Warwickshire Avon - Rammish and Rankness

Now if you’ve ever wondered why cheesepaste is basically the winter equivalent of chub kryptonite, picture a cold, grey river where everything sensible is hiding and trying to conserve energy except the chub, which apparently didn’t get the memo and is still waddling around with the appetite of a teenager let loose at an all-you-can-eat buffet. 

While most creatures in winter are thinking deep, philosophical thoughts like, “I shall not move unless absolutely necessary,” the chub is out there cruising the currents like a fridge on fins, sniffing around for its next questionable snack. Cheesepaste works because it smells like a dairy explosion (in the best possible way). Even in icy water, that bold, unmistakable aroma travels straight into a chub’s brain like a flashing neon sign saying, “FREE FOOD, LIMITED TIME ONLY.” And despite whatever internal fish-logic they might have, the chub’s stomach always wins the argument. 

One minute it’s saying, “We don’t really need to eat today,” and the next it’s screaming, “IT’S CHEESE—TAKE IT, YOU FOOL!” By the time your carefully moulded glob of cheesepaste hits the riverbed, the chub is already mentally clearing space in its digestive system like someone unbuttoning their jeans after Christmas dinner.

The texture doesn’t hurt either. Cheesepaste is soft, squidgy, and reassuringly edible-feeling—nothing that screams “HOOK!” or “SUSPICIOUS HUMAN TRICKERY!” It’s basically the comfort food of the fish world. The fats and oils seep out gently, drifting downstream, whispering to any lurking chub, “Hey… psst… winter’s terrible… come emotional-eat your feelings.”

 And let’s be honest, chub have the kind of appetite that could impress a Labrador. They don’t nibble delicately or make polite decisions about portion sizes they hoover. So when that irresistible lump of cheesepaste rolls into view, the chub doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t negotiate. It just goes full vacuum-cleaner mode, because in its mind, winter survival is 10% instinct and 90% “if it fits, I eats.”

So really, that’s why cheesepaste shines in winter: it’s warm, it’s rich, it’s smelly, and to a hungry chub in January, it’s basically a Michelin-starred meal disguised as a fistful of dairy and breadcrumbs. Anyway I’d not been up this part of the Warwickshire Avon for a good while, and as soon as I stepped through the gate I was reminded why I’d missed it proper big chub country. 

Not your “that’ll do” three-pounders, but those thick-set, winter-ready bruisers that sulk under snags like they’re weighing up whether to eat your bait or just glare at you for disturbing them. With the working week mercifully ending at 12:30pm, I had a few golden hours for a roving session before the light slipped away and the frost started creeping back in.

A rather rude overnight temperature drop had iced everything into a crunchy misery, and as I trudged along the bank I couldn’t help thinking, “This is going to be tricky, isn’t it?” But tricky often means interesting, and interesting usually means chub so the plan was simple. 

 

Check out a handful of swims, trickle in a few paste nuggets to get the dinner bell chiming, and then give each spot a disciplined fifteen minutes with a lump of cheesepaste wrapped round the hook. No lounging about, no overthinking just cover water and let the river tell me what mood it’s in.

I know this stretch can produce fish that make you question the strength of your landing net handle. My PB chub stands at a rather pleasing 6lb 2oz, but the Warwickshire Avon these days feels like exactly the sort of river where personal bests quietly go to die. 

These fish are big, bold, and more than happy to loiter where the regulars introduce bait those steady trickles of crumb and pellet forming underwater dining rooms that the chub slip into with the swagger of customers who know the chef personally.

Every swim felt like it had a story. A slack beneath a leaning willow here, a crease pushing off a sunken tree there, each one looking like the kind of place a big old chub might sit and ponder the meaning of life or at least the meaning of cheese. 

The river had that cold, metallic green look to it, the kind that says, “If you’re not organised, you’re blanking.” Thankfully, I’d brought enough cheesepaste to supply a medium-sized pizzeria as I made a fresh batch, so morale remained high.

With each stop I would mould the paste round the size 6 hook, swung it carefully into the quietest part of the swim, and settled in. Fifteen minutes. Not sixteen. Not a hopeful seventeen. Just enough time for a curious slab-sided river monster to shuffle out of its lair and decide whether today was the day it fancied a dairy-based snack.

Whether I’d pick up a chub or two didn’t matter quite as much as the roaming itself the slow meander along a nice stretch, the crunch of bank frost underfoot, and the quiet feeling that any cast, absolutely any cast, could produce the fish that finally nudges that PB off the top spot. And truth be told, on a river like the Warwickshire Avon, that possibility is the real hook that keeps you coming back.

Anyway after all the planning, the session got off to a cracking start, even if I was still rubbing the CAD eyes and wondering whether the river gods were in a benevolent mood or the usual spiteful one. I’d just wandered past two anglers sat in what looked like textbook chub real estate proper slack water, overhanging branches, the whole brochure when I plonked myself in a swim that looked, frankly, like it needed a pep talk. Still, there was a snail-pace crease just off the fast water, a kind of aquatic conveyor belt leading straight out of a tree-affected riffle, and that was enough for me.

To my utter astonishment (and mild panic), the cheesepaste barely had time to introduce itself before the first chub walloped it. Then another on the very next cast. Sudden chaos, proper rod-hooping bedlam, the sort of action that makes you look around to check no one saw you grinning like an idiot. The better fish an old warrior of a 4-pounder gave me a scrap that suggested it’d done a bit of boxing on the side. Then, as chub often do when they’ve had their fun making you feel smug, the swim completely died on me.

So off I went for a rove. That’s when I found myself utterly preoccupied with the world’s fastest rattly bites so quick they could’ve been powered by caffeine. I swapped to a smaller hook and a bit of bread, but I still couldn’t connect. It felt like trying to text someone back while wearing oven gloves. Annoying, comedic, and slightly humbling.

Eventually I gave myself the customary kick up the backside and marched back to the job at hand. Five swims later I ended up right back where I started typical. At dusk, just as the sky turned that moody shade of “you’ve pushed your luck, mate,” a plucky 2-lber obliged. Lovely fish… followed immediately by the heavens opening and soaking me to the marrow on the trudge back to the car.

Still, an enjoyable few hours. No monster today but I’ll be back. The river owes me one, and I intend to collect.