Warwickshire Avon - Perambulation and Persiflage

Now there’s always one, isn’t there? That species that seems to exist purely to wind you up. For some it’s the elusive grayling that vanishes when the camera’s ready, for others the carp that shows its back at dusk then ghosts away as soon as you reach for the net. 

For me, blog readers it’s the barbel !!!, Whiskers, the Bronze Torpedo, the River Prince. The bogey fish that haunts my dreams and mocks my bait.

Now, don’t get me wrong I’ve caught plenty of barbel. I’ve even managed a few decent ones that put a nice bend in the rod and a grin on my face. But specimen barbel? 

Those real Warwickshire Avon bruisers that look like they’ve been bench-pressing lead shot and bullying chub for lunch? Nope. They’re the Houdinis of my angling career.

You see, every season I tell myself, this is it. This is the year I crack the code. 

I study the maps, check the river levels, and even resort to that most desperate of modern measures YouTube reconnaissance and Swim Jumping. 

I’ll spot one, too. A real monster. Broad as a plank and shimmering in the current like a sunken bronze statue.

So I do the right thing. I keep schtum. No “look what I saw” WhatsApp messages, no casual mentions at the tackle shop. Tight lips and quiet swims, that’s the way. I sneak back at twilight, heart pounding, a bait that smells like the devil’s sock drawer on the hook. And what happens?

Nothing.

Barbara the Barbel (We think)

Well, that’s not quite true. What happens is that the barbel buggers off, and a week later someone else lands it in the very swim where the bankside is still warm from where my backside had been planted for three nights running.

It’s like the fish are in on it. A secret WhatsApp group of their own.

“Right chaps, he’s back. The one with the ridiculous head torch. Scatter!”

I’ve tried everything. Boilies that smell like fermented Christmas pudding, pellets soaked in more flavouring than a vape convention, even chunks of Spam that could knock a badger unconscious. 

I’ve swapped rivers, swapped baits, swapped hats (because we all know that sometimes it’s the hat’s fault), and yet the bogey barbel remain as elusive as ever. And here’s the kicker it’s not as if they’re not there. Oh, they’re there all right. Coming out all around me. On stretches of the Avon where you can practically hear them chuckling in the flow. Fish that would smash my 12lb 14oz personal best into the silt without so much as a tail flick.

.“Look, there he is again, Mick’s cousin twice removed. He’s trying the spicy sausage this time. Bless him.”

Still, I mix it up. No putting all my eggs in one basket. Different stretches, different moods, a flask of something hot (or occasionally, medicinal). I tell myself that the blank sessions build character. That one day, one glorious day, I’ll lift the net around a proper slab-sided Warwickshire warrior, bronze flanks gleaming in the headtorch, tail still beating like a drum.

Every angler has one. The fish that keeps you humble, that teaches patience, persistence, and the art of creative swearing under your breath.

Send some luck my way please !!

Anyway another post work session, I rock up to the Avon all confident, gear packed, river looking spot-on, and I’m thinking this is it barbel time. Open the boot, rod in hand, bait ready, PVA bag glugged so heavily in barbel sauce you'd swear I was marinating a Sunday roast… and then the familiar sinking feeling taps me on the shoulder.

Landing net?

Nope.
Again.

Honestly I must have been a moth in a past life because I flutter to the riverbank full of purpose, then immediately forget why I came. Luckily the emergency spare net was still in the boot the one that looks like it’s designed for scooping drowned footballs out of ponds, not wrestling double-figure barbel. But needs must, and if a lump wanted to play ball tonight, we'd improvise. Worst case scenario: wet feet and shouted profanity.

My PB 12lb 14oz

The river had a bit of extra push, churning away like someone upstream had discovered the joy of matey ,matey bubble bath and a reckless attitude to dosage. 

Not perfect conditions, but enough to get the optimism gland pumping. Dropper thuds down on a clean patch; a few pellets fired in like barbel-scented confetti and the rod rests set. Wait mode initiated.

Dusk slides in. Bites nowhere to be seen. The brain starts doing that thing where it questions why I didn’t just sit at home like a civilised human. 

Then bang. Well, more of a tap-tap-oioi-now-we're-moving. Rod bends, fish charges, adrenaline spikes… and of course, chub. Small cheeky sod too, like it turned up just to remind me who’s really running this river. Still doesn’t matter. No blank is a no blank.

Rod out again, another jittery enquiry that turns into yet another chub, slightly bigger but still looking like the understudy in a barbel pantomime. Two chub in quick succession  the barbel clearly clocked off early and left the river’s idiots in charge.

Half an hour of staring at the rod like a man trying to telepathically summon a fish, then I caved and packed up. Meanwhile, word reaches me big-barbel-boffin Dave Williams blanked on the WBAS syndicate stretch. If he's drawing blanks there, my pellet-flinging antics don't stand much chance.

Still, there are lumps in that stretch. Night sessions are calling, and I feel like I’m missing something obvious  probably “don’t forget the landing net like a wally”. But we go again. Because hope, like fishing tackle, is expensive and impossible to stop collecting.

Next time then !!

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.38

I did wonder what this pond was outside the office, it had a good clear out recently with students donned in waders and then all of a sudden, a sign appeared next to and oddly a sign / poster / leaflet peddler on the university campus that wasn't seemingly designed to alienate a 52 year old grey white bloke. Things are looking up, some down, you see...

....the clocks have gone back again, that annual ritual of pretending we’re somehow saving daylight when in reality it’s just a polite way of admitting defeat to the encroaching darkness. The evenings now vanish faster than a free sausage roll at a car boot sale, and I find myself leaving work with that sinking feeling that by the time I reach the Avon, it’ll be less “golden hour” and more “pitch black panic.” 

The idea of Daylight Saving might’ve made sense in 1916, when the aim was to save coal, but these days I’d settle for saving my sanity as I squint through the gloom trying to tie a hooklength by headtorch, looking like a miner who’s taken a wrong turn into a boggy field.

It’s a funny old time of year. The optimism that carried me through the long summer evenings those balmy sessions where the river hummed with life and hope has been replaced by the resigned acceptance that I’ll now be setting up, fishing, and packing away in the dark. It’s like the fishing gods are on a tea break until April. Still, I refuse to let the season bully me indoors, so I loaded up the car after work and pointed the bonnet toward the syndicate stretch. The beauty of that place is I can park practically on top of the peg ideal for the kind of half-hearted midweek dash that requires minimal effort and maximum illusion of intent.

I had one target in mind: a chub. The old river ghosts that have mocked me all too often. Out came the Sonubaits Oozing Cheese and Garlic jobbies the same baits that worked their smelly magic last time. I swear, if Eau de Decaying Dairy doesn’t pull them in, nothing will. The Avon looked textbook: steady flow, the odd leaf drifting lazily by, and that unmistakable hush that falls over the water just before dusk. You could almost sense the fish lining up, tails twitching, ready to oblige. Almost.

Bite time, in my experience, is as predictable as a tax bill. You can practically set your watch by it if you still had any daylight left to see the thing. But that evening, as the minutes ticked past and the light drained from the world, I got... absolutely nothing. No rattle, no pluck, no faint suggestion that life existed beneath that inky surface. Just the faint gurgle of the river and the distant hoot of an owl who, I’m sure, was laughing at me. After an hour past dusk, I had to accept the inevitable. Naff all. Nada. Not a jot. Another heroic blank for the logbook.

Still, there’s a perverse comfort in failure when you fish. It’s almost part of the ritual now. You sit there convincing yourself that next time will be different, that the moon phase, the air pressure, or the alignment of Mars will somehow work in your favour. Then you trudge back to the car, hands numb, muttering something about needing a “proper session” this weekend, as though that will make the fish more cooperative.

As I packed away, I did briefly wonder if it’s time to swap the Avon for something a little warmer and drier. Maybe the PlayStation 5 has the answer. There’s a fishing game out there, apparently, that promises “realistic angling physics” and “dynamic weather.” I don’t know about you, but I’ve already got more than enough dynamic weather in real life, thanks. Still, the thought of sitting in the warmth, rod in virtual hand, and actually catching something is strangely appealing. No frostbitten fingers, no forgotten banksticks, no cheese paste stuck to the car seat. Just me, a sofa, and a digital chub that bites when it’s told.

But would it scratch the itch? I doubt it. Because as miserable as I sound, there’s still something about the real thing the smell of damp earth, the whisper of the current, the moment the float trembles and your heart skips. You can’t code that. You can’t patch it in. It’s in the blood. So yes, the clocks may have stolen my evenings, the chub may have given me the cold shoulder, and the Avon may have mocked my every cast but come next week, I’ll be back, headtorch ready, muttering into the darkness. Because that’s what we do. We fish, we freeze, we fail, and then we come back for more.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.138 (Canal Zander)

Oh, for a life so simple! If only I knew back then what I know now, I’d be retired, sat in a battered fishing chair somewhere warm, sipping lukewarm tea and pretending to be enlightened whilst targetting something unachievable. But no instead of a minimalist monk, I’ve become a maximalist mug, surrounded by tackle boxes, half-spooled reels, and enough bait tubs to start a small biological weapons program and no time to fish. 

They say living simply is about removing the non-essentials but how exactly do you do that when every “essential” seems to involve another bit of overpriced fishing paraphernalia that promises inner peace and bigger fish? 

I keep hearing that happiness comes from mindfulness and meaningful relationships, but the only meaningful relationship I’ve had recently was with a leaking flask and a roach deadbait that refused to stay on the hook. Still, I suppose there’s a kind of Zen in it sitting by a murky canal, covered in frost, muttering about taxes and modern life, while trying to convince yourself this is simplicity.

Now here are mornings when you wake up, peer through the bedroom window, and immediately question every life decision that led you to become a grown adult who thinks sitting beside a canal in sub-zero temperatures waiting for a fish that looks like an accountant with scales is a productive use of time. This was one of those mornings. 

The car roof was crisp with frost, the air so cold it felt like inhaling ground glass, and I could already hear the faint voice of reason whispering: “You could just stay home, put the kettle on, and watch Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing instead.” But of course, reason has no place in angling.

I was off to meet Security Neil the man, the myth, the self-proclaimed Barbel whisperer from a staring role in Buffalo Si’s River Masters YouTube channel where those hot pegs were discovered over the episodes, and currently basking in minor celebrity status after a couple of Angling Times appearances showing off Barbel of such proportions that they could probably drag a kayak upstream if given the chance. I thought perhaps some of that good fortune might rub off on me, though in hindsight, luck rarely transfers via casual conversation and lukewarm tea on a canal towpath.

Now, when I arrived, the canal looked less like a predator’s paradise and more like an overfilled aquarium that had been through a Brita filter. Absolutely gin clear. You could see every discarded shopping trolley, half a bicycle, and one lonely traffic cone lying in silent judgment of my optimism. Not exactly textbook Zander conditions. 

You see, Zander like it murky proper chocolate-milk murky so they can sneak up on an unsuspecting roach without being seen. This looked like a scene from Finding Nemo. Still, I’m nothing if not delusional, so out went the roach deadbaits under light floats, and I began the traditional canal-side ritual of slowly freezing to death while pretending to “stay mobile”.

Neil turned up just as I was starting to wonder whether my toes were still attached. He’d parked somewhere sensible, of course, while I’d more of walk to try and get those steps in. We greeted each other with the mutual understanding of two men who should really be at home with a plump pillow sandwich but instead had chosen to commune with nature and mild hypothermia.

Within minutes it was obvious that the fish were having none of it. The floats sat there as motionless as a teenager asked to clean their room. Normally, when there are Zander about, you don’t wait long. They find the bait, give it a good thump, and off they go like a moped on a mission. But this morning? Nothing. Not a twitch, not a wobble, not even the courtesy of a half-hearted tug. We began praying not for divine intervention, but for a few passing boats to churn up the canal. Imagine that: two grown men, begging for holidaymakers to appear and drive floating sheds through our swims just to stir up the sludge.

And that’s when the conversation drifted as it inevitably does to life, taxes, and our mutual bafflement at how we’re both still working like galley slaves while the government spends our hard-earned cash on things like “consultations about consultations.” We concluded that the only way forward was to join the booming industry of money laundering. 

Not the criminal kind, you understand, just the apparently legitimate sort that seems to involve opening yet another chicken shop in Stratford-upon-Avon. Either that or a mobile ice-cream cart. Or failing that, a lap-dancing club Romeo and Bootyette, though neither of us has the physique or the flexibility to manage that enterprise successfully.

By the second hour, our philosophical musings had done little to improve the fishing. The floats continued to mock us, the water stayed clear enough to spot your reflection, and my roach baits looked more like underwater garden ornaments than deadly offerings. We considered moving, but that’s angler-speak for “we’ll moan about it for an hour before not actually doing it.”

Then, out of nowhere movement! A tiny bobble on the right-hand float. Adrenaline shot through me like caffeine through a pensioner at bingo. Was this it? Had the mighty canal Zander finally arrived to make all the frostbite worthwhile? I held my breath, watched the float dip again, and struck with all the poise of a man whose coordination is inversely proportional to excitement.

And immediately, I knew. Not a Zander. Oh yes a Pike. The eternal gatecrasher. Every canal angler’s unwanted houseguest. Don’t get me wrong, a fish is a fish, but when you’ve spent all morning dreaming of that tell-tale Zander thump, the pike feels like the bloke who turns up to a wedding uninvited and drinks all the champagne. After a brief tussle and some unprintable language, I slipped it back into the gin-clear water, muttering something about betrayal.

We gave it another half hour, mainly because neither of us could feel our fingers enough to pack up efficiently. The boats had churned things up a bit, but the Zander were clearly on strike. Eventually, we called it a day. Neil, ever the optimist, said he might try another spot on his way home. I wished him luck, secretly hoping the fishing gods would continue their campaign of indifference equally across Warwickshire.

Half an hour later, my phone buzzed. A WhatsApp photo. There was Neil, grinning like a lottery winner, holding up a perfectly respectable canal Zander. “First chuck!” he wrote. Of course it was. I responded with the traditional angler’s reply: “Nice one,” What I actually meant was: “I hate you and everything you stand for 😁.”

Driving home, I pondered the usual lesson we should have moved sooner, we always should have moved sooner but of course, I won’t. None of us ever do. 

That’s the joy and the madness of fishing: eternal optimism in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Back home, I made another brew, thawed out, and stared thoughtfully at the kettle’s reflection. A life so simple, I thought, if only we could stop chasing Zander and start appreciating the quiet. Then I checked the weather forecast for tomorrow. Cloudy, with rain overnight perfectly turbid conditions.

Looks like I’ll be up at dawn again.

Warwickshire Avon - Skulduggery and Shenanigans

It started, as most of my great angling revelations do, not with the river, nor the tackle box, but the bait fridge. You know the one that old, slightly humming relic in the corner of the garage that smells faintly of a decomposing haddock and broken dreams. A place where forgotten bait tubs go to die.

I’d opened it in search of a pint of maggots, or at least something that had once been maggots before metamorphosing into a new species of garage-dwelling horror. Instead, tucked behind a tub of ancient custard powder (the colour of damp wallpaper), I found them: Sonubaits Cheesy Garlic Oozing Dumbells.

Now, I’ll be honest I don’t even remember buying them. Maybe they were a gift from the ghost of a past fishing season, maybe they multiplied in there like Gremlins. All I know is, they had survived several ice ages, the rise and fall of three governments, and still looked good enough to eat. Well, almost.

Naturally, I did the only sensible thing: dropped one into a glass of water to see if it still “oozed.” To my amazement, it actually did little plumes of cheesy garlic mist billowing out like a low-budget special effect from Ghostbusters 2. If I’d had a smoke machine, I’d have called it art and entered it in the local village fete.

Anyway, having established that the dumbells were still capable of some level of aquatic theatre, I thought: why not? The chub on the Warwickshire Avon have been giving me the cold shoulder recently, and frankly, I was running out of ideas. A bit of culinary roulette might be just the ticket.

Now, before we get to the fishing, I should mention a few weeks ago I’d snapped a rather fetching photo of a rainbow over the fields. I’d captioned it, “Was there gold at the end of the rainbow?” Of course, the answer, according to Irish folklore, is no. The leprechauns have stitched us all up you can never reach the end of the thing because, scientifically speaking, a rainbow is an optical illusion.

Still, as I stood by the Avon that afternoon, the water low and gin-clear, I thought the saying rather apt. Chub, like leprechauns, are elusive creatures. They toy with you, tease you with plucks and taps, and just when you think you’ve struck gold — ping! — you’re left staring at a limp line and a suspiciously smug-looking duck. 

The river looked as moody as a teenager denied Wi-Fi. Crystal clear, low, and slow the sort of conditions that make you wonder why you didn’t just stay home and mow the lawn. But hope, as they say, is the last thing to die. 

I plonked myself down, inhaled the familiar cocktail of damp earth and cow muck, and lobbed out a dumbell on a hair rig that looked about as trustworthy as a politician’s manifesto.

I gave it twenty minutes of nothingness  not even a tremble before the tip whacked over like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. The chub had clearly decided to inhale the bait first and think about it later. 

A brief splash, a flash of silver, and a fish was in the net before I’d even had time to question whether the dumbell was technically classified as radioactive.

Not a monster maybe a couple of pounds if it had been holding its breath but enough to stretch my hair rig to something resembling a shoelace. 

I considered tying a new one, but dusk was closing in faster than a pub landlord at last orders. Time for improvisation.

Out came the Korum Mega Bands, those elastic miracles that promise salvation to lazy anglers everywhere. 

Two 12mm dumbells fit snugly — like a pair of bowling balls in a bra and before long, I was fishing again. Quick, simple, and only mildly dangerous to my dignity. The light faded, the bats came out for their nightly acrobatics, and I sat back to enjoy that magical moment between daylight and night, where every splash sounds like a monster and every gust of wind smells faintly of potential.

It didn’t take long. A little tremor on the tip, then another. The sort of delicate tickle that says, “Hello, I’m a chub, and I’m thinking about it.” A few minutes later, the tip lunged round and stayed there. No subtlety. No hesitation. Proper thump.

This one had a bit of attitude. It dived, it sulked, it tried to burrow under my feet like it was digging a tunnel to Narnia. After a spirited tussle, I netted a proper chunk not a record breaker, but a healthy, solid 4lb chub with an expression that said, “You may have won this round, human, but I’ll be back.”

Mission accomplished.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.37

It’s that time of year again the clocks are about to change, the mornings are darker than a politician’s expense report, and Rachel from Accounts has clearly been sharpening her fiscal pitchforks for another tax raid.

Honestly, I’ve started flinching whenever I see the HMRC logo. They say death and taxes are inevitable  I’d add Rachel’s spreadsheets to that list.

The chatter on the radio the other day didn’t help. Apparently, while we’re all juggling heating bills, the government’s decided to chuck £75 million at a scheme to promote the sale of contraceptives in Pakistan. Condoms in corner shops, posters on buses, the full works. 

There’s another £14 million to “identify cultural barriers to modern contraceptives,” whatever that means. Meanwhile, I’m here rationing my luncheon meat and contemplating whether to sell a kidney to pay for the next batch of pellets. 

I get that “global development” is important, but maybe just maybe they could start with fixing the potholes between here and the Avon. I nearly lost a wheel last week on the B4455.

Anyway, I promised myself I’d stay off the news. Too depressing. So, to counterbalance the doom, I did what any sane man would do: loaded up the car with rods, bait, and false hope, and headed down to the syndicate stretch for a bit of piscatorial therapy. The WhatsApp group had gone quiet always a good sign. The fewer anglers about, the better the chance of a proper session. “You’ll have it to yourself,” they said. “Peace and solitude,” they said.

Except, of course, when I pulled into the car park, I saw a familiar shape in my pre-baited swim.

George bloody Burton.

There he was, rods out, kettle on, the smug contentment of a man who’s just sat in another bloke’s armchair and changed the TV channel. I drove by, wound my window down for a natter, trying to look casual while mentally reciting a list of Anglo-Saxon vocabulary.

“Didn’t realise it was your spot, Mick,” he says “Only just got here. Fancy the one down from me?”

The one down from him was about ten yards away close enough to share sandwiches and cast over each other’s lines. I smiled that tight, British smile that hides deep resentment and said, “Nah, I’ll try somewhere else.”

I lugged my tackle further downstream, muttering darkly about loyalty, WhatsApp etiquette, and the unwritten laws of pre-baiting. 😄

To be fair, the new swim wasn’t half bad. Narrow section, faster pace, a decent snaggy overhang on the far side. It screamed barbel potential if you squinted hard enough. I balled in some krill groundbait, set up the rod, and set about “operation warm-up” which, given the wind, was like trying to stay cosy in a walk-in fridge.

This is where my Mum’s old microwave came in. Bless her, she’d told me it was “playing up,” which, in Mum language, usually means “a fire hazard.” I’d inherited it after replacing hers with a newer one, and I’d brought it along to test with the Jackery power station.

Now, if there’s one thing the Jackery doesn’t appreciate, it’s a microwave drawing more amps than a Glastonbury headline act. The thing roared to life like a dying jet engine, the lights dimmed, and before I knew it the power meter was spinning faster than the national debt clock.

Still, credit where it’s due my Tesco Thai Red Curry was nuked in about 90 seconds instead of the advertised six minutes. Tasted vaguely of ozone and regret, but it was hot and vaguely recognisable, which, at my age, is all you can ask for.

As I tucked in, I could almost convince myself that all was right in the world. The river whispered, the isotopes glowed faintly in the dusk, and the only noise was the faint hum of the motorway and the occasional owl wondering what the idiot with the glowing sticks was doing out at this hour.

I cast out and waited. And waited.

Then my phone buzzed.

“Just had a nice chub,” says George.

Of course he had. Probably one that had been fattening itself for a week on my pellets.

I replied with the obligatory “Nice one, mate 👍”  which in angler code translates roughly to “May your line tangle and your hook rust.”

Time passed. The temperature dropped faster than a pension fund after a mini-budget. Not even a chub pull. I started talking to myself. I even found myself checking the tip light every thirty seconds, as though sheer willpower could make it twitch.

Eventually, I gave in and moved to the corner swim  you know, the one you always say you’ll “try later” but never do because it involves effort. Half an hour there, same result: nothing, nada, naff all.

By now my fingers were numb, my hands had gone cold, and my self-esteem was circling the drain.

I called it. Packed up the gear, dumped it in the car, and reflected on the evening. Yet another blank. Another character-building session, as we anglers like to call it when we’ve been well and truly outsmarted by creatures with brains the size of a baked bean.

Still, despite the cold, the blank, and the creeping sense that Rachel from Accounts is secretly siphoning my bait budget, I’ll be back next week. Because that’s what we do. We curse the taxes, moan about the prices, swear we’re selling the rods and then spend the next five days tying new rigs and planning the next assault.

And who knows maybe next time George will find that someone’s been pre-baiting his driveway with cat food and hemp, and heck we may even see a blog post about it ?

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.36

Well I never thought I'd day it but I can see why many like anglers like their creature comforts these days !! you see I'm getting worse sat behind a motionless rod and having to wait patiently for a bite I seem to be struggling with more and more.

You know things are bad when even the wife’s yoga class becomes the evening’s most successful exercise in patience and flexibility. 

There I was, perched on the banks of the handy syndicate stretch  handy in the sense that it’s close enough for me to delude myself into thinking I’ll “just nip down for an hour” and somehow conjure a barbel from the ether before being summoned back by the relentless tick of domestic obligation. I swear the clock moves twice as fast when you’re bankside and half as fast when you’re forced to watch Bake Off.

 Now, in theory, this should have been a banker. Prime time, dusky skies, a whisper of cool air brushing the willows, and that faintly fishy tang of the river that makes you believe just for a second that you actually know what you’re doing. 

 I even brought along my best groundbait, a krill concoction so pungent the dog tried to roll in it before I’d even got the lid off. This was serious business. The rod was set, the isotope gleaming like a tiny nuclear beacon in the gloaming, and I sat back in my chair feeling, for once, like I might be part of nature’s grand plan.

That feeling lasted about nine minutes.

Because as soon as I settled into that calm, that tranquil oneness anglers are supposed to have with the elements, my mind wandered to the curfew. 

You know the one  the invisible countdown timer that starts the moment you leave the house. “I’ll be back by seven,” I said, casually, knowing full well that the only thing casual about my evening would be the speed with which I’d later be packing up like a contestant in a supermarket sweep.

Still, I persevered. The river looked perfect moody sky, gentle flow, not another angler in sight. Even the cows in the adjacent field looked relaxed, which is rare because usually, I’m the idiot who sets up directly in their line of curiosity. 

It’s always the same: I find a nice peg, settle down, and suddenly there’s a herd of bovine hecklers edging closer like they’ve paid for front-row seats at “Man Loses Another Lead – The Live Show.”

I lobbed the lead out with what can only be described as textbook form (if the textbook was titled “Casting for the Slightly Inept”). The lead hit bottom with that beautiful, confidence-inspiring donk the kind of sound that makes you think, Yes, that’s a clean gravel run. That’s where the barbel are. That’s where it’ll happen. Spoiler: it didn’t.

 For the next half-hour, the isotope remained motionless, mocking me with its stillness. I gave it the occasional glance, pretending not to care, but we both knew I was one twitch away from full-scale paranoia. 

Normally, I’d at least expect the odd chub pull that half-hearted rattle that gives you a reason to shift in your chair and mutter something about “finicky bites.” But tonight? Nothing. The rod might as well have been cast into a puddle in the car park.

Then, without warning, it happened. The isotope moved. Not much, just three inches to the left but enough to send my heart rate into defibrillator territory. 

You know that moment: when your brain goes from “nothing’s happening” to “oh sweet mother of piscatorial miracles, this is it!” in less than a second. But instead of a glorious curve of carbon and the thump of a hooked fish, it just… stayed there. Three inches left. Suspiciously still.

“WTF?” I said aloud to nobody but the cows (who by now looked thoroughly unimpressed). I lifted the rod gently, expecting resistance, maybe even a gentle nod from a curious chub but no. Instead, there was that unmistakable gritty thunk of hook meeting submerged debris. I pulled a little harder.

Nothing. A bit harder. Still nothing. Then that horrible elastic moment where you just know what’s about to happen. Ping! The hook pulled and whatever it had been branch, root, lost shopping trolley, the shattered remains of my optimism was gone.

Of course, by now, the clock had performed its usual dark magic, and my “quick hour” had shrunk to its final ten minutes. I gave the bait one last heroic chuck into the flow, more in hope than expectation, while quietly preparing myself for the inevitable blank. Dusk settled, the bats came out, and I sat there convincing myself that maybe I’d feel the tiniest pull just as I was about to reel in that classic angler’s fantasy of the “last cast miracle.”

Naturally, time was called by the universe and the wife simultaneously. The phone buzzed: “Leaving soon. Don’t forget, I need the car.” Translation: You have three minutes to pack up or I’m sending a search party.

So, I began the routine: head torch on, reel in… and immediately felt it. Solid. Not a snag, not a fish but a biblical-level entanglement. The kind of snag that laughs in the face of your 10lb fluorocarbon and says, “Pull for a break, sunshine, because you’re not getting this one back.” I tugged. I swore. I gave it the old “steady pressure” nonsense for a few seconds before finally conceding defeat. Snap.

And there it was another glorious session at the handy syndicate stretch. Ninety minutes of high hopes, zero fish, one lost rig, and a fresh reminder that optimism, in angling, is just stubbornness with better PR.

I loaded the the car, muttering to myself about how “at least it’s nice to be out” the universal lie anglers tell when they’ve been thoroughly humbled by the river. 

I could already picture Sean, that jammy devil, reeling in Barbara the Barbel again next week while I sit at home, de-barbelling the washing machine hose for brownie points. Still, I’ll be back. Of course I will. Because as much as I moan, as much as I swear blind that I’m “taking a break from it all,” we both know I’ll be back down there at the next available window, krill groundbait in hand, convincing myself that this time this time  the isotope will move for the right reason.

Warwickshire Avon - Sawdust and Serenity

There are moments in a man’s life when he looks out over his garden and feels that primal urge to do something about it. 

Normally, I can suppress such dangerous impulses with a strong cup of tea, a digestive biscuit, and a quick scroll on that there Ebay for fishing tackle I don’t need. But not today. Oh no. Today, the DIY gods were whispering in my ear, and they weren’t taking no for an answer.

It all started with a pile of oak sleepers that had been loitering at the back of the garden like a gang of surly teenagers. 

The plan and I use that word loosely was to chop them into manageable chunks for next winter’s log burner sessions. 

You know, the ones where you sit smugly in front of the fire pretending you’re a rugged outdoorsman while actually Googling “what’s the best temperature to slow-cook brisket.”

Now, I’ll be the first to admit gardening is not my thing. In fact, gardening can quite simply do one. I’ve got neither the time nor the temperament for it. 

The very thought of pruning something or mowing the lawn brings me out in hives. 

It’s all right for OCD David next door the man’s grass hasn’t seen a weed since Tony Blair was in office, and his hedge is trimmed so symmetrically it could probably get its own exhibit at Kew Gardens. But me? My lawn’s a biodiversity hotspot. If David’s garden is Versailles, mine’s the Amazon rainforest.

Still, these sleepers had to go. So, out came the fifty-quid electric chainsaw  the sort of tool that looks like it’s been designed by someone who’s never used one but has a passing interest in medieval weaponry. I wasn’t expecting much. I mean, for the price of a half-decent round at the pub, you don’t get professional lumberjack vibes, do you? But credit where it’s due it actually did the job. The little outlaw roared (well, purred) into life, and I began hacking through the oak like I knew what I was doing.

Of course, being oak, it fought back. The chain dulled quicker than my enthusiasm for exercise, and every cut sprayed me with a delightful mixture of sawdust, moisture, and regret. The noise wasn’t too bad either, which was a shame really, because I’d secretly hoped it might disturb David’s afternoon ritual of tea, crumpets, and silently judging me through his conservatory window.

After an hour or two of sawing, sweating, and swearing, I’d reduced the sleepers to a modest pile of firewood. The family collectively known as The Diary Makers because they always seem to have something else booked whenever there’s actual work to be done didn’t offer so much as a token hand. My back began to stage a full-scale rebellion, so I decided the most sensible next step was to go to the pub.

It’s funny how quickly your back pain subsides when there’s a pint in front of you. By the second, I was practically cured. But when we got home, reality hit harder than a wet landing net the pain was back with a vengeance. Thankfully, the missus and Sam took pity on me and decided to finish the job. I supervised, naturally, which mostly involved leaning on the fence and making encouraging noises like “that’s it, watch your back” and “don’t drop it on your foot.” whilst enjoying a tot of rum cask Jura. 

By the end, the sleepers were stacked neatly in the garage, my back was still moaning, and I was seriously considering becoming a minimalist who only burns tea lights for warmth.

The next morning, the forecast had threatened biblical rainfall, so I was fully prepared for a lazy day of doing absolutely nothing. But when I peeked out of the window, the sky looked as innocent as a church fete. And that’s when another bad idea took root fishing.

I told myself it would help my back. A bit of gentle movement, fresh air, spiritual healing you know, all that guff we anglers tell ourselves to justify sneaking out of the house for a few hours.

Down at the local stretch, there was a match on, but only over about a third of the pegs so I literally has 30 pegs to myself. Perfect. I decided to do what I like to call a “roving session,” which is basically code for “wandering aimlessly and hoping for divine intervention.” I primed a few swims with bread mash, imagining fat chub lurking under the snags, just waiting for a slice of Hovis to come wafting down like manna from heaven.

Seven or eight swims later, the only thing I’d caught was a mild sense of déjà vu and possibly a touch of trench foot. Twice  yes, twice  the quivertip actually moved, though whether it was fish or a submerged crisp packet, I couldn’t say. The bites were so tentative they could’ve been polite refusals. Probably small dace, or possibly fish with commitment issues.

And then, right on cue, the heavens opened. I’d just packed up when the first drops fell smug doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

 Within minutes it was hammering down, the sort of rain that would make Noah check his weather app.

Back home, I did what any sensible angler does after a day of questionable decision-making slow-cooked beef brisket and roast potatoes. 

The kind of comfort food that makes you forget the blank, the blisters, and the fact that your garage now smells faintly of damp oak and despair.

Was it a productive session? Absolutely not. Was it worth it? Strangely, yes. Because as I sat there, full of brisket and self-satisfaction, I realised something my back felt better. 

Not perfect, but looser, freer, as if hauling myself around muddy banks had realigned something important. As a veteran of the Sciatica Wars of a few years ago, I don’t take a good back day for granted. So while the fish didn’t play ball, I reckon I still came out on top.

Warwickshire Avon - Flummery and Fandangle

You know something’s up when you can see the bottom of the Warwickshire Avon as clearly as the landlord’s face when you ask for another pint after time’s been called. 

Honestly, it’s been gin-clear for weeks now and while the chalk-stream dandies down in Hampshire might swan about with their floppy hats and Latin fly names, up here in Bard’s country, we’re more used to a bit of colour. Not just in the water, mind you, but in the language when the fish ignore us.

Those big old residents the barbel, the chub, the elusive pike with an attitude problem they’re no fools. In water this clear they can see you blink on the bank, let alone the lump of pellet you’ve delicately presented like a Michelin-starred meatball. 

So, unless you’ve got night-vision goggles and the patience of a heron on tranquilisers, you’re better off waiting for dusk.

Still, Friday means freedom as I finish at 12.30pm. Forty-five hours of toil done, a cup of instant coffee sloshed down the hatch, and off I went with a plan more cunning than Baldrick with a new hat. 

Three swims in mind: the first opposite the houses (which always feels a bit like fishing in someone’s living room), the second at the whirling weir (which currently whirled about as much as a puddle in a drought), and the third, the infamous Pot Hunter’s Paradise, where legends are made and landing nets are occasionally broken, and well know anglers get caught night fishing.

I’d armed myself with two rods: one set up with a dead roach under a pike float more in hope than expectation and the other, the trusty barbel rod, rigged with a pair of 14mm pellets. Back in the day this stretch was known as Barbel Alley, until the otters turned up and declared squatters’ rights. The few that survived that fur-lined invasion had the small matter of a pollution incident to contend with, so really, any fish caught here now deserves a medal and perhaps counselling.

The river was so low I could practically see my reflection on the gravel. “Crap conditions,” I muttered, deploying the kind of optimism that keeps anglers buying tackle. The first swim, opposite the houses, is always awkward — you’re half expecting someone to open a window and ask if you’d like a cup of tea or to please stop peering at their hydrangeas.

Still, I set up, pinging pellets to the far side, deadbait in the margins. After ten minutes of total inactivity, the highlight was the young woman opposite finishing her painting job, peeling off her overalls to reveal an outfit tighter than a pair of new waders. She was clearly off to the gym or perhaps trying to break into orbit. Either way, it made the lack of bites slightly more tolerable. I know anglers are meant to commune with nature, but I didn’t realise that extended to admiring the local wildlife in yoga shorts.

After an hour of absolutely nothing unless you count mild dehydration and a crick in the neck I packed up and trudged to the weir. Or rather, what used to be the weir. It was barely dribbling, like a pensioner’s teapot. Still, moving water’s moving water, so out went the rods again. Half an hour later, while winding in the deadbait, something suddenly grabbed hold. At first, I thought it was a small pike with a death wish. Then the fight went all weird not so much a run as a wriggle.

“Hang on,” I said to nobody, “this feels eel-y.”

Sure enough, up came an eel not the stuff of nightmares, but certainly the biggest I’d hooked in years. It twisted, squirmed, and gave me a look that said, “I was minding my own business, mate.” A proper scrap, too, and when I finally landed it, the hook popped out neatly in the net. After a quick photo (and a moment that resembled a Thai massage involving slime), I sent it back to terrorise the local roach population. Blank avoided! Always nice to have something other than a sandwich to show for your efforts.

On to the final swim, then the willow peg. A nice bit of depth there, with a whisper of flow and the kind of overhanging branches that scream “ambush point.” A quick underarm lob sent the pellets and a PVA bag across, the lead plopped down perfectly, and I sat back feeling quite smug.

Five minutes later, the rod nearly did a somersault off the rest. One of those bites where your brain can’t quite keep up with your reflexes. I lunged like a startled heron, somehow grabbing the handle just in time. The fish had already made ground to the right, heading off like Two Teir Keir at the first whiff of a photo opportunity.

It was a chub. You can always tell the head thumping fight, the solid weight, and the distinct feeling you’ve hooked something that’s just remembered it’s got somewhere better to be. A fine fish too, tipping the scales at 4lb 2oz, bronze flanks gleaming even in the fading light. Not the biggest, but considering the river looked more like a bottle of tonic than a barbel paradise, I was chuffed to bits.

That was the lot for the afternoon, as I packed up, I glanced back at the water, clear as a conscience before payday, and couldn’t help but think: we need rain. Not a drizzle, not a shower, but a good, old-fashioned biblical downpour. 

Until then, I’ll keep trying, keep hoping, and keep pretending that watching a motionless rod for three hours is character-building rather than evidence of poor life choices.

Warwickshire Avon - Noctambulation and Nomophobics

The client I work for just happens to have their design studio on the Warwick University campus and there is one thing I have noticed about the Generation Z students and that is how immersed in the phones they are. There’s something rather fascinating and mildly terrifying about the start of a new university term. 

One minute, the Warwick campus is a tranquil place where you can hear the rustle of oak leaves, the distant hum of the ring road, and the odd magpie squabbling over a half-eaten Greggs sausage roll. 

Then, as if someone’s lifted the lid on a tin of Red Bull-fuelled sardines, the students return. Generation Z, in full force, wandering the campus in their thousands, eyes welded to the glowing rectangles in their hands, fingers twitching like caffeine-powered crabs.

Now, I’ve seen some odd behaviour in my time barbel anglers wearing camo so loud they could frighten a stealth bomber, or match lads taking selfies with their keepnets like they’ve just discovered the cure for gout — but this, this is another level. These students, bless ‘em, glide about like extras from The Walking Dead: TikTok Edition. 

You could drop a marching band, three Morris dancers, and a streaker juggling flaming torches in front of them and they’d still be scrolling, thumbs swiping like they’re in training for the next Olympic Games of Pointless Content Consumption.

Even when they’re chatting, they’re still attached to their phones like umbilical cords. You half expect one of them to say, “Sorry mate, can’t talk my battery’s low, and if it dies, so do I.”

How the heck will they concentrate on a fishing float ?

Now, I always thought students were supposed to be skint living on a diet of Super Noodles, cheap lager, and dashed hopes. But not this lot. Oh no, these are walking around in trainers worth more than my car and ordering oat milk frappo-whatevers with contactless flair. Honestly, they spend money like Rachel from Accounts at a budget meeting  splashing it around with carefree abandon while the rest of us are checking the price of luncheon meat and wondering whether we can pass off Aldi bourbon biscuits as “artisan” if served on a slate.

 Anyway, enough social anthropology. I didn’t drive all the way to campus to watch the nation’s youth turn into iPhone zombies. I had a mission. A tree mission.

You see, a few weeks back, I stumbled upon a sight so surreal I thought I’d either discovered a portal to Narnia or been accidentally exposed to one of those “herbal” brownies from the student union café. A tree an ordinary, middle-aged Warwickshire tree was lit up like the Blackpool illuminations. 

A natural fairy light show, shimmering, flickering, glowing. Magical stuff. I half expected David Attenborough to appear from the bushes, whispering about bioluminescent fungi in that hushed reverential tone of his.

No I hadn't been on the acid (not that evening anyway !!)

So, with the students back and my curiosity still burning brighter than a headtorch on turbo mode, I decided to return to that same stretch. But this time, the rods were coming too.

Nothing fancy just a couple of trusty 12mm pellets (one krill, one halibut, because variety is the spice of life), a bit of krill groundbait to get things moving, and a small PVA bag of freebies for good measure. 

Two hours on the clock. Short session stuff. I wasn’t expecting fireworks, but you never know what’s lurking when the sun dips and the shadows start dancing on the water.

The first proper whack on the rod came not long after the bait settled that unmistakable chub thump that jolts you upright like you’ve just sat on an electric fence. 

A proper good’un too, followed quickly by another bang. Foolishly, I struck at the second one like an overexcited spaniel, and of course, nothing doing. Schoolboy error. I gave myself a quiet talking to  something along the lines of “Patience, you impatient plank”  before rebaiting and getting the rig back out there.

Fifteen minutes later, the tip twitched, quivered, and then went full-on medieval. Proper barbel-style bite. The kind where the rod almost leaps off the rest and into the next postcode. This time, I didn’t flinch. I sat on my hands, heart thumping, and let the fish do what fish do best hang itself.

And sure enough, after a short tussle under the willows, a chub slid into the net. About 4lb of pure Warwick muscle. Not a monster, but a fish with attitude. The sort that looks at you like it’s about to ask for your Wi-Fi password. The light was starting to fade, the bats were out doing their aerial acrobatics, and for a brief moment, all was right in the world. I could hear the faint murmur of students in the distance probably arguing over the ethics of avocado toast while I sat there, mug of tea in hand, basking in the timeless simplicity of a bend in the rod.

Then, a splash. A proper one too. Something big breached the surface like a submarine coming up for air. My heart rate spiked. Another splash. Surely another chub? Or maybe a barbel on patrol? I sat there expectantly… and waited.

Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a tremor. Just the faint hum of the motorway and the rhythmic rustle of the reeds.

And the glowing tree? Sadly, it didn’t show again. Maybe it was a one-time thing, or the ghost of a forgotten fairy rave. Who knows? That’s the beauty of this daft hobby you never really know what you’ll get. One minute it’s students glued to their screens, the next it’s a fish on the line or a tree glowing like it’s had too many sherbets.

But that’s fishing, isn’t it? Half mystery, half madness, all magic. And that’s exactly why I’ll be back again soon same spot, same setup, same faint hope that nature might just decide to switch the fairy lights back on.

Warwickshire Avon - Mythomania and Mysteriosophy

Well, I’d built this one up in my head, hadn’t I? A cheeky smash-and-grab session after work, just enough time to squeeze in a couple of hours before dusk a tactical strike, a covert operation, a piscatorial Mission Impossible where, if everything went to plan (which it never does), I might just winkle out a barbel or two. 

I arrived armed with optimism, two 6mm pellets, and the sort of misguided confidence that only comes from forgetting how bad your last trip was.

Now, I wasn’t going in heavy this time. No, this was a stealth mission  a small PVA bag of freebies, a delicate rig, and a prayer to the river gods. 

I primed the swim first, because that’s what proper anglers do when they’ve watched too many YouTube videos of people who actually catch fish. The swim looked perfect a lovely shallow glide dropping into a dark trough that’s held fish before. Textbook stuff. You know that feeling when you just know? Yeah, me neither, but I like to pretend.

As I ambled down to the peg, I noticed the usual carnage. The cover to the left had been hacked back, branches floating everywhere, the sort of job only a chainsaw-wielding canoeist could love. 

It’s supposed to be a non-navigable stretch, but apparently the canoeists think “non-navigable” means “excellent shortcut.” You can almost hear them thinking, ‘Let’s improve nature with petrol tools!’ I swear they’ve taken to gardening the banks more than I do my own lawn.

Anyway, I got set up. Rod positioned. Line tight. Pellets out. Then, right on cue, the Avon whispered that sweet promise only she can a couple of twitches, a few line flicks, and then, at that magic moment between day and night, a bite straight out of the Barbel Textbook of Violence. 

 The tip wrapped round like it owed me money, I struck like a man possessed, and… nothing. Absolutely sod all. The line went slack, my heart sank, and I invented three new swear words that frightened a nearby moorhen. I’d pricked it not properly hooked, not properly lost, just that frustrating halfway house where you know it’s your fault but you’ll still blame the hook, the current, and possibly NATO.

Still, ever the optimist (read: idiot), I recast. Twenty minutes later, not a twitch, so I decided to move to another swim you know, that angler’s logic where “the next peg” is somehow teeming with fish while yours is clearly cursed. This one was on the main river, a proper pace to it, and within five minutes I had another bite. Missed it again. 

At this point, I seriously started considering golf. At least when you miss there, people clap politely and offer you gin.

But that’s when things took a turn for the weird. Across the river, I saw what looked like a head torch beam flashing in and out of the trees. Bright, white light proper LED power, not the yellow glow of a bivvy lamp. I thought, “Great, another angler playing Jedi Knight with his torch.” But as I squinted, it wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t moving like a torch. 

It was pulsing. Like the trees themselves were switching on and off, lighting up in brilliant flashes and then fading again, as if the Avon had developed its own Christmas display.

 Then it hit me blog reader and fellow Avon wanderer Jon Pinfold had once shown me a photo of what he called “the glowing trees.” I’d laughed at the time, assuming he’d been at the homemade sloe gin again, but there they were: real, radiant, ethereal. 

The light wasn’t flickering like fireflies or car headlights it was inside the trees, cascading down branches and shimmering over the water. Mesmerising. I sat there, rod in hand, gobsmacked, looking like a man who’d just seen a barbel jump into the car and drive off.

Part of me wanted to grab the camera, set up the tripod, document it for posterity but the other part remembered the time I nearly fell in while trying to film an otter. 

The sensible bit of my brain (tiny, but vocal) told me it was time to head back. Curfew was calling, and if I didn’t make it home, I’d have more to worry about than missed bites.

As I trudged back to the Jimny, I noticed something even more absurd. From behind the bumper, that weed seemed to have got bigger from when I left the car. 

Not clinging on growing. I swear it wasn’t that big when I parked. A proper green shoot, waving mockingly in the evening breeze, as if the river itself had decided to take over my motor. 

Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe nature’s just reclaiming what’s hers. Or maybe, just maybe, the Avon has decided that if I’m not going to catch fish, it’ll make sure at least something flourishes near me. Either way, next trip I’m taking a strimmer for the bank, the Jimny, and possibly my sanity.