Warwickshire Avon - Starmers and Starbolins

It’s typical, isn’t it? Just when the old fishing mojo starts to worm its way back into the bloodstream like a long-forgotten pint of McEwan's Champion, life has this curious knack of pulling the rug from under your size nines and replacing it with something altogether less palatable like a to-do list, a calendar full of appointments, and the occasional reminder that the wife’s nail appointment, is in fact, a non-negotiable slot.

You see, I’d just got myself back into that comforting rhythm of fishing thoughts creeping into my head when I’m supposed to be drafting a project plan for work. A Zander here, a deadbait there, a jigging rod leant jauntily against the desk whilst the interior designers want to challenge the engineering team over this and that. 

The timing couldn’t be worse, because wouldn’t you know it, the latest automotive contract has me wearing smart'ish itre again instead of joggers, back in the office almost full time, and reacquainted with the dulcet tones of the coffee machine that sounds like it’s wheezing out its final rites. Nice office though. Big windows, clean carpets, and not a single whiff of sardine oil so I can hardly complain.

Still, the Friday finish remains my golden ticket. Half past twelve, I’m out the door, visions of rivers, reels, and a fish or two putting the sort of bounce in my step that makes passers-by assume I’ve either won the lottery or discovered a hip flask of something medicinal. But alas, life’s gears and cogs have a funny way of snagging on each other. Case in point: the Suzuki Jimny. Faithful little steed, six years of age, fifty thousand miles of dubious road trips and dubious takeaway wrappers crammed under the seat and suddenly the brakes decide they’re auditioning for Britain’s Got Talent with a judder felt through the steering wheel and body that could wake the dead.

 “New discs, new pads,” they said. “As soon as possible post MOT,” they said. And I, of course, nodded like a man who knows he’s about to wave goodbye to a chunk of his Friday fishing fund. 

Because you see, while I really wanted to be setting up by the Dead Arm a stretch I hadn’t haunted for a while but which has a reputation for fat Zander with bellies like bowling balls instead I was sat in the waiting area of the garage, sipping machine coffee and thumbing through a three-year-old copy of Saga Magazine.

Now, normally that’d be enough to sour the week. But you see, there was a bright spot. Earlier in the week, I’d gone out with my mate Phippo for a spot of culinary adventuring at the Fusion Clan restaurant in Warwick. And I’ll tell you what, it was worth every sideways glance from the wife who thinks curry houses are just excuses for men to talk nonsense for two hours while the naan bread goes cold. She’s not wrong, but still. I started with this liver and mushroom starter that had been licked with Keralan spices  one of those dishes that makes you briefly consider moving to South India with nothing but a fork and a pair of elasticated trousers. 

Then came the seafood platter, which was essentially Poseidon’s pantry served on a plate: prawns, seabass, dosa, squid, and things with shells that looked like they might scuttle off the plate if you gave them half a chance. All rather nice too, washed down with a crisp lager and the kind of banter you only get with someone who’s watched you fall in the river more than once.

The river, by all accounts, is low. Lower than the humour levels in a corporate health and safety briefing. But that’s no bad thing because the Dead Arm has its secrets. The casual passer-by might see nothing but featureless water, yet I know the swims where the depth holds steady, the sort of dark lairs where a Zed might skulk, licking its vampiric chops and waiting for an unsuspecting roach to flutter by. 

In those moments, I feel like a detective in a flat cap, pipe clenched between teeth, except the crime I’m solving involves 20lb wire and the faint whiff of rotting sprats. But here’s the rub. Fishing plans are like soufflés delicate, unpredictable, and liable to collapse if someone so much as looks at them the wrong way. Between the wife’s appointments, the kids’ taxi service schedule, and my own growing list of “jobs that need doing before winter sets in,” the Dead Arm trip as expected will have to wit till next week. On the positive though, there is rain as I type this and hopefully that will bring some much needed colour in the water. 

Now a man of my age doesn’t get phased easily experience has seen to that but it does feel like a cosmic joke sometimes. You wait all week, your imagination practically salivating over the thought of a midnight-eyed predator hammering into your bait, and then bang! Life steps in with a well-aimed kick to the shins.

Still, that’s fishing life, isn’t it? We chase moments. We juggle. We balance. And if we’re lucky brakes permitting, diaries aligning, and the Wife not suddenly deciding that the loft really must be cleared out on Saturday morning we might just get to wet a line in those dark waters. And who knows? Perhaps a Zander or two will be kind enough to remind me why I put up with all the chaos in the first place.

So with Friday literally a washout 

It was an early start, I must admit one of those mornings where the alarm goes off and for a fleeting second you wonder if it’s worth it. Then you remember: there are barbel to be caught, reputations to uphold, and bacon rolls to consume. Buffalo Si had been banging on about this new hot peg that had apparently been spitting out barbel like confetti at a wedding. Not at dusk, mind you oh no, these were sophisticated, all-day-dining barbel. Naturally, I had to have a go.

The stretch was eerily quiet, save for the wind, which seemed to be auditioning for a part in The Wizard of Oz. I was the only angler about possibly because everyone else had checked the weather forecast and decided they’d rather be in the pub. But I was wrapped up tighter than a sausage roll in puff pastry, so I wasn’t about to let a bit of meteorological mischief ruin the fun.

Four hours in, not so much as a twitch. The river looked spot on moody, yet the rods remained motionless, the quiver tip as still as a monk on mute. I had plenty of time to think dangerous, that. You start questioning life choices, like why you didn’t take up golf, or why smelt smell like something you’d find down the back of a student fridge.

Then, at long last, a bite! Not an epic, rod-rattling affair, but more of a polite nudge as if the fish was tapping me on the shoulder to say, “Excuse me, sir, might I trouble you for a small wrestle?” I struck, heart pounding, visions of a 20lb Warwickshire whopper filling my head… only for a rather snotty, underfed pike to appear, looking more insulted than hooked.

It wasn’t the triumphant moment I’d been picturing. More like opening a Christmas present and finding socks from Aunt Maureen. Still, a fish is a fish, even if it did look like it needed counselling and a good meal.

As I packed up, the wind howling like a banshee across the Avon, I realised something: maybe it’s time to stop chasing other people’s barbel dreams. Buffalo Si can keep his hot peg and his mid-day miracles. Me? I’ll stick to my own chaotic brand of piscatorial pottering. After all, blanking in style is still blanking and I’ve got that down to an art form.