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.