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.
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?
Well done on the barbel Mick.
ReplyDeleteI'd have packed up too after being mobbed out.
cheers !! Most welcome I must admit after the first half of the session !!
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