The Tiny River Alne - Turkey Teeth and Turbidimeters

Christmas Day had been one of those full-contact affairs where food and drink don’t so much get consumed as administered. By bedtime I was less a man than a festive storage unit, sloshing faintly when I turned over. So when dawn crept in the following morning and asked the question, “Fishing or sofa?”, I answered like any sensible angler would: bugger it, let’s go fishing. After all, the Warwickshire Alne had been dishing out chub like a dodgy croupier only days before, and I wasn’t about to let roast potatoes be the boss of me.

I arrived just before sunrise and a fifteen minute journey down the country roads, not one other car in sight!! Now that peculiar time when everything looks promising because you can’t see enough to be disappointed yet. 

The river was almost back to its fighting weight levels still carrying a hint of colour, and every swim looked like it was quietly harbouring something with opinions. Recent form suggested optimism was justified I’d caught chub hand over fist here not long ago and besides, I hadn’t seen another angler on this stretch in so long that I half-expected the fish to have forgotten what hooks were.

The plan, such as it was, involved two rods and a sense of misplaced confidence. One maggot feeder rod for sensible business, and the usual scaled-down bread feeder rod for artistic expression.

Last time I’d been plagued by lightning-fast bites that felt suspiciously dace / roach-like the sort of taps that mock you so today was about confirmation. Science, if you will, but wetter.

Half an hour passed. Nothing. No bites, no liners, not even a courtesy knock. I stared at the motionless tip like a man trying to hypnotise a television. Maggots ignored. Bread snubbed. The river sat there pretending innocence. Something wasn’t right, and it took an ill-advised rove back to the car for the penny to drop. Maybe the float next time ? would that fair any better ?

 The Alne, traitor that it is, had cleared. Not “a bit clearer”, but near gin-clear, the sort of clarity that lets fish see your mistakes, your rig, and possibly your soul. 

In a couple of deeper swims I could actually see the bottom, where chunks of bread sat on the gravel glowing like a 60 year olds Turkey teeth. It was less “subtle presentation” and more “HERE IS FOOD”. No wonder the fish had legged it they’d be practically gift-wrapped for every cormorant with ambitions.

Still, I was there now, and anglers are nothing if not stubborn. I set off on a proper rove, leapfrogging swims like a man searching for lost car keys. 

Swim after swim went by with nothing more than optimism erosion, until eventually somewhere around the fifth or sixth the rod tip finally twitched. 

Then again. Then bent. Two small chub followed, near-swingable and entirely unremarkable, but glorious all the same. A blank avoided is a victory worth celebrating, even if it only merits a quiet nod and a sip of lukewarm tea.

At that point wisdom or possibly lethargy intervened. With the river in exhibition mode and the fish clearly attending a different engagement, I called it early. Besides, the Jimny looked like it had been auditioning for a clay-pigeon shoot. 

Recent field driving had left the wheel arches carrying geological layers, and drastic action was required preferably involving someone else’s driveway. Mission accomplished. Mud redistributed, windows rediscovered, vehicle vaguely recognisable again. I even found a colour under there I don’t remember buying. 

As for the surplus maggots, they’ve been sentenced to swimming lessons, which means the next outing will involve trotting and renewed optimism a dangerous but necessary condition.

So no Boxing Day blank. Not a classic, not one for the archives, but a proper little ramble all the same. Sometimes fishing isn’t about numbers or monsters it’s about getting out, getting muddy, and reminding yourself why the sofa never really stood a chance.

Job done.

River Arrow - Festive Fluvial and Fettle

 “So where to go, what to do?” Shakespeare never actually said that while staring into a grey Warwickshire sky with an easterly wind knifing through his thermals, but if he’d been an angler instead of a playwright, he absolutely would have. Boy it was cold the wind was proper biting !!

Now Christmas Eve normally finds me grafting away, dutifully shovelling hours into the working week like a Victorian chimney sweep, helping to prop up the nation’s delicate financial ecosystem of 29% public sector pension pots, unwanted hotel dwellers, and people who seem to have mastered the art of not going to work but moan more than I do !!. But not this year. No. This year I decided in a rare flash of self-preservation that I was taking time off. Proper time off. The sort involving rivers, bread mash, and talking to birds that don’t answer back.

With that decision made, and my halo of festive goodwill already beginning to slip at a jaunty angle, I found myself pointing the car toward the River Arrow, downstream of the familiar Alne haunts I’ve been haunting for years. 

The Arrow, for me, has always been one of those “I really should fish it more” rivers the angling equivalent of a dusty gym membership. The stretches I have fished are the proper countryside bits, where the only witnesses to your casting disasters are cows, pheasants, and the occasional judgmental heron. This time, though, I fancied something closer to town  but not too close. Close enough to be convenient, far enough away to avoid dog walkers with opinions.

The wind, of course, had other ideas. A proper bitter easterly the kind that doesn’t just chill you, but actively resents your presence. Still, I was the only angler daft enough to be out there, which immediately lifted the spirits. 

There’s something deeply satisfying about having a river entirely to yourself on Christmas Eve, like you’ve somehow booked the whole thing out for a private function. The setup was simplicity itself: roving tactics, liquidised bread doing its floral-powered thing in the margins, and a thumbnail-sized piece of bread on the hook. Honest, humble, and faintly ridiculous just how chub fishing should be.

The first swim was a classic “this should work” effort: snaggy, a back eddy, a bit of flow and absolutely lifeless. Not even a nibble. Just the river quietly judging me. Then, on the tail of the back eddy not where I’d have put money on it the rod hooped over like it had been insulted. Chub number one. Then two. Then three. All on subsequent casts, all but one taking the bait on the drop, all apparently furious about it. The swim was shallow, absurdly so, and completely against the rulebook which is exactly why the chub had set up camp there. Fish love nothing more than proving anglers wrong.

Each one gave a cracking account of itself, scrapping their way straight into the fast water like they’d just remembered they were late for something important downstream. Eventually the swim died, as good swims always do not with a whimper, but with a smug sense of completion. So on the rove I went, weaving along the Arrow and skirting stretches of the Alne, picking swims like a magpie picks shiny things. Nine chub followed. Not monsters, not record breakers, but perfect little powerhouses on light, balanced tackle. My sort of fishing. The sort where every fish feels like it matters.

Now, I’ll admit, there’s a special place in my heart for a float burying itself with theatrical flair, but these bites were something else entirely. Savage. Proper “are you awake at the back?” takes. Some of the hardest-hitting chub bites I’ve had since I dedicated a rod specifically to the species. No dithering, no committee meetings just instant, decisive violence. Christmas goodwill clearly does not extend to bread-on-the-drop.

Wildlife sightings added to the day’s entertainment. I disturbed a cormorant the black death itself which flapped off looking mildly inconvenienced rather than ashamed, which tells you everything you need to know. Later, I had a cracking chat with a club committee member who’d been fishing the river for fifty years. Fifty years. A walking archive. 

Sadly, he’d only been shooting grey squirrels with his air rifle, not the aforementioned aquatic menace, but still a man with stories. He spoke of decline, of changes, of rivers that once gave more freely post the introduction of the otters. The usual tale, told quietly, without theatrics. The river listened. So did I.

All in all, I faired rather well, and it reinforced something I already knew but occasionally forget: roving is king on small rivers. Keep moving, keep thinking, keep avoiding the trap of sitting in one place convincing yourself that “it’ll happen any minute now” while your toes go numb and your optimism evaporates. Rivers like this reward curiosity, not stubbornness.

So there we have it. A Christmas Eve spent exactly how it should be alone by the river, hands smelling faintly of bread, mind cleared out by cold air and moving water. Not a bad way to press pause on the grind before launching headfirst into another year of it.

Merry Christmas, blog readers. Tight lines, warm fingers, and I’ll catch you on the other side, I'm off to the pub !!

Warwickshire Avon - Muck and Malfeasance

I woke up at a time usually reserved for milkmen, burglars, and people who claim they’re “just popping out for a paper” and are never seen again. My body clock, once a reliable Swiss affair, is now more like a novelty sundial purchased at a garden centre in 1994. The daily grind has seen to that. Wide awake. Brain fizzing. Outside: pitch black, the sort of black that makes you think the sun has formally resigned. Middle of summer, I’d have been gone like a ferret down a trouser leg, rod under arm, optimistic to the point of delusion. But this is winter, and winter does not negotiate.

So there I lay, tossing, turning, and mentally fishing rivers I wasn’t yet allowed to see. The Alne made a brief appearance, as did the Arrow, the Leam, and the Stour, all filing past my half-asleep conscience like contestants on some damp, provincial version of MasterChef. Nice rivers, all of them. Worthy rivers. But then the Warwickshire Avon cleared its throat, shuffled forward, and quietly won without having to say a word. The Avon does that. Top trumps. Or at least it usually does.

I want a decent chub, I've not caught one in a while !!

By the time I arrived, daylight had grudgingly switched itself on, like a teenager being dragged out of bed. The river was coming down nicely, having recently visited every field in the county and taken notes. It looked alive, purposeful, and as it turned out suspiciously foamy. Not the cheerful, champagne fizz of healthy water, but the sort of foam that looks like it knows things. Brown things. Things you’d rather not think about while holding a loaf of bread and a lump of cheesepaste.

Now as I stood there, watching turd-coloured accumulations hugging the margins like guilty secrets, the phrase “River Trumps” took on an altogether more literal meaning. I’m no scientist, but when a river starts looking like a badly poured pint of stout that’s been left out overnight, one’s confidence takes a knock. Still, this stretch is dear to my heart. I know every nook, cranny, crease, lie, slack, and treacherous ankle-twister. If there was a fish willing to ignore whatever Severn Trent had been up to, surely it would be here.

It wasn’t.

I roved. I persisted. I alternated between bread and cheesepaste like a man conducting a scientific trial with a control group of zero. The river was still well up, but those slacks the good slacks, the ones that have whispered sweet promises in the past were utterly mute. Not a pluck. Not a pull. Not even a half-hearted nibble that lets you pretend something is happening. Nothing. The rod tip may as well have been attached to a fence post.

Eventually, I did what all anglers do when optimism finally packs its bags: I moved. Off to the syndicate stretch, where at least the scenery is familiar enough to disappoint you politely. 

Here, at last, the rod tip twitched. A pluck. Then another. Small fish, almost certainly, doing that infuriating thing where they mouth the bait with the delicacy of a tea sommelier. 

Nothing strikable. Nothing you could put a name to. Just enough activity to stop you leaving immediately, which is the river’s cruellest trick.

And then because anglers are nothing if not hopeful idiots  I moved again.

On route to another stretch, I passed that swim. You know the one. The sort of place that stops you mid-stride, where fast water is checked by a fallen tree and spills into a crease of slower, darker water downstream. It looked criminal. It looked illegal. It looked like it should come with a warning label. So naturally, I stopped.

Five minutes later five actual, honest minutes the bite came. Not a question. Not a suggestion. An unmissable, arm-wrenching, full-blooded bite. And I missed it.

Blog readers I missed it so comprehensively that I briefly considered whether I’d imagined the entire thing. 

The fish felt the prick of the size 6 hook and, quite reasonably, decided it had better things to do with its life. I stood there, replaying the moment in forensic detail, wondering if it had been one of the big chub that used to live here. Many of them died, or were moved, during the pollution incident two and a half years ago an event still spoken of in hushed tones and expletives.

I roved on. Three more swims that looked perfect. Textbook. The sort of swims you photograph and bore non-anglers with. Nothing. Not even a courtesy knock. Eventually, I returned to the scene of the crime. The swim where I’d had the bite. It stared back at me with complete indifference, like a pub that has barred you for life.

And that was that.

No fish. Plenty of steps. Cold fingers. A head full of questions, most of them beginning with “Why” and ending with “again”. But still and this is important it was better than being stuck behind a computer screen. Better than emails. Better than meetings. Better than pretending to care about things that don’t live in rivers

As I trudged back, it struck me that I hadn’t seen another angler all morning. Not one. Which leads me, inevitably, to Severn Trent. So go on then, lads. Fess up. Have you been opening the poop floodgates again? 

Because the river looked like it had been through something. And while the fish may forgive, forget, or simply leave, the rest of us are left wondering why a perfectly good morning on a beloved river has to feel like casting into a plumbing experiment gone wrong.

Still… there’s always tomorrow. And anglers, like fools and poets, never really learn. 🎣

Warwickshire Stour - Tumble and Tatterdemalion

The Warwickshire Avon, having recently decided it would quite like to impersonate the North Sea for a few days, was clearly in no mood for sensible conversation, so I did what any right-minded angler does when faced with several thousand tons of angry brown water and floating detritus: I legged it up one of its tributaries and pretended this was Plan A all along. 

The Warwickshire Stour, bless it, was doing that lovely post-flood thing where it looks apologetic, as if to say, “Yes, sorry about all that nonsense earlier, I’ve tidied myself up now,” and had settled into that deep olive green that makes you believe against all evidence that today might be the day. Roving a small river with a quiver rod is one of those pursuits that sounds idyllic when written down but in reality involves a lot of heavy breathing, slippery banks, and talking to yourself while wedged between hawthorn and nettles wondering how you’ll get back out again without ringing Mountain Rescue.

You do need to be reasonably fit for this sort of fishing, or at least reasonably optimistic about your own fitness, because every swim is either two feet lower than expected or six feet further away, and gravity is always watching, waiting for you to relax for just one second.

Which is precisely what happened in the very last swim of the first stretch, when I went from “carefully transferring weight sideways onto my left foot” to “Eddie the Eagle Edwards about to launch from the ski jump” in roughly the time it takes a chub to reject a maggot. I’ve met Eddie, incidentally, and I can now say with some authority that I briefly understood his life choices. 

I went arse over tit in a manner that would have delighted any passing dog walkers (thankfully no public access), landing firmly on my backside while clinging to the TFG River and Stream rod like it was the last helicopter out of Saigon. The rod survived. I survived. My dignity is still somewhere up that bank, possibly lodged in a bramble.

I arrived at dawn, as all proper fishing stories insist you must, to find the river wearing a rather fetching shade of green one of those colours that makes you feel clever for noticing it. George Burton, of Float, Flight and Flannel fame, has been poking about these hallowed waters recently and apparently couldn’t believe just how featured the place is, which is true if by “featured” you mean “every swim looks perfect until you try to fish it.” 

This is one of those club stretches that feels like it ought to be guarded by a medieval charter and a bloke called Geoffrey who disapproves of your footwear. A few days earlier the river had been over its banks and rearranging the furniture, but now it had fined down nicely, and although it wasn’t chocolate brown always a colour that smells faintly of hope it was in that in-between state where you convince yourself a big roach might finally slip up and make a mistake.

Of course, olive green Stour water doesn’t whisper “roach,” it bellows “chub,” and sure enough that’s what turned up. Nic from Avon Angling was on a different stretch altogether and had spent four hours trotting maggots for precisely nothing, which immediately filled me with sympathy and the quiet, shameful relief that it wasn’t me.

I managed four chub and lost one in the reeds, with the best nudging 3lb 1oz, a solid fish that fought like they’d been personally offended by my presence. It was tough going, though far fewer bites than expected and that’s the sort of day that slowly eats away at your confidence while pretending everything is fine. You tell yourself it’s “interesting” and “making you think,” when really it’s just the river politely declining all your invitations.

After the now-legendary arse-over-tit incident thankfully conducted out of sight of the general public, though possibly observed by a squirrel I decided the river upstream had had enough of me and headed downstream to another stretch of the Stour, the scene of a recent personal tragedy involving a roach of frankly unreasonable proportions. 

Three swims later, nothing of note had happened unless you count the odd minnow rattling the tip as “action,” which I don’t, no matter how desperate I am. Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about fishing a place that gives you nothing back; it feels honest, like it’s reminding you who’s really in charge here.

All told, it was a tough morning, the sort that doesn’t produce heroic photographs or exaggerated pub stories, but it felt good. Fishing during the working week has a slightly illicit thrill to it, like bunking off school but with better sandwiches. 

And as I packed up, muddy, sore, and faintly greener than when I arrived, it occurred to me that we’ve turned a corner now. The days will start to stretch themselves out again, slowly but surely, and before long this fall, this cold, this slipping down banks like an underfunded ski jumper will all seem like part of the bargain. Which, of course, it is and I’ll be back for more

The Tiny River Alne - Gonkholes and Gudgeonology

Thursday delivered rain not so much in drops as in volumes, biblical in ambition if not quite in duration. The sort of rain that causes river levels to rise with all the restraint of a politician spotting an expenses loophole. Every local river had been in flood, doing that thing rivers do when reminded who is actually in charge. Thankfully the little Warwickshire Alne, that most mercurial of watercourses, rises like a startled cat and drops again just as quickly, leaving behind only suspicion, turbidity, and a faint smell of uncertainty.

So this first session after finishing work for a much needed two week Christmas break the lunchtime before left me with a choice that wasn’t really a choice at all. Canals or flowing water. The canals would be there, of course flat, patient, faintly resentful but flowing water won as it always does. Flowing water has intent. It’s doing something. Even when it’s doing absolutely nothing useful to the angler, it’s still doing it with conviction.

The Alne, though, is a moody little beast. Chocolate brown at the best of times, and after a deluge it resembles less a river and more a moving accusation. You never quite know how it will fare until you’re there, standing on the bank, trying to read its intentions like tea leaves stirred by a guilty conscience. Twelve to sixteen hours earlier it would have been over the banks, liberating worms, drowning rats, and generally rearranging the furniture of its own ecosystem.

But when I arrived, miracle of miracles, it was back within its banks. Still brown, mind. Brown in a way that suggested light entering it had signed a waiver. This was not a day for finesse. This was not a day for subtlety. This was a worm day.

A worm day with a maggot cocktail, no less. A combination chosen not because it is elegant, but because in water this coloured, subtlety is just arrogance with a hook. The river looked about as clear as Severn Trent’s conscience, following yet another “unfortunate discharge” into local waterways a phrase that somehow manages to sound both accidental and deliberate at the same time. Bugger the environment, let’s pay huge bonuses to the fat cats. The fish can always learn to hold their breath, can’t they?

Anyway.

Simple tactics, really. Find the slack or steady water and send a wriggly worm on what can only be described as a swimming lesson with poor prospects. No ledgering sophistication, no float wizardry just letting gravity, current, and blind optimism do the work.

The morning was misty in that soft, apologetic way that makes everything look slightly unreal, like the river itself wasn’t entirely convinced it wanted to be there. Still, it didn’t take long to get the first signs of life. Minnows arrived first, as they always do, like excitable children at the front of a queue, pecking, fussing, and generally being a nuisance without actually committing to anything.

Then, out of nowhere, a thumping bite.

I struck.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

That hollow, soul-sinking moment where the rod tip springs back and you’re left wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Was it a fish? A stick? A hallucination brought on by acid and low expectations? We’ll never know. The river, naturally, declined to comment.

I halved the worm because if there’s one thing fishing teaches you, it’s that confidence should always be immediately abandoned and got it back out again. This time, when I struck, there was weight. Proper weight. Alive weight. The rod nodded, the line trembled, and for a brief, glorious moment I wondered if something altogether unreasonable had made a terrible mistake.

What is this?

Oh.

A gonk.

A big, fat gudgeon.

NICE.

I love it when gudgeon turn up. Truly love it. They are everything good about fishing distilled into a fish the size of a man’s finger. Bold biters, no nonsense, and looking for all the world like barbel in miniature, as if someone had photocopied a proper fish and forgotten to adjust the scale.

This one was a cracker, all whiskers and attitude, and I admired it like you would a small but perfectly engineered tool. Then back it went, no doubt to tell its mates about the terrifying sky-worm incident.

Bites, after that, were hard to come by. As were fishable swims. The river had that freshly rearranged look gravel shifted, banks scoured, flow lines altered just enough to make last season’s knowledge completely redundant. I worked my way downstream, poking worm into likely-looking steadies, waiting, listening, thinking.

Three more gudgeon followed, each greeted with the enthusiasm usually reserved for far larger species. Because frankly, in conditions like these, anything that bites deserves respect.

In the most downstream swim, I hooked a dace. A proper silver flash, briefly airborne in that way dace do, before in a moment of stupidity entirely my own I decided to swing it to hand. It dropped off, naturally, because the fishing gods have an excellent sense of timing. Thankfully not one of the massive dace that do reside in this small Warwickshire river. Just a small one. Thank God. Losing a big dace would have required reflection. Possibly a sulk.

I had expected the stretch to myself, and I was not disappointed. No dog walkers, no well-meaning passers-by asking “caught owt then?” Just me, the river, and the low-level hum of existential satisfaction that comes from being exactly where you ought to be, even if nothing much is happening.

The fishing wasn’t exactly productive compared to the massive chub haul. But so what?

I was out in nature, boots damp, hands smelling faintly of worm, mind pleasantly emptied of emails, deadlines, and general nonsense. And that’s good for the wellbeing, isn’t it?

Well.

It is for me anyway.

And if a big fat gudgeon is the price of admission, I’ll pay it every time.

Warwickshire Avon - Watercraft and Woe

My big chub campaign has, at present, ground to a halt so abrupt you’d think I’d hit a submerged shopping trolley. The last chub over five pounds graced my net back in October and since then it’s been like chasing ghosts with fins. Still, the river was fining down nicely, looking all moody and seductive, whispering promises of slab-sided winter chevin lurking under snags and slacks. Naturally, I packed the Jimny, convinced myself today was the day, and set off full of misplaced confidence and cheesepaste.

I arrived to find the car park empty. Completely empty. Normally this stretch resembles a Halfords sale with rods, barrows and blokes called Dave everywhere, but winter had scared off the fair-weather brigade. You know the type if a jumper or raincoat is required, the rods are ceremoniously hung up until June. I, however, soldiered on, because nothing says “good decisions” like standing next to cold water with lobworms in your pocket.

Armed with lobworms, bread and cheesepaste (which smelled like something the dog once buried and regretted), I kicked off with the paste and a feeder rammed with liquidised bread. I don’t know this stretch intimately, but years of watercraft and blind optimism told me the chub had to be there. This bit of river gets baited to within an inch of its life in summer, and the fish respond accordingly by growing large, smug and uncooperative.

The swim that had done the business previously? Stone dead. Not even a courtesy knock. So I began roving, leapfrogging swims like an overly hopeful salmon. One thing about liquidised bread is that it can draw fish from afar, or at least that’s what I told myself while repeatedly returning to the same empty swims like a man checking an unplugged kettle.

Then it happened an unmissable bite. One of those full-on, rod-wrenching jobs that even a statue could hit. Naturally, I struck like I was swatting a wasp and smashed the rod straight into a branch to my right. Absolute textbook stuff. The fish, insulted by my incompetence, never came back. I stood there for a moment, reflecting on life choices and inspecting the rod like it might apologise, the problem is that bite that I missed, could be the trophy shot of dreams. 

More roving followed. Swim after swim offered nothing but cold fingers and rising doubt. I spooked a couple of cormorants, which probably explained everything the chub were likely holding a secret meeting somewhere out of sight, laughing at me while polishing their scales. 

The fish were sulking, and my confidence was leaking away faster than cheesepaste in a warm pocket.

After nearly two hours of this nonsense, another angler arrived and, in a moment of accidental wisdom, said, “Go where your head tells you.” This sounded profound enough to ignore everything I’d been doing and drive somewhere else entirely. So I did.

Off I went to a different stretch, navigating the Jimny down a track best described as “post-apocalyptic”, the high-profile tyres bravely soaking up potholes, puddles and geological features not found on most maps. I legged it to the peg, half-expecting to find it taken, but luck was briefly on my side the swim was free, despite a couple of anglers lurking nearby like vultures with thermos flasks.

The swim looked perfect. A lovely crease and a slack to the right, absolutely screaming “chub live here”. Five minutes in, another unmissable bite. Missed. Of course. I switched from bread back to cheesepaste, muttering darkly, and within ten minutes had plucks, taps and finally a proper, strikable bite. This time I connected.

The fight was spirited but sensible  no heart-stopping lunges, no net-busting drama so I knew it wasn’t a monster. Still, when that chub slid into the net it felt like winning the lottery with three numbers. A blank saver. One fish. Job done. That, predictably, was the only bite I had. The swim died, another swim followed suit, and before I knew it curfew loomed and I was packing up after nearly four hours of hope, effort and mild self-loathing.

So, no big chub glory this time, but with Christmas approaching and two glorious weeks off work on the horizon, I remain optimistic. The river owes me. The chub owe me. And eventually, one of them will pay up preferably something starting with a six, or even seven, that would nice wouldn't it. 

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.45

I must be, as they say in the old country, a glutton for punishment, because there I was again young Michael, trudging down to the syndicate stretch like some sort of half-hopeful, half-delusional Dickensian urchin with a rod. You’d think the repeated blanking would’ve put me off by now, but no this time I’d brought reinforcements: a pint and a half of maggots so past their best they were practically applying for a pension.

But the Avon looked a picture just that perfect height for trotting, the colour easing out like a teabag on its second dunk, and I thought, Surely this is it. Surely even I can’t mess this up. After all, every fish loves a maggot, especially one that smells like it’s been fermenting in the glovebox of a Vauxhall Astra since ‘98.

Now, there’s something almost spiritual about trotting a float down an English river therapeutic, even. A sort of piscatorial mindfulness. You cast, you mend the line, you watch the float glide downstream like a lazy waiter carrying your hopes and dreams on a red-tipped tray. It forces you to focus, to be present, to ignore life’s usual concerns like electricity bills, existential dread, and the lingering smell of those aforementioned maggots.

The rhythm does something to you. Cast… mend… drift… hope… despair… repeat. It’s basically yoga for anglers, except with more layers, more mud, and fewer people called “Saffron.” And the river, being a proper blue-space oasis, works its magic; cortisol drops, serotonin rises, and before long you’re smiling to yourself like a man who’s either at peace with nature or has finally lost the plot entirely.

Of course, catching a fish would help the whole experience along nicely, but even blanking has its charm. There’s a sense of purpose in the trying, a strange satisfaction in the persistence, and a feeling of accomplishment when you eventually remember where you left your rod rest. Besides, it’s the ultimate digital detox no screens, no notifications, no doomscrolling. Just you, the river, a float, and a pint of semi-sentient maggots plotting their escape.

Before the session even began, I decided to unleash my inner Heath Robinson and knock together a trotting pod from the sacred Box of Bits you know the one. Every angler has it: a chaotic archaeological dig of metal doodahs, plastic whatsits, and mysterious components you’re certain will be useful one day, even though you’ve no idea what they originally belonged to. And no, before you ask, I’m not throwing any of it away. That’s how civilisations collapse.

So there I was, rummaging through this angling Bermuda Triangle, emerging occasionally with relics like an Allen key last used in 2003 or a bankstick thread that may or may not have been part of a lawnmower. With the ingenuity of a man who refuses to spend 40 quid on a branded gadget, I cobbled together my masterpiece: bucket of bait steadfastly on the left for balance, rod support precariously on the right for ambition. A system so perfectly aligned that NASA would’ve asked for the blueprints if they didn’t look quite so… improvised.

But I tell you what job’s a good ’un. It stood there proud as punch on the bank, like a budget version of the Starship Enterprise, ready to guide my float serenely down the Avon. And as I stepped back to admire it in all its utilitarian glory, I felt a warm glow inside the kind that only comes from knowing you’ve built something with your own two hands… in, ok, 5 minutes. 

Whether it actually helps me catch anything is another question entirely, but between us, that’s never really stopped me before.

Now the frost had welded itself to the windscreen like a bailiff with a warrant, and scraping it off felt very much like I was being punished for crimes committed in a former life. Still, once mobile, I pointed the car down those fog-sodden country lanes where visibility is more a matter of faith than eyesight. Arriving at the syndicate stretch with fingers already numb and optimism slightly dented, I was greeted by that special winter stillness which suggests either piscatorial glory… or a thorough doing-over by events yet to unfold. A lovely morning, mind you. Absolutely lovely. Just cold enough to make you question your life choices.

Winter chub usually means bread for me, accompanied by my fetching marigold gloves haute couture for the serious angler but today had “maggot morning” written all over it. The river had shifted from that ghastly battleship grey to a pleasing olive green, the sort of colour that whispers possibility rather than screams despair. A handful of maggots deposited on the edge were clearly visible a couple of feet down, which is always encouraging, unless you’re the maggots. Trotting conditions looked spot on, so naturally I also put out a sleeper pike rod in the margin because, as we all tell ourselves, “you never know” which usually translates as “nothing will happen, but I’ll feel better for doing it.”

Tea was consumed initially. Maggots were catapulted little and often with the sort of discipline normally reserved for monks. The float began its steady, obedient journeys downstream, dipping and gliding as if rehearsed. 

This swim, I know, tends to deliver its bites right at the tail of the run, and so I waited… and waited… and waited some more. Half an hour passed before the float finally buried itself with conviction and I struck into what can only be described as a presence. Solid. Heavy. Sulking low in the water like it had an argument with the riverbed and refused to move.

What followed was a short but emotionally scarring encounter. Instead of charging left as all decent fish should, this thing powered right, heading with malicious intent towards a colossal snag and tree roots clearly designed by Satan himself.

I applied as much pressure as a size 20 hook and my nerves would allow, the 15ft Daiwa Connoisseur bending heroically and doing everything except filing a formal complaint. For a moment, just a moment, I thought I had it. 

Then — ping — and that was that. Done. Properly. Utterly. The river resumed its innocent flow, and I stared at the end tackle like a man examining the ruins of a once-promising relationship.

And that, dear reader, was that. No more bites. Not even a sniff. The pike rod may as well have been attached to a brick. By eleven the sun had burned off the fog and shone down on the river like some cruel celestial spotlight, illuminating my blank with brutal clarity. Another zero in the book. And yet… I packed up with a smile. Because I’d been out. In the frost. In the fog. There had been a fish. A real one. And hope, like maggots, is best introduced little and often.

But it got better,

Christmas, as any thinking angler knows, is a dangerous time. Not because of the cold, nor the enforced proximity to relatives who smell faintly of mothballs and regret but because it lulls a chap into thinking he’s “just popping out” when in fact he’s embarking upon a full-blown campaign of logistical chaos.

Thus it was that I found myself “with the rabble” a phrase which here denotes a loose flotilla of family members, hangers-on and those who appear whenever food or alcohol is mentioned allegedly to “sort the Christmas tree”. A noble errand. A wholesome errand. An errand which, through no fault of my own, required a stop at Wetherspoons.

Specifically The Dictum of Kenilworth Wetherspoons, which sounds less like a pub and more like a stern medieval ruling involving land rights and the beheading of lesser nobles. Inside, however, it was the usual festive Spoons tableau: sticky carpets, shouting televisions (I jest), and the unmistakable air of men who have been there since breakfast and intend to see Christmas through from the same barstool.

And then — reader, brace yourself — I saw it.

Byatt’s XXXmas Ale. £0.99 a pint.

Yes. Ninety. Nine. Pence.

At which point my internal risk-assessment committee (normally a robust and well-regulated body) immediately resigned en masse. I mean, what is a man to do? Walk past it? Pretend he didn’t see it? Leave value on the table? That way madness lies.

Now, I should clarify that Byatt’s XXXmas Ale is less a beer and more a seasonal suggestion. A dark and moody pint-shaped hint of malt, with undertones of “you’ll regret this later”. Still, rules are rules, and for under a pound one must conduct due diligence.

One pint became two. Two became three. Three became four at which point I realised I was in no fit state to drive, operate heavy machinery, or convincingly argue about fishing tackle on the internet.

Thankfully and here we pause for respectful silence The Wife intervened.

Sensing my predicament, she offered to drive. An act of seasonal generosity so profound it deserves its own stained-glass window. I accepted with grace, humility, and the slight wobble of a man who has done very well out of Christmas.

So yes, a round of applause if you please. Not for me I merely fulfilled my duty as a citizen faced with sub-quid ale but for sensible spouses everywhere who quietly save Christmas while we’re busy “just having the one”. The tree was sorted. The errands were completed. No laws were broken (that we know of). And peace descended upon the household, accompanied by the faint echo of Wetherspoons and the lingering warmth of ale that cost less than a Freddo.

Merry Christmas to all and to all designated drivers.