The Warwickshire Avon, having recently decided it would quite like to impersonate the North Sea for a few days, was clearly in no mood for sensible conversation, so I did what any right-minded angler does when faced with several thousand tons of angry brown water and floating detritus: I legged it up one of its tributaries and pretended this was Plan A all along.
The Warwickshire Stour, bless it, was doing that lovely post-flood thing where it looks apologetic, as if to say, “Yes, sorry about all that nonsense earlier, I’ve tidied myself up now,” and had settled into that deep olive green that makes you believe against all evidence that today might be the day. Roving a small river with a quiver rod is one of those pursuits that sounds idyllic when written down but in reality involves a lot of heavy breathing, slippery banks, and talking to yourself while wedged between hawthorn and nettles wondering how you’ll get back out again without ringing Mountain Rescue.
Which is precisely what happened in the very last swim of the first stretch, when I went from “carefully transferring weight sideways onto my left foot” to “Eddie the Eagle Edwards about to launch from the ski jump” in roughly the time it takes a chub to reject a maggot. I’ve met Eddie, incidentally, and I can now say with some authority that I briefly understood his life choices.
I went arse over tit in a manner that would have delighted any passing dog walkers (thankfully no public access), landing firmly on my backside while clinging to the TFG River and Stream rod like it was the last helicopter out of Saigon. The rod survived. I survived. My dignity is still somewhere up that bank, possibly lodged in a bramble.
I arrived at dawn, as all proper fishing stories insist you must, to find the river wearing a rather fetching shade of green one of those colours that makes you feel clever for noticing it. George Burton, of Float, Flight and Flannel fame, has been poking about these hallowed waters recently and apparently couldn’t believe just how featured the place is, which is true if by “featured” you mean “every swim looks perfect until you try to fish it.”
This is one of those club stretches that feels like it ought to be guarded by a medieval charter and a bloke called Geoffrey who disapproves of your footwear. A few days earlier the river had been over its banks and rearranging the furniture, but now it had fined down nicely, and although it wasn’t chocolate brown always a colour that smells faintly of hope it was in that in-between state where you convince yourself a big roach might finally slip up and make a mistake.
Of course, olive green Stour water doesn’t whisper “roach,” it bellows “chub,” and sure enough that’s what turned up. Nic from Avon Angling was on a different stretch altogether and had spent four hours trotting maggots for precisely nothing, which immediately filled me with sympathy and the quiet, shameful relief that it wasn’t me.
I managed four chub and lost one in the reeds, with the best nudging 3lb 1oz, a solid fish that fought like they’d been personally offended by my presence. It was tough going, though far fewer bites than expected and that’s the sort of day that slowly eats away at your confidence while pretending everything is fine. You tell yourself it’s “interesting” and “making you think,” when really it’s just the river politely declining all your invitations.
After the now-legendary arse-over-tit incident thankfully conducted out of sight of the general public, though possibly observed by a squirrel I decided the river upstream had had enough of me and headed downstream to another stretch of the Stour, the scene of a recent personal tragedy involving a roach of frankly unreasonable proportions.
Three swims later, nothing of note had happened unless you count the odd minnow rattling the tip as “action,” which I don’t, no matter how desperate I am. Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about fishing a place that gives you nothing back; it feels honest, like it’s reminding you who’s really in charge here.
All told, it was a tough morning, the sort that doesn’t produce heroic photographs or exaggerated pub stories, but it felt good. Fishing during the working week has a slightly illicit thrill to it, like bunking off school but with better sandwiches.
And as I packed up, muddy, sore, and faintly greener than when I arrived, it occurred to me that we’ve turned a corner now. The days will start to stretch themselves out again, slowly but surely, and before long this fall, this cold, this slipping down banks like an underfunded ski jumper will all seem like part of the bargain. Which, of course, it is and I’ll be back for more
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