Warwickshire Avon - Squits and Squarsonocracy

I woke up feeling like I’d gone ten rounds with a hangover I didn’t earn. That dull headache that pulses behind your eyes, a stomach that couldn’t decide whether to stage a protest or a coup, and the kind of lethargy that makes even putting the kettle on feel like a triathlon event. Still, as any self-respecting angler will tell you, the thought of a session on the river somehow overrides basic human biology. You could be half-dead and still think, “Yeah, but the chub might be on the feed.”

So, off I went against my better judgement to the Warwickshire Wye. Not the grand, postcard-famous Wye of Herefordshire glory, mind you, but the more modest, slightly moody cousin that snakes its way through hedgerows, farm gates, and the occasional abandoned shopping trolley. A river that doesn’t so much sparkle as it does quietly gurgle in disapproval.

It’s far too early in the season, of course. The water’s low, clear as gin, and the fish as cautious as a vicar in a strip club. But I’d had that itch for weeks, the kind of angling urge that only a proper session can scratch. So I plonked myself on the bank, armed with a loaf of bread, a flask of questionable tea, and a misplaced sense of optimism.

Now, anyone who’s ever float-fished bread on a clear river knows it’s less “fishing” and more “flirting with rejection.” You feed in some sloppy mash or “head-turning bread slop” as I like to call it and then waft down a piece on the hook, hoping a chub somewhere down there is feeling particularly reckless. For nearly two hours, I might as well have been fishing in a swimming pool. The float drifted beautifully, the sun broke through the trees, and I started to feel that rare sort of calm that only comes from being outdoors, alone, and miles from the nearest human voice.

And then it happened.

The float, a large domed drake that looked like it had seen more seasons than the BBC weather team, buried faster than Labour’s reputation for fiscal prudence. I struck, the rod hooped, and for about 5 glorious seconds, all was right with the world. Then the chub and it was a proper lump, no doubt about it decided it wasn’t playing by my rules. It bolted left like a greyhound late for dinner, straight toward a bed of reeds.

I applied side strain that would make a carp angler proud, whispered a few encouraging words that can’t be printed here, and for a fleeting moment thought I might just turn it. Then came that sickening jolt  the unmistakable feeling of a hook pulling free. Silence followed, the kind that only a fisherman knows. The kind that hangs heavy in the air as you stare at your float, rod tip quivering in defeat, and mutter, “Well… that’s that then.”

One bite. One lost beast. One session that’ll be filed under character building in the ever-expanding cabinet of near misses.

Still, there were positives. The float went down straight and true. The presentation was lovely. I didn’t fall in, which, given the wobbly state of my insides, felt like an achievement. And when I finally trudged back to the car tired, empty, but oddly content I realised something important. Fishing isn’t really about catching fish at all. It’s about standing on a riverbank convincing yourself that next time, when the conditions are right, when the planets align, when your stomach isn’t staging a mutiny… you’ll finally get your revenge on that chub.

Of course, I’ll be back. Probably still feeling under the weather, armed with more bread, less hope, and exactly the same daft grin when the float disappears again.