Warwickshire Avon - Moons and Megalomania

I should have known it was going to be one of those evenings the moment I clocked that big full moon hanging smugly over the Warwickshire Avon round as a saucer of milk and about as helpful to my fishing as a chocolate fireguard. I’ve never done well under a full moon. The fish switch off, the air feels odd, and I start to question all my life choices, especially the one where I thought an after-work “quick smash and grab” session would be a good idea.

Anyway, I’m on the curfew stretch half an hour after dusk and you’ve got to be off or risk the wrath of the angling committee (or the resident bats, I’m not sure which). Not a problem, mind you, because I’ve long been convinced that when the Avon’s running clear, you’ve got that magic thirty-minute window after the light dips where it happens. After that, you could sit there all night with the patience of a monk and you’d still blank harder than a GCSE maths student faced with long division.

So there I am, 100 yards from the gate, and there’s this car. Stationary. Brake lights glowing like Beelzebub’s eyes. I wait. And wait. Eventually, it moves forward only to stop right across the gate. Of course. 

I signal where I’m going, all polite-like, and the car finally lurches out the way. I hop out, shut the gate as per the club’s “thou shalt close all gates” decree, and that’s when the window of said vehicle slides down with a noise that promised trouble.

“There aren’t any animals in there leave the gate open!” comes a voice, plummy enough to butter crumpets.

“I’m a member of the angling club,” says I, “and we’ve been told to close them.”

“Well, I’M THE OWNER!” he barks back, with all the charm of an expired Stilton. “And I’ve told the club it needs to be left open!”

 Ah. The Owner. The sort of chap who probably still refers to people as “good fellows” and has a Labrador called something like “Major.” His tone had all the warmth of an East wind, and I decided pretty quickly that he wasn’t the sort I’d share a pint with unlike the farmer on the syndicate stretch up the way, who’s so down-to-earth I’d happily have him round for Christmas dinner and let him carve the turkey.

Anyway, I bumble on through the open gate and down the track and after a nose at some swims I headed to a swim with some depth, a bit of streamer weed, and a lovely crease that’s done me proud in the past. 

My PB barbel a tidy 12lb 14oz came from this stretch just just a stone’s throw away, ( 6 years, 7 months, 15 days ago 🤯)  back when my luck wasn’t buried six feet under the full moon.

The swim’s a little overgrown, which is fine because I like a swim that makes you work for it adds to the sense of adventure (and the risk of falling in). 

I lob in a few “goodness grenades” for good measure, leave it to rest for a good half an hour, then flick in a scaled-down setup: a couple of 6mm pellets with a matching PVA bag. 

Underarm lob, nice satisfying plonk, rod on the rest, and I settle back as dusk settles in. It looks perfect. The sky’s glowing, the moon’s grinning like it knows something I don’t, and I’m thinking, this is it.

Except… it wasn’t.

Not even a tremor on the quivertip. Nothing. Dead as a doornail. The sort of silence that makes you question whether there are actually any fish left in the river or whether they’ve all buggered off to somewhere with better nightlife.

Half an hour later, curfew looms, and I pack up another blank with the quiet resignation of a man who’s been here before. 

That’s midweek fishing for you crammed in between work, weather, and the whims of lunar lunacy.  Still, it scratches the itch in a rather lovely evening I must admit. And as I trudge back through the moonlight, I’m thinking maybe, just maybe, the full moon doesn’t hate me. It’s just got a wicked sense of humour.