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, 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.
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