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.