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.
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