Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.33

Now, it’s fair to say the bedroom was looking a little tired. “Vintage,” if you were being kind. More “archaeological site” if you weren’t. The last time it saw a lick of paint was probably around the same time Woolworths was still selling pick ’n’ mix, and the dust well, the dust was so thick it could’ve been classed as a new tax band. Honestly, if I’d tapped the skirting board too hard, a small cloud would’ve formed and drifted toward the next parish. There was enough of it to comfortably house a family of illegal immigrants, possibly with a goat and a small dog, and they’d have remained undiscovered for years.

So yes, out with the old, in with the new. And what better way to celebrate this newfound domestic enlightenment than to treat myself to some abstract art from a paint-flinging lunatic I’d commissioned before. He’s one of those “modern creatives” that looks like he lives on a diet of espresso, nicotine, and tortured self-reflection but my word, Kerry Bowler can chuck a bit of paint ( I jest). The piece is nearly finished, apparently. A “textural exploration of emotion and rhythm,” she told me. I told her I just wanted something that matched the newly painted feature fall and duvet set.

But anyway, enough of all that interior design nonsense back to the real world. Fishing.

Now, I’ll admit, I’ve been guilty lately of following the herd. Fishing where everyone else fishes. Doing what everyone else does. Buying all the fashionable bait, reading the forums, even watching those YouTube lads who make a 2lb perch look like it’s a record-breaker. But it’s not me, is it? No. As Mick Newey always says, “Fish how you like to fish.” So, with that little philosophical pep talk ringing in my ears, I headed to the WBAS syndicate stretch of the Warwickshire Avon quiet as a graveyard lately, mind you, but still my favourite haunt after work.

The Avon this time of year is gin clear, calmer than a sleeping cat, and when the sun dips below the horizon, it transforms. That’s when the freaks come out the real characters. So, out came the bait box and the tin of Spam. £3 a tin now. Three. Whole. Pounds. 

For reconstituted meat mush that probably contains the DNA of several unfortunate animals and possibly a bicycle chain. I tore off a third of the tin, rough as you like, and slapped a cube straight on the hook. No finesse. None of that carp-match-fishing faff. Just glorious, greasy pink goodness.

A few freebies went in along with a bit of groundbait, and I left it to rest while I went for a wander. The plan was to see if I could tempt a chub off the top with some bread. Classic move. Except, of course, the chub didn’t get the memo. Not a single nose poking through the surface, not a single swirl. They were either on holiday or down the pub.

So, half an hour before dusk, I plonked myself back in the swim and got the bait out. The isotope on the tip glowed faintly in the fading light, like a tiny radioactive sentinel. The small fish started having a nibble straight away little taps, like someone flicking the rod with a cocktail stick. I sat on my hands, waiting. And then, as the last streaks of daylight vanished, bang. A proper whack. The isotope jerked, and instinct took over I struck, felt that solid resistance, and instantly knew what I’d hooked.

A chub. A good one, too.

Under the torchlight it gleamed like polished pewter, every scale immaculate, the sort of fish that makes you grin like an idiot even when you’re alone. Onto the scales it went 5lb 13oz. My best for a while, and a proper winter warrior in waiting. Give it a few more cold months, and it’ll easily tip over six.

I slipped it back downstream, watched it glide away into the darkness, and sat there for another half hour. Nothing else showed. No matter. I’d had my moment.

Sometimes, that’s all you need. A bit of spam, a glowing isotope, and a good fish to break a barren spell. The freaks really do come out at night and sometimes, you’re one of them.