Sunday morning, and I found myself doing that thing we anglers do best convincing myself that I had a plan, when in reality I hadn’t a clue. I’d spent half the night umming and ahhing over maps, thinking of secret stretches and forgotten corners, before inevitably doing what my heart wanted all along roving up and down the Warwickshire Stour. It’s like an old mate that occasionally forgets your birthday, but you forgive it anyway because it’s got character.
Now, I don’t usually grace the Stour’s banks until Jack Frost has had a good go at the undergrowth and the nettles have surrendered, but I fancied a break from the usual humdrum. The Stour’s generally a forgiving sort of river carries colour most of the year, bites aplenty, and fish that don’t make you feel entirely useless. But when I rocked up, I nearly dropped my flask. It was clear. Not just “a bit clearer than usual” clear we’re talking gin-palace, see-the-bottom, “oh-bugger-they’ll-see-me” clear.
The swims I know like the back of my hand suddenly looked alien. Pebbles gleamed like polished teeth, and I swear I could see my reflection staring back, questioning my life choices. Still, the Stour being the Stour, I knew a few of the deeper pockets where the fish might be sulking. One in particular a deep bend draped in a green blanket has history. I lost a proper slab of a roach there once, the sort that haunts your dreams. So naturally, I gave it a good go. A nice thumb-sized lump of breadflake, a 0.5-ounce quivertip, and me full of misplaced optimism.
The tip didn’t move. Not once. It sat there like a stubborn pensioner at a bus stop refusing to acknowledge the timetable’s changed.
And then, as if to test my patience, the dog walkers arrived. Not on the path, oh no that would be far too sensible. Instead, they took the scenic route right behind my swim, skyline silhouettes and loud conversations about labradoodles echoing across the water. One even gave me that cheery “caught anything?” with the same energy as someone asking a dentist if they enjoy pulling teeth.
By eleven I’d roved a fair stretch more in hope than belief and the river, bless her, refused to play ball. The flow in places was non-existent, as if it too had decided to take the day off. The breadflake remained as untouched as a salad at a barbecue. I could have switched to maggot, I suppose, but that felt like admitting defeat.
Eventually, I packed up early, muttering promises to return when the frosts had done their magic and the river remembered who it was. Even blanking, though, there’s something about this roving malarkey that just fits me. The walking, the watching, the whisper of the line against ones fingers it’s fishing stripped back to its bones.
Next session, I reckon I’ll squeeze in a quick after-work one. Try to winkle out something half-decent before my dry spell starts making the Sahara look damp. But for now, I’ll chalk this one up to “character building” — or as the wife calls it, “you sat by a river again, didn’t you?”
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