Friday couldn’t come soon enough. By about 11:29am I was sat at my desk vibrating like a fridge with a dodgy motor, convinced that the precise moment I clicked Shutdown on the work laptop, angels would descend, harps would play, and my fishing gear would levitate itself into the boot. That’s the fantasy version, obviously.
Reality? Reality looked me square in the eye, spat on the floor, and said, “Sit down, sunshine.”
Because while the canals were just about fishable and by “just about” I mean “you might get a bite if you fish with optimism and a small miracle” every river within twenty miles had turned into a foaming, angry broth you’d expect to see in a documentary titled Rivers Having a Meltdown.
Thursday’s rain didn’t just fall. Oh no. It auditioned. It strutted onto the stage like it wanted a BAFTA for “Most Dramatic Downpour,” and proceeded to drown the Midlands one biblical gobful at a time. The River Alne, that spatey little diva, was my only hope twitchy, unpredictable, and prone to mood swings that would make a Regency debutante look emotionally stable.
One minute it looked fishable.
Next minute I was expecting a Viking longship to glide past, complete with a bloke in a horned hat shouting something about pillaging Alcester.
Still… “just about fishable” in winter translates to:
RIGHT, GET YOUR BOOTS ON, WE’RE GOING.
On the subject of personal triumphs last weekend on the Stour I delivered an absolute masterclass in the ancient art of “How Not To Cast.”
Two tugs didn’t shift it.
The third tug, however, was executed with the subtle finesse of someone trying to start a lawnmower made of concrete. The result? The feeder launched back at me with such ballistic enthusiasm it snapped the line and took the quiver tip with it, presumably as a hostage.
The next I was stood on the bank looking like a man who’d just been mugged by his own tackle.I sulked, obviously. Packed up. Went home. Replayed the event in my head like the world’s most depressing slow-motion replay.
Then Monday rolls around.
Phone pings. I assume it’s a meeting request or a reminder to renew my fishing licence.
Nope it’s Nic from Avon Angling.
He’d fished the same peg and found my missing quiver tip just lying on the bank like Excalibur waiting for the rightful idiot to reclaim it.
“Is this yours?”
Is. This. Yours.
I nearly wept. 😂
Not only was it mine, it was a custom-sanded, precision-fitted masterpiece a quiver tip tailored more lovingly than a Savile Row suit. Down to the thou, the THOU I tell you !!
Suddenly I was happier than a chub wedged under a raft of sticks that would kill a lesser species.
There IS a God, I thought.
He works in mysterious ways.
Occasionally via dudes named Nic.
Then I remembered March 2024, when that same God clearly clocked off for his tea break.
I’d just returned a chub nice fish, smugly pleased with myself leaned forward, and watched my phone tumble out of my pocket with all the slow-motion inevitability of a Greek tragedy.
Plop.
Straight into the drink.
Not just the phone, though.
No no. It decided to take £40 with it money earmarked for a curry later in the week.
Somewhere downstream a pike was probably using it to order a vindaloo from JustEat. So yes they say fishing heals the soul.
Does it?
DOES IT REALLY?
Sometimes all it heals is the illusion that you’re a competent adult. Most of the time it just steals your gear, drowns your electronics, and laughs at you in a Brummie accent from behind a bush.
But then someone finds your quiver tip hands it back and for a fleeting, shimmering moment the universe aligns.
Everything feels right again.
…well, except the rivers are still in flood…
and the phone is somewhere in a gravel bar near Stratford…and the curry money is presumably buying itself naan bread…
…but apart from that?
Absolutely perfect.
I arrived at the river to find myself immediately judged by sheep, which is never a good start to any fishing trip. They stood there in that semi-circular way sheep have, as if convening an emergency parish meeting to discuss the sudden appearance of an angler where only drizzle and disappointment normally roam.
Thankfully, my surname isn’t Gwyndaf, so they quickly relaxed, reassured that I wasn’t there to engage in a white fleece rumble, I made my way to the river, whereupon I was struck by the familiar and sinking feeling that I could have saved myself a walk, a sandwich, and several optimistic life choices by simply staring into a mug of coffee at home.
The Alne, in full post-rain tantrum mode, was charging through the fields like it had somewhere very important to be and absolutely no intention of stopping to speak to anglers. It was brown not the nice peaty brown that suggests mystery and promise but full-on chocolate soup, the sort that would make Willy Wonka cancel the factory tour.
Still, experience has taught me that visibility of approximately one inch doesn’t necessarily rule out success on the Alne. Over the years I’ve dangled into water this colour and been rewarded with bites aplenty, usually when least expected and always when my guard was down. The trouble is that the Alne is moody. Not mildly temperamental properly moody, like a teenager who has discovered existential philosophy and refuses to come down for tea.
I came prepared, of course, armed with worms, bread, and cheesepaste the holy trinity of last-ditch optimism but logic (always a dubious companion) suggested worms were the order of the day. I roved from swim to swim, flicking out hopeful casts into places that looked fishy in that vague, desperate way anglers convince themselves of things. Each swim was fished thoroughly, thoughtfully, and ultimately pointlessly. Not a knock, not a tremor, not even the courtesy of a false alarm. I even defected briefly to the Arrow, as if changing rivers might somehow trick the fish into thinking I was someone else.
By the end, it was clear that the fish of both rivers had entered into some sort of non-aggression pact with one another and me. Still, there are worse ways to spend a day than wandering riverbanks, stretching the legs, and being politely ignored by nature. I trudged back to the car with damp boots, intact pride (just), and the comforting lie that it’ll be perfect on Sunday and that surely, surely, a chub or two will have lowered their guard by then.
Lucky boy !
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