catching a bream when you’re fishing for barbel is like ordering steak and being served tofu. Someone else down in “the hot swim” (yes, the very one where I lost a biggun last season) banked a 14lber (weighed in the net). Fair play to him, but I can’t help but feel the river is personally mocking me now.

So yes, I blanked. Again. But do you know what? Fishing isn’t meant to be easy. If it was, they’d call it “fish shopping.” It’s the blank sessions that make the good ones taste sweeter or so I keep telling myself while staring gloomily into an empty landing net. Still, I reckon I’ll give this circus a miss for a bit. Syndicate stretch next time at least there, the only competition is the nettles and the occasional heron giving you evils.

Because if I wanted elbows-out, packed-to-the-rafters chaos, I’d go to IKEA on a Sunday. And at least there, I’d come home with a lamp and some meatballs, not an empty net and the faint smell of dog hair from passing dinghies.

Warwickshire Avon - Dulux and Drapetomania

Now the weekend had arrived and after a bout of rare DIY (yes, I actually picked up a paintbrush that wasn’t to be used for groundbait slop), the bedroom had been painted, the spring clean completed (THE DUST THE DUST 😱), and a new King Size Tempur mattress and pillows due for delivery on Monday. 

Yes, that’s right, I’m finally moving into the 21st century of sleep technology. I reckon if it’s good enough for NASA astronauts, it’s good enough for me although I doubt they have to factor in hairs and biscuit crumbs. The current mattress is around 14 years old, it past its best I tell you. 

But after all that responsible adulting, the itch needed scratching. And what better way than drowning a few maggots on the Warwickshire Avon? With the river running gin clear I mean proper gin clear, Tanqueray levels, not the bargain-basement supermarket stuff it was the perfect opportunity to trot a float and see which maggot munchers fancied playing ball.

Problem was, the fish hadn’t read the script.

Now, as much as I love the Avon, it’s not exactly the place for solitude on a Saturday afternoon. I’d barely flicked in a handful of maggots when anglers started multiplying like rabbits in a carrot patch. 

One parked himself at the end of my carefully scouted trotting run, another materialised on my shoulder asking if he could plonk himself just ten yards away. Ten yards! I’ve had longer gaps queuing in Lidl.

Within the hour I was feeling less like an angler at one with nature and more like a sardine in a very cramped tin. Bites I had aplenty, but nothing bigger than a few ounces the piscatorial equivalent of a bag of KP dry roasted when you’re dreaming of a rib-eye steak. 

The claustrophobia set in, so I did what any sane angler would do: packed up, muttered under my breath like a grumpy pensioner in a bus queue, and went in search of barbel.

On my way downstream I bumped into blog reader and float maker, Jon Pinfold. Jon had set up on the first peg of the new stretch, while his lad Charlie had bagged the far end — the very peg I’d been eyeing up like a hungry dog at a butcher’s window. Still, after sheltering under Jon’s umbrella when the heavens opened (cheers Jon, my hair thanks you), he kindly pointed me in the direction of another so-called “hot peg”.

Hot peg? It looked more like a pensioner’s armchair. Slower, deeper, lazier water than the fast runs upstream. If swims could snore, this one would have dentures in a glass and a tartan blanket over its knees. But the locals swore blind barbel resided here, so who was I to argue?

I kept it simple: two 12mm pellets on a hair, a PVA bag of smaller pellets, and a few freebies pinged into the swim. None of this three-rod, bait-boating, bivvy-for-a-week nonsense. No, I’m a travelling-light, hope-for-the-best, “might-pack-up-early-if-I-fancy-a-pint” type of angler.

A natter with Charlie confirmed what I suspected he was blanking. But as he rightly pointed out, once light levels drop things can change. 

And by “change,” he didn’t mean winning the lottery or Keira Knightley turning up with a flask of Bovril, but rather the barbel switching on.

And by Jove, he was spot on. As the sun melted into the horizon in a blaze of orange glory, my rod top gave the kind of twang you don’t ignore. Then another. Then it hooped over like it owed someone money.

Barbel on!

From the very first surge I knew it was one of those feisty scrappers not a lumbering double that sulks in the margins, but a pocket rocket determined to give me a cardiovascular workout. 

It tore line, darted left, then right, then straight out like it had Uber-booked itself to Stratford. My forearms burned, my knees creaked, and my internal monologue went something like: “Don’t cock it up, Mick. Whatever you do, don’t cock it up.”

Eventually, after a bout of tug-of-war that would have put the Women’s Institute summer fete to shame, the fish realised resistance was futile and slid into the landing net.

Not a monster, maybe 7lb if you squinted and added a bit of angler’s tax, but I was chuffed to bits. Trophy shot taken, rod packed away, job done. After a first half of the session that was all elbow-bumping anglers and bite-size fish, this bronze beauty was more than enough to restore my faith.

Jon, on my way back, reported he’d lost something decent. Charlie had saved a blank. And me? I was already plotting my return. Because where there’s one barbel, there’s usually another. And next time, I’m hoping for one twice the size, preferably with fewer anglers within sniffing distance of my flask.

So yes, DIY done, mattress pending, maggots drowned, barbel landed. A weekend of highs, lows, and everything in between. The Avon might be fishing harder than a HNC engineering mathematics exam, but when that rod hoops over and your heart rate hits the roof, you remember exactly why you put yourself through the madness.

And besides — you can’t get that sort of thrill from a tin of Dulux, can you?