“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 !!
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