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. 

I scared off two cormorants so maybe they could well be trying to avoid the gate-crashes. The water was clearing, 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.