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 !!