Warwickshire Avon - Big Bites and Broodmares

Honestly, it’s been one of those weeks again the sort where you glance at the headlines, clock Rachel “Fiscal Drag” Meister of Misery wagging her spreadsheet about like she’s summoning demons from HMRC, and you can actually feel your spirit unhooking itself from your ribcage and floating off toward the kettle. Frozen thresholds here, stealth taxes there, and suddenly EVs those saintly, planet-saving milk floats are apparently carbon Bigfoots stomping about leaving a footprint the size of Norfolk. Who knew? (Well, everyone who’s ever seen the battery of one, but let’s not spoil the narrative.)

Meanwhile, the workers yes, the workers like me, the people who actually stand up for more than three consecutive minutes get asked to cough up yet again, so someone else can either (a) produce another small human, or (b) fire off another benefit form with the enthusiasm of a man ordering his seventh takeaway curry of the week. Greenwashing everywhere. Common sense nowhere. It’s like living inside an advert for eco-friendly bog-roll that’s actually made of compressed despair.

At this point I’m tempted to give up, buy myself a shiny new tracksuit (the sort that goes “fwip-fwip-fwip” when you walk), and ascend gracefully onto the Benefits Carousel complete with jaunty organ music and a complimentary Pot Noodle. I could sit there, wobbling gently like a Buddha with a Nectar card, watching the world burn while I perfect my daytime-TV scowl.

Anyway talking of couch potatoes if you can beat them join them I plonked myself on the sofa the other night ostensibly to rest after a long day of CAD bashing pretending to be productive but really to embrace my inner couch-dwelling troglodyte, only to end up watching Bring Her Back, a little Australian horror flick that makes my usual fishing misadventures look like episodes of Postman Pat. 

Now, I’m no stranger to disturbing scenes I've see anglers fishing for mud-sifters lick boilies before casting but this film delivered enough gore to make even a pike burp politely and swim away. 

Two step-siblings, creepy rituals, a foster mum with all the warmth of a wet sock, and more shrieking than the time I slipped off a muddy bank into the Avon; honestly it was riveting in the “I should look away but I’ve already committed to the emotional damage” sort of way. 

The ending felt like they'd reeled in too fast and snapped the line, but what’s horror without a bit of narrative whiplash? Recommended though preferably with the lights on, a dram or three, and a comforting thought like “at least my hobbies only involve mild peril.” 

Anyway yes you might have guessed SAD kicking in again despite the Vitamin D supplements that could tranquillise a Shetland pony. All I wanted was daylight, actual daylight on my face, and the only way to guarantee that at this time of year is to go fishing. Thankfully I’d finished early Friday after knocking out just shy of a 45-hour week (not that anyone thanks you for it), rescheduled a dentist appointment for some mythical future date, and started preparing for a long overdue roving session.

I already knew where I was going. A stretch I’d first fished 13 years and 5 months ago, because yes, of course I checked the blog archives down to the exact flipping month. You have to admire the dedication, or question it; both are valid. I hadn’t fished it for ages, but it had produced some cracking chub in the past. Anyway with my Warwickshire Avon PB sitting smugly at 6lb 2oz, and the river throwing out bigger lumps every year, I needed to get cracking if I was going to beat it before my knees retired.

Cheesepaste was the plan, bread back-up if required. I was going to make a fresh batch because the last lot had despite the mould on mould, it gained consciousness and was planning a coup. The new mix hopefully will smell like it could strip wallpaper at twenty paces, which, to a chub, is basically a scented candle and a romantic dinner.

Now Nic from Avon Angling (yes that's me in his latest upload) was out fishing while I’d been chained to my desk in the design studio all week and was sending me updates on colour, clarity, swim potential and, importantly, just how much fun he was having compared to me. 

One of those sessions, a proper haul of chub (>20) succumbing to trotting maggots Jealous? Absolutely. 

But it looked spot on, and with this session done I was already lining up another one at the weekend to do some trotting myself. I was fizzing to get going.

So I arrived, trudged to the stretch, breathed in the damp earthy smell and instantly felt ten percent less feral. The river looked good. Proper good. The kind of colour you get when a Farley's rusk has been left alone in water with bad intentions. I crept into the first swim, moulded on a lump of cheesepaste the size of a baby’s fist, and flicked it out.

Tap. Tiny tremor. Maybe a knock. Or maybe a leaf. After fifteen minutes of trying to read micro-vibrations like I’m auditioning for a role as a human seismograph, I moved on. Second swim, same story. One good pull that nearly had me leaping up like a startled pony then nothing. Absolute textbook chub behaviour: “give him just enough hope to ruin his day.”

Third swim was the one I really fancied. It had produced in the past, back when my back didn’t sound like a bag of gravel and I could crouch without groaning. I dropped the bait in, poured a tea that now tasted faintly of cheesepaste (it gets everywhere), and waited. And waited. 

Then came the old lady dog walker who was trespassing. You know the type pity in their eyes, like they’re looking at a man who’s lost control of his hobbies and possibly his trousers. “Caught anything?” they ask, all innocent.  

I lied when asked if I’d caught anything. Obviously. “Had one earlier.” The classic. The angler’s comfort blanket. Another hour went by, which in angling terms is known as “Character Building” and in real terms is “Why the hell do I do this?” I wandered the bank muttering to myself like someone reviewing their life choices while eating questionable cheese.

Fourth swim. The Promised Land. Snags, depth, slack, basically a Michelin-starred restaurant for chub. I lowered the paste in like I was presenting a fine cheese board to royalty, sat back, and convinced myself the tip would go any second now. This was The One. The swim that would rewrite history, restore my faith, and justify the fact I smell faintly of Stilton and despair.

I stared at that quiver tip like it owed me money. Every twitch? A leaf. Every vibration? Probably a passing otter laughing at me. Meanwhile, my tea tasted like Eau de Cheesepaste No. 5, and my hands looked like they’d been involved in a dairy-related crime scene.

Another fifteen minutes passed. In angling terms, that’s called “Character Building.” In real terms, it’s “Why the hell do I do this?” but then, BUT THEN, out of the blue from Zero to Hero !!

A proper melt down of the rod where one sharp pull the rod went round violently and I hooked in to nothing, NOTHING WTF !! how the heck did I miss that.!!! I pricked the fish with the hook as well and yeap, once bitten twice shy it never came back. By this time the heavens opened and the other two anglers on the stretch vacated the stretch and left me to it.

So the next swim literally another unmissable bite that I missed when the cheesepaste had barely settled. Well this ain't going well now is it !!. Anyway curfew was upon me and despite fishing up to dusk no more bites. The river had dropped so much colour out here it was quite an eyeopener to be honest, where the bait could have been seen a metre down. Hmm maybe trotting with bread was the better idea, still on the way home I stopped off at he who peddles the maggots, so lets try and have a trotting session now shall we, a forgettable session sadly, and from someone who is struggling to get out on the bank that’s not good. 

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.42

I arrived straight from work only to be greeted by the kind of darkness that makes you rethink not just your hobbies, but your entire approach to life. You know the sort the darkness that swallows the world whole and then asks if you’ve got any more it can borrow and the river track still impersonating something from a Discovery Channel documentary swamp edition.

Now I could probably coax the Jimny down to my peg however the syndicate had slapped a temporary block on using the track, presumably for those driving normal cars and not tiny mountain goats disguised as 4x4s.

So there I was: forced to rely on my legs, which normally operate only under duress, and tonight were protesting like French farmers. 

My posh new LED boot lights, which normally make setting up feel like I’m preparing to launch the space shuttle, were rendered useless. 

Instead, I was back to the head torch and the only one what was charged was a cheap, flickery type that seems to run on little more than hope and spite. It illuminates either everything or nothing depending on its mood, and tonight it had apparently chosen “moody ambience.”

The river was still up, muttering darkly under its breath like a pensioner annoyed at modern prices. I made my way to the little slack I’d fished before, zig-zagging my way through the darkness in what can only be described as an “approximate” straight line. 

But even under the dim, sulky glow of the head torch and the zoomable tip torch I could see something was badly wrong like discovering the fridge is empty when you were convinced you’d bought a trifle.

A huge snag half a tree really, the sort that rearranges swims and dreams had completely vanished. Gone. Whisked away by the recent flood like a drunk mate spirited off by a taxi at 3 a.m. That snag had sat between two fishable swims for ages, creating a lovely downstream slack where Barbara the barbel was first spotted. Sean caught her upstream once (though we’re 80% sure it was her and 20% sure it was a large, surly stick). But now the downstream slack was gone, redistributed by Mother Nature in what can only be described as poor taste. A swim changed forever, and not as usual in my favour.

Still, optimism is free, and so is delusion. I got the feeder ready with the kind of stinky krill groundbait that only madmen and barbel enjoy. It’s the sort of concoction that, if spilled in the car, would require professional hazmat involvement. Onto the bait band went a sausage-sizzle pellet wrapped in spicy robin red paste so pungent it should come with a disclaimer. If this didn’t attract barbel, then frankly nothing short of offering them a mortgage would.

Despite a chilly wind that tried its best to shear my ears off, the water temperature was surprisingly warm for the night. Warm enough, you’d think, for a barbel to at least consider wafting past. But this is the Warwickshire Avon, and expecting a barbel on demand is like expecting punctuality from public transport: admirable in theory, but fundamentally ridiculous.

I lobbed the rig out gracefully in my head, less so in reality and settled in. Half an hour passed. Nothing. Not even a sarcastic knock from a chub. So I reeled in, reloaded the feeder, filled it with enough krill mush to wake the ancestors, and sent it back out again.

Then finally movement. A twitch. Another. And then a proper pull-round that made my heart leap into the “we might actually be doing this” zone. I struck, made contact, felt a brief pulse of resistance, and for one glorious moment imagined Barbara herself gliding towards me in regal fury.

But then it wriggled.

Not a big wriggle. A modest, sheepish one. Up came a chublet a fish so small it should have been wearing armbands. It swung in through the air looking absolutely mortified, and if I’m honest, so was I. Still, proof the bait was presented properly, which these days is a small but meaningful victory. I congratulated myself in the way only a desperate man can.

Another twenty minutes ticked by. The temperature plummeted like my enthusiasm, the sky cleared, and the river began to freeze my fingerprints off one by one. At that point I decided enough was enough. Fishing is supposed to be relaxing, not a test of frostbite resistance.

I trudged back to the car, my breath fogging the air like a steam engine on overtime, and drove home with all the dignity of a man whose grand adventure had yielded a single, socially awkward chublet.

Mill Cottage Eardiston - Teme, Thrips and Time Warps

There are decisions in life that one looks back upon with misty-eyed fondness, and there are decisions that cause the Wife to raise an eyebrow so sharply it threatens to detach from her face. 

Booking Mill Cottage on the River Teme, without engaging the underused decision-making portion of my brain, fell firmly into the latter category. In my defence, it was cheap “very cheap” ( a weekly shop in the Newey Household) and in the heat of a mid-week whim, that became the sole criterion for success.

Only later, once the confirmation email had already nestled smugly in my inbox, did the Wife remind me:

(a) “You’ve stayed there before, you plank, (was March 2010 apparently)

(b) “I vowed never to go again,” and

(c) “You’ve booked Utah bleeding Saints in Birmingham on Saturday with Steveo, remember, did you even catch any fish last time ?”

Ah yes. That, sh*t. The weekend, thus, was shaping up to be more convoluted than an eel knot on a cold morning.

Mill Cottage & Ben back in 2010

The cottage itself is a curious relic. A time capsule. A portal to a period when brown wallpaper was fashionable, electricity was optional, and furniture was apparently designed by someone who had only ever seen chairs described in writing. 

The décor appears not to have been updated since the late 1950s (I jest) possibly even since the Domesday Book, in which the mill was first mentioned. The monks of St Mary’s in Worcester might well have written, “Mol De Medewye bring your own firewood and expect a few spiders.”

The history is genuinely impressive. Medieval monks, meadows, a seventeen-foot waterwheel, and the Moore family milling away for generations. 

But standing in the living room, staring at a TV the size of a large lunchbox with no HDMI port, I found myself pondering a modern mystery:

Why, in the name of Saint Barbel, have the owners not spent thirty quid on a tin of paint? , a couple of hundred on a decent TV, and update the furniture. 

A few upgrades and they could charge double. Triple, even. As it stands, the place feels like the sort of summerhouse a 50's eccentric might have used for smoking a pipe, writing letters to The Times, and accidentally inventing tetanus.

But there we were. Me and Sam. The boy was off on a teacher training day his, not mine and he was positively buzzing about fishing from the cottage’s garden and having a curry. A proper stretch of Teme too, the sort of water that looks gorgeous even when you know full well you’re going to blank harder than Rachel from Accounts who forgot her calculator. (AGAIN)

Complicating matters, Thursday night I had to sprint straight from work to a Fatboy Slim gig in Coventry because obviously the best preparation for a weekend of fishing is an evening of shouting, sweating, and pretending I’m not too old for this sort of thing. 

Which left me roughly four and a half minutes to prepare the tackle. I flung together a selection of rods, reels, floats, feeders, baits, and things that appeared to be fishing-related but might actually have been household items.

The plan, such as it was:

Arrive Friday at 2.00pm. Fish. Curry and a pint in Tenbury Wells for dinner (still a little run down, bless it). Fish much of Saturday. Dash home. Utah Saints. Collapse.

Phew.

Now tucked into the north-west corner of Worcestershire a spot so politely unassuming that even the sat-nav clears its throat before announcing it lies Tenbury Wells only a short drive away from the Mill Cottage. It’s the quiet achiever of market towns, the sort that doesn’t bother puffing out its chest because it knows full well you’ll fall for it eventually… like a trout mesmerised by a suspiciously shiny spinner.

Once a Victorian spa resort (because in those days everyone thought standing in sulphurous water would cure literally anything), Tenbury now lounges elegantly by the River Teme, framed by hop fields, cider-apple orchards, and countryside so wide-skied you could pitch a blimp in it and no one would bat an eyelid. Except maybe Dave, the bloke who watches everything from his front step and has opinions about cloud shapes. 

The Georgian high street is all indie shops and artisan markets, the sort that make you accidentally buy chutney you absolutely do not need. A 1937 regal Cinema, a glorious art deco number that shows arthouse films, jazz nights, and occasionally a movie so obscure I’m not entirely convinced it isn’t just a screensaver. 

Then there are the Pump Rooms, a slice of Victorian eccentricity that looks like the sort of building you’d expect a time-travelling vicar to emerge from, clutching a pamphlet on the spiritual dangers of trousers. Food-wise, you’re sorted: cracking coffee, cakes large enough to be classified as architecture, curry houses, pubs, jobs a good'un. oh and even a Michelin-style restaurant lurking nearby, poised to surprise you with foam. There is always foam !!. 

Tenbury blends affordability, friendliness and proper countryside charm, with scenery so postcard-pretty you half expect a sheep to wander through holding a tiny enamel teapot. Just make sure you do your flood-homework this is a river town, after all, and the Teme occasionally likes to remind everyone who’s boss....

...you see one big problem !! most people in the Tenbury Wells cannot afford insurance the premiums are too high because flooding is so frequent (7 times in 2 years in recent apparently). Businesses and homeowners have adapted accordingly, placing electrical sockets high up, not storing things on the floor and making makeshift flood defences of their own.

The river hadn't flooded the town thankfully during Storm Claudia however temperatures had plummeted faster than the country's confidence in the Labour Party, and frankly expectations were low. Very low. “Bottom-of-the-Teme-in-winter” low. But it wasn’t really about the fish. It was about some proper father-son bonding time, a chance to unwind, and an opportunity for me to once again question every logistical choice I’ve made in adulthood.

And, if the Teme fancied being generous, maybe just maybe a fish or two would find its way into the landing net rather than laughing at us from the murky depths. 

Stranger Things (new series out very soon) have happened. After all, I’d managed to book a medieval mill, a Norman-era historical site, and see two dance-music legends in the space of forty-eight hours.

If that isn’t proof that miracles occur, I don’t know what is.

Now It was one of those mornings where even the river looked like it wanted to stay in bed, still sulking after the recent flood and charging through the valley like it had somewhere better to be. 

Sam and I had barely said our hellos to the owners before we were poking around the swims outside the mill cottage, pretending to be seasoned explorers rather than two blokes who were really wondering where the least treacherous place to fall in might be. 

The BAA stretch looked promising until we realised that accessing most of the pegs would require the agility of a mountain goat and the insurance policy of a stuntman; the banks were so slippery that one wrong step would’ve had me auditioning for a You’ve Been Framed compilation. 

So, with dignity intact well, mostly we retreated to the mill cottage like the sensible anglers we occasionally pretend to be. 

We gave the slack by the weir a good go into dusk, but the fish were having none of it, probably laughing at us from somewhere deep in the turbo-charged current, so it was off to the pub for morale repair and then a curry for medicinal purposes. 

The frost, meanwhile, clung to the ground like an over-keen limpet, the big hill downstream blocking out what little sun there was, and the water sat at a balmy 5.5 degrees, which is apparently ideal if you’re a penguin. 

Morning came, brutally, and with it the maggot feeder approach tiny hooks, dainty tactics and me squinting at red maggots like a jeweller evaluating gemstones, while Sam tried his best to appear enthusiastic despite the weather reminding him why he prefers fishing in conditions that don’t resemble a survival documentary. 

Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for a grayling to slip up, confirming that something out there was still alive, and between showers, shivers, and the sort of toe-curling wind that makes you question your hobbies, we scraped together eight or nine more grayling and a couple of trout from the weir pool slack that clearly mistook the lobworm for an all-you-can-eat buffet sign.

By 3:30pm we were trudging back to the car, damp, cold, smelling faintly of maggots, but victorious in the sense that we hadn’t blanked, and I shot off home so I could go see Utah Saints DJ’ing, because apparently I am, against all common sense, still pretending I’m 25. After all that, I need a rest—but knowing me, I’ll be back on another river next week, complaining just as loudly and loving every second of it.

Warwickshire Avon - Ninnyhammer and Nonsense

Now fishing, if we’re being painfully honest with ourselves and the fish silently judging our life choices, is basically therapy for people who’d rather talk to a river than a licensed professional. It’s the only pastime where fully grown adults leap out of bed before dawn, march into the wilderness, and stare at water like confused philosophers waiting for enlightenment to swim past.

Winter just amplifies the chaos. The days get shorter, the cold gets personal, and suddenly we’re all wandering around our homes like neglected houseplants debating whether hibernation is a medically recognised option. SAD or Seasonal Affective Disorder murmurs, “Stay inside and wither,” but fishing shouts, “Nonsense! Put on every layer you own, go out into the frost, and dangle food at creatures with brains the size of peanuts!”

And somehow… it actually works.

The moment you reach the riverbank wrapped up like a resentful baked potato the world hushes itself. No notifications. No chores. Just the soft rumble of water and the occasional creative profanity when your line forms a knot that resembles a cursed Celtic symbol.

Then the mindfulness sneaks in. One minute you’re spiralling about bills and life decisions; the next you’re hypnotised by the flow of the river, the twitch of your quivertip, and the eternal mystery of why fish only bite the exact moment you glance away to sip your tea. the thoughts, what thoughts they disappear faster than those fair weather anglers. 

Try tying a hook with fingers that have all the flexibility of frozen chicken nuggets that’s meditation on hard mode. And when you finally get a bite, no matter how tiny, the universe leans down and whispers, “Yes, you magnificent chub-tempting gremlin, you still have purpose.”

Even catching nothing which we will absolutely never admit happens disturbingly often comes with its own triumph. You braved the cold. You made peace with mud. You didn’t fall in (probably). It counts.

Nature does her bit too: mist curling dramatically like it’s auditioning for a fantasy novel, birds judging your technique (the flying type), trees looming in their ancient “you’re small and silly” way. It’s humbling, grounding, and mildly insulting all at once.

And the best part? This ridiculous therapy works year-round. Spring brings optimistic muttering. Summer delivers smug sunburns. Autumn turns everything into a moody oil painting. Winter encourages you to drill a hole in ice and confidently announce, “Yes, this is normal adult behaviour.”

Fishing is a mental-health multivitamin disguised as a damp, muddy obsession one that offers stillness, laughter, purpose, questionable smells, and the occasional glorious fish.

Frankly, it’s the unruly, slightly soggy therapy every one of us deserves !!

Now enough of that, to the fishing !! if there’s one thing you can rely on after a day at work, it’s Warwick University’s (It's in Coventry btw, don't tell the potential students) traffic transforming itself into some sort of vehicular colander everything funnels in, nothing funnels out, and you just sit there wondering whether you should’ve brought a sleeping bag and a flask. 

There are road works everywhere, temporary lights, zombie students, it really is a nightmare. 

Anyway eventually, after negotiating the Coventry chaos like a contestant on Challenge Anneka, I rolled up at the river at 5:37pm, fully aware that daylight had already clocked off and gone to the pub. 

No matter an hour is plenty of time to tempt a chub, provided said chub is both suicidal and profoundly bored. 

It was only two degrees, crisp enough to make your nose hairs feel insured, but I, being seasoned (or simply stubborn), was layered up like a rogue duvet salesman. 

The river had that lovely winter colour somewhere between “weak gravy” and “builder’s tea left on the dashboard” so on went the world’s most offensively fragrant cheesepaste on the depth bomb, a substance that should by rights require a hazmat label.

Let me tell you, it pongs !! 

Underarm cast deployed, quiver tip illuminated, I settled in, ready for the inevitable tap-tap-tug of a gluttonous chub. 

Except of course nothing. Not a tremor. Not a pluck. Not even a courtesy nibble from something with low self-esteem. 

I tried the margins, the crease, the slack, and anything else resembling a fish’s hypothetical postcode, but nope: the river was about as lively as a ham sandwich at a vegan picnic. Still, I got my fix. And yes, people will say, “Mick, you’re mad,” but frankly I’d be madder if I’d stayed home. After all, blanking is temporary regret lasts longer than the smell of that cheesepaste. And trust me, that’s saying something.

Warwickshire Avon - Balti-Bamboozlement and Bedlam

There’s a moment always the same one when I’m halfway through a curry at Castle Balti in Warwick, sweating gently from the eyebrows and contemplating whether ordering extra green chillies was bravery or simple masochism, when life feels perfectly aligned. 

The naan is fluffy, the garlic is abundant enough to frighten the local vampire community, and the pints from The Craftsman are settling in like old friends telling questionable stories. In that blessed state of warm-bellied euphoria, I do what I always do: make bold weekend fishing plans that Future Me inevitably regrets.

Enter Storm Claudia.

Now by Friday she’d turned the Midlands into a large rectangular puddle. Rain hammered down in sheets, the sort of meteorological enthusiasm that suggests the weather gods have had one too many. 

On Saturday it got worse. The fields didn’t even squelch they gurgled. Birds gave up trying to fly and simply floated past in resignation. Even the cows looked annoyed.

Still, I felt the familiar rumbling of Flawed Determination that subtle blend of optimism and idiocy that anglers mistake for “dedication.” I did have a nose at a local stretch where the pictures was taken but yeah, no hope sprang to mind especially when the river was still on the rise. 

So Sunday morning, despite every bone in my body whispering, “Stay home, you fool,” I grabbed my gear and headed out, fuelled by memories of curry-induced serotonin and a wildly unrealistic belief that a barbel might fancy a snack in the middle of a flood.

The river gauge, being a rude little device with no regard for human feelings, cheerfully informed me the river was “tanking through,” which is angler code for: Only go if you enjoy suffering, or owe money to someone and need to hide for a while. But I knew a stretch a secret-ish one where 

I’d winkled out a fish or two in the past. All it required was a twenty-minute walk through terrain best described as ‘custard with ambitions.’ and an even longer drive. 

By minute twelve of this heroic slog, one boot had attempted to exit my foot entirely, the strap of my ruckback had cut a groove into my shoulder deep enough to plant potatoes in, and I’d developed a gait reminiscent of a distressed crab. Still, onwards I trudged, congratulating myself on having the riverside entirely to myself, while conveniently ignoring the fact that absolutely nobody else was stupid enough to come out in this weather.

At the swim, the river was a lovely shade of cappuccino if the barista had thrown in a handful of mud and a sense of menace. Perfect barbel conditions, if you ask any angler who’s already committed to being there and doesn’t want to admit defeat.

The only possible approach was to fish heavy: feeder like a Victorian iron weight, line thick enough to tow a small car, and on the hook… the mighty spam. A cube so large it required its own post code. The sort of bait that makes match anglers whisper, “He’s lost his mind,” while clutching their maggots protectively.

Casting was easy enough. It was the next 15 minutes that proved challenging. Leaves swept down the river like nature’s own conveyor belt of inconvenience. Every recast brought back a harvest festival’s worth of foliage, elegantly arranged across my line like a sad autumn wreath.

Still, something was pecking at the meat tiny fish nibbling away, presumably wondering why someone had dropped a meat-based skyscraper into their living room. This, I convinced myself, was a positive sign. Better optimistic nonsense than no hope at all.

I’d just become entranced by a mysterious swirl mid-river probably a stick, possibly an otter, maybe the ghost of an angler who ignored flood warnings when out of the corner of my eye, the tip twitched. A drop-back. Hesitant. Shy.

Then came the real bite.

Not so much a tap as a declaration. The rod wrenched over as if the river itself had objected to my presence. I grabbed the handle and immediately found myself attached to something that had absolutely no intention of cooperating. What followed was pure, joyful carnage the kind that justifies every miserable trudge, every flooded field, every questionable decision involving curry and optimism. The barbel glued itself to the bottom like it was protesting eviction. 

My rod arched, my heart thumped, and I issued the sort of strangled noises that would get me thrown out of a polite restaurant.

Eventually after what felt like a small eternity and several moments where I considered updating my will — the fish surfaced and slid into my brand-new Angling Direct landing net. A christening! A proper one! None of that tiny chub nonsense that barely bends the mesh.

And there it was: thick across the back, deep in the belly, a magnificent brute clearly enjoying its winter weight-gain phase. I lifted it from the water and nearly exclaimed something poetic, but instead opted for the classic angler line: “Bloody hell, that’s bigger than I thought.”

Ten pounds, two ounces.

A double. In floodwater. With spam the size of a small brick.

For once, the universe had leaned in my favour.

I fished on, of course because hope is a disease but nothing else materialised. Didn’t matter. I marched back to the car with renewed vigour, boots squelching triumphantly, feeling ten feet tall and absolutely certain that I’d “cracked it,” despite all historical evidence to the contrary.

Next week a cold snap looms. The cheese paste is ready the notorious blend that could strip wallpaper at twenty paces. The river will chill, the barbel will sulk, and I will undoubtedly question why I continue this madness.

But for now?

One fish. A proper one. Enough to warm the soul better than any curry, though the curry certainly helped.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.41

There’s something rather poetic, if not mildly tragic, about standing on the banks of a river that’s both alive and angry at the same time. You could say I brought the weather on myself  maybe those raving, tinnitus-inducing nights of old summoned something from the ether, like a rain dance performed with too much enthusiasm and too little rhythm. 

The beats of Dennis the Menace & Double Doves still echo faintly somewhere in the back of my head repetitive, relentless, the kind that seem to vibrate through your ribcage and somehow rearrange your kidneys. The Midlands version of tribal calling, only instead of summoning sunshine and serenity, we’ve got flood warnings and temporary traffic lights.

The Midlands, blog readers, is wet. Properly wet. The sort of wet that seeps into your bones, your boots, and even your plans. The sort that makes you question why you ever thought moving closer to the river was a good idea. But when you’re a syndicate member, and your peg is practically shouting your name every time the clouds break, you do what any self-respecting river botherer does you clock off work early and attempt to outfox the Coventry traffic. Easier said than done.

Now, I start work early. Crack of dawn sort of early. My commute, at least in theory, is a respectable seventeen miles, twenty minutes of mostly tolerable road. In practice though, the return journey can be anything from forty minutes to a full hour of grinding frustration a long, exhaust-huffing parade of brake lights and bad tempers.

Between the roadworks, temporary traffic lights, and the never-ending HS2 saga (which, by the look of it, will still be “under construction” by the time I’m old and grey(er)), it’s become a test of patience and lung capacity. The sheer volume of CO₂ those poor commuters are pumping out daily could probably power the International Space Station for a week.

So yes, leaving at 4:00pm felt like a small victory. I managed to pull up to the stretch just as the bats began to twitch in the treeline  that sweet spot where the light starts to fade but there’s still enough glow to get the rods out without fumbling like a blindfolded magician. The syndicate stretch, bless it, makes life easier. No long hauls or muddy slogs. Just park up behind the peg, kettle on, and bask in that smug sense of convenience.

Now, I treated myself and I use the word treated loosely to one of those Temu LED courtesy light upgrades. “Loss-leading” is an understatement. The thing could guide aircraft if angled incorrectly. Flick it on and I half expect to see Richard Dreyfuss appear from the reeds humming the Close Encounters theme. Still, it’s handy. Bright enough to see what I’m doing, but also bright enough to make every moth in Warwickshire think I’m hosting a disco.

I opted for simple tactics no fancy rigs, no bags of voodoo powders or exotic pastes that smell like a trawler’s bilge. Just a pungent krill groundbait, a stinky Robin Red pellet, and a wrap of paste to round it all off. The swim choice? Barbara’s old haunt. She of the bend in the willow and the tale of the one that got caught but never forgotten. If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this river, it’s that chub love a bit of nostalgia.

 The river, mind you, was absolutely banging through. One of those proper restless moods where everything’s in motion twigs, leaves, whole branches doing the hokey-cokey midstream. 

Every ten minutes I was recasting, clearing the debris, muttering under my breath like some sort of riverbank priest offering up sacrifices to the gods of flow and fortune. Huge rafts of junk were coming down, and my line looked like it had developed its own mossy ecosystem by the time I reeled in.

The bites, or lack thereof, didn’t help matters. One solitary chub pull that half-hearted pluck that makes you sit up straight and hold your breath, only for it to amount to absolutely nothing. 

The sort of tease that keeps you there another hour even when you know it’s pointless. Still, I persevered, as we all do.

At least the new Trakker Scout chair lived up to its billing. By god, it’s comfortable. The kind of comfort that makes you question why you’ve been perching on glorified ironing boards all these years. 

Now my restless legs a legacy of too many stationary commutes gave up protesting for once. I could’ve stayed there all night, listening to the water and pretending the world beyond the bank didn’t exist.

How Drennan’s James Denison he of the 40 Rivers Challenge fame manages to sit biteless for hours on end is beyond me. The man’s got the patience of a monk. I’d have had the bite alarms out by now, flashing like a slot machine and probably frightening every fish within a mile radius. But no, not tonight. Tonight was quiet, calm, almost meditative in its frustration.

No northern lights to report either though half the internet seems to think they were visible somewhere north of Birmingham. The sky stayed its usual murky shade of Midlands grey, heavy and brooding, but somehow still comforting. It didn’t rain, which was a small mercy, and even though I blanked, there was a certain peace in that. 

Sometimes it’s not about the catching  it’s about the being there. The slow rhythm of the river, the hiss of the wind in the reeds, and the faint hum of the LED light that could probably be seen from space.

The river’s starting to colour up nicely now, and with the forecast promising yet another day of relentless rain tomorrow, at least it’ll get the flush through it needs. A proper cleansing, a reset. The kind of flow that wakes up the gravel, shifts the snags, and whispers promises of better days ahead.

So no, I didn’t catch. But I did escape. And in the grand scheme of things — given the gridlock, the chaos, and the constant drizzle of modern life — that feels like a win

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.140 (Canal Zander)

It was one of those mornings when you wake up earlier than intended, stare at the ceiling for a bit, and think, “What the heck am I doing with my life?” Well, that’s a bit dramatic, but you get the drift. It was Sunday, the day of rest unless, of course, you’re an angler, in which case it’s the day of trudging about in the damp, lugging tackle that weighs roughly the same as a baby elephant, and convincing yourself it’s “relaxing.”

The nearby village had a Remembrance Parade later in the morning. I fancied a nose at the preparations  there’s something solemn yet heartwarming about seeing everyone line up, medals shining, the band warming up, and the vicar trying not to look too annoyed at the teenagers vaping behind the bus stop. 

Sadly, a prior engagement meant I couldn’t stay for the event itself, but it got me out of bed at least, which is half the battle on a Sunday.

Now, what to do with this unexpected slice of morning? The rivers are, to use the technical term, pants. Low, clear, and about as inspiring as a lukewarm cup of tea. 

Still, as I write this, there’s been some heavy overnight rain, and the forecast promises some proper downpours in the week ahead. Maybe, just maybe, those fickle drops will find their way into our local waterways. 

We’ve somehow managed to be in that annoying meteorological bubble that avoids every bit of rain the rest of the country gets. Everyone else is out there moaning about floods, and we’re stood on dust-crusted banks praying for a drizzle.

But hope, as they say, springs eternal. A bit of colour in the river would do wonders for the fishing  get those wary barbel and chub to stop skulking about in their hidey holes and start behaving like proper fish again. In the meantime, though, I needed something to scratch the itch.

So, I thought canal Zander! The fanged marauders of the cut. They’re never too fussy, right? Always up for a snack, especially on a gloomy morning. There’s a marina just down the road where the water’s usually a murky brown stew of diesel, duck poo, and dreams. Perfect habitat for a Zed.

Except, of course, today it looked like the Caribbean. Honestly, I could see my deadbait over a metre down a shimmering silver slab of nothing-happening-ness. Zander love a bit of murk, that mysterious twilight zone where they can ambush anything foolish enough to blink twice. But this? This was gin-clear, mirror-calm, and about as inviting as a swimming pool at a naturist camp.

Now, usually, the place is a hive of activity. Holiday boaters coming and going, diesel fumes swirling about, and the occasional argument about mooring rights drifting across the water — all the lovely chaos that stirs up the bottom and makes the Zander feel right at home. But today? Peaceful. Too peaceful. Like the set of a crime drama where the detective’s about to find a body in the reeds.

Still, optimism intact, I set up two deadbait rods. Nothing fancy an overdepth in-line float set-up on both, because, well, I like to keep it traditional. Maybe a Zander sleeper rod and a bream rod would have been more sensible, but when did sensible ever feature in my fishing decisions? Exactly.

Two hours later, the only thing stirred was my coffee. The sun crept up, the water sparkled mockingly, and I started to realise I might as well have been dangling a Mars Bar on a shoelace. Not a tap, not a pull, not even the half-hearted nudge of a suicidal perch. Nada. Zilch. Nothing.

I even tried to convince myself that maybe, just maybe, I’d missed a subtle tremor on the float. You know that internal argument you have where you’re desperate for any sign of life? “Did that just twitch? No… probably wind. But maybe?” You end up staring so hard at the float that your eyes start to water, and you convince yourself it’s all part of the plan. It wasn’t.

Eventually, boredom won. The sun was now properly up, the dog walkers had started to appear, and I could feel the judgement radiating off them as they passed that look of “he’s been there for hours and hasn’t caught a thing.” Which, to be fair, was entirely accurate.

So I packed up, trudged back to the car with that special combination of disappointment and mild self-loathing that only anglers truly understand. The best part of the morning? The bacon sandwich waiting at home.

Still, I suppose that’s fishing for you all hope, no guarantee, and a constant reminder that nature has a sense of humour. Next time, though, with a bit of rain and a tinge of colour in the water, I reckon the Zeds might just come out to play. Until then, I’ll just keep lying to myself about “enjoying the peace and quiet.”

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.40

Now you know things have gone a bit daft when an evening at the cricket ground costs roughly the same as a weekend away in the Peak District. But there we were Edgbaston Cricket Ground, me, the missus, and the kids, waiting for the much-hyped drone light show. 

It was one of those damp Midlands evenings where you can almost hear the clouds laughing at you. The announcer said, “The show will begin shortly,” and right on cue, the heavens opened like someone had unscrewed the lid on Birmingham.

I’m not exaggerating when I say the rain began literally as the drones took off. Hundreds of tiny lights buzzing about in formation like techno fireflies while a collective groan rippled through the poncho-wearing crowd. 

Still, fair play the display was impressive. They made all sorts of shapes and moved to the music, fish, sloths, a lion, even what looked suspiciously like a giant emoji at one point. Modern 2025 Britain, eh? I had to ask Sam about pronouns at one point, ignorant, yeah no doubt about it. 

The kids thought it was the best thing since sliced bread. Probably because they’d just inhaled £14.95’s worth of “street food” chicken and chips  three lonely strips of breaded poultry sitting next to a sad pile of fries, served in a cardboard tray that probably cost more than the actual meal. The lad said it was “alright,” which at that price point is basically a Michelin star review.

The wife and I gave the menu a once-over and nearly choked. £12.95 for a pork and stuffing batch. I mean, I like a bit of pork, but I draw the line at remortgaging for it. “Bugger that,” she said, and I nodded like a man who’d just been spared a financial crisis. £26 for two rolls? 

Still, the show was grand. The lights danced, the music swelled, and for a few minutes we all forgot the drizzle. Then, as the last drone descended, reality reasserted itself:

By Saturday, I was ready for a reset that special kind of therapy only a riverbank can provide. Blog Reader Baz Peck messaged me on Friday: he’d been on the Warwickshire Avon before and caught a couple of proper barbel pristine, bronze, and smugly photogenic. 

He always does well, does Baz. Probably whispers Latin poetry to his pellets or something.

So, I packed up the gear, made a flask of strong tea, and headed to the syndicate stretch for a few hours before dusk. The plan was simple: scale things down a bit. A small banded pellet, a neat little PVA bag of freebies, and a bucket of misplaced optimism. No fancy rigs, no faff just a bit of simplicity. Sometimes I think I spend more time “refining my approach” than actually catching fish.

The river looked gorgeous. The sort of moody autumn flow that makes you glad you dragged yourself out. A few leaves drifting past, the water just tinged enough with colour to hide a fish or two. The kind of scene that could calm the angriest man alive or at least distract him from the price of pork batches.

Signs of life from the start: a swirl under the far bank, a couple of knocks on the tip that got the heart racing, a faint waft of “maybe tonight’s the night.” But, of course, it wasn’t. Two hours, a few recasts, nothing doing. I started to wonder if I’d sat on the wrong peg entirely or if Baz had fished it empty the night before.

By the time dusk rolled in, Orion had appeared overhead the celestial angler, I call him. Belt, sword, and the faint outline of a bivvy bag if you squint hard enough. 

The air had that crisp bite to it, the sort that makes your flask tea taste like nectar. And then bang. Out of nowhere, the rod top hammered round, and I thought, here we go — Barbara the Barbel has clocked in for her evening shift.

Heart pounding, I lifted into it, expecting that deep, thumping power of a proper barbel run. Instead… a couple of half-hearted headshakes and a sulky plod. A chub. 

A decent enough one, but not the monster I’d imagined. Probably about as impressed with me as I was with him.

Still, can’t complain. A bend in the rod is a bend in the rod, and at least it wasn’t another blank. I slipped him back, sat down, and poured the last of my tea, watching fireworks burst in the distance. Somewhere behind me, the muffled sound of kids shouting and dogs barking the soundtrack of suburban England.

A couple of shooting stars zipped across the sky. I made a wish, obviously though given my luck, I’ll probably just hook a carrier bag next time. The night drew in, the temperature dipped, and I decided to pack up while I could still feel my fingers.

Walking back to the car, I thought about the weekend as a whole. The rain, the drones, the overpriced food, the chub that thought it was a barbel. 

And yet, in a strange way, it all felt right. Life might be getting sillier by the minute street food menus written in Comic Sans, teenagers on e-bikes doing wheelies through red lights, drones replacing fireworks but the river never changes. It just flows, quietly, waiting for the next fool with a rod and a flask.

No barbel this time, but a pocketful of peace, a sniff of starlight, and a renewed appreciation for the simple stuff. You can’t put a price on that. Well unless you’re the bloke selling chicken strips at Edgbaston.

Now can we have some much-needed rain, please? Not the “three-minute drizzle that darkens the pavement then disappears” sort, but a proper, biblical, frog-drowning downpour that actually gets the rivers moving again. 

Because honestly, the state of the Leam and the Alne at the minute you could practically step across them in a pair of Crocs and not even get damp socks.

This is supposed to be prime fishing time. The leaves are falling, the air smells faintly of bonfires, and the nights have that satisfying chill where a flask of tea feels like medicine. But what have we got? Trickles. Actual trickles. You could almost hear the fish coughing down there, begging for a bit of cover. The Leam’s barely wet enough to float a duck, and the Alne well, I’ve seen puddles in Tesco car parks with more flow.

And don’t get me started on the Warwickshire Avon. It’s so clear it looks like someone’s nicked all the colour out of it with a Brita filter. You can see every pebble, every leaf, every disinterested chub sulking behind a boulder pretending he’s not home. You might as well throw your rig in the bath and hope Barbara the Barbel climbs in for a visit.

It’s weird, isn’t it? All summer we were moaning about floods, and now we’re begging for rain. Nature’s got a wicked sense of humour. I reckon the weather gods sit around watching anglers like some kind of cosmic reality show.

“Look, Dave, they’ve just put their barbel gear in the car. Right, turn the taps off for three weeks.”

So here I am, staring at a forecast that promises “showers” that never materialise, and wondering whether it’s time to abandon the rivers altogether and go back to the canals. At least the canals have some colour — well, they used to. Even they’re looking unnervingly clear lately, which just feels wrong. The ducks are confused, the dog walkers can see the shopping trolleys, and I swear I spotted a perch looking embarrassed about being visible.

I’m half-tempted to perform some kind of rain dance probably in the garden, probably after a couple of pints of Champion, and almost certainly to the amusement of the neighbours. But desperate times call for desperate measures. A nice few days of steady rain, a bit of chocolate in the water, and maybe, just maybe, we can get back to fishing the rivers properly, rather than sitting at home scrolling weather apps and shaking our heads.

Until then, I’ll keep the gear ready, the bait in the freezer, and the kettle on standby. Because one thing’s certain: when the rain finally comes — and it will — we’ll all be out there, pretending we never moaned about it.