There are moments, usually around three in the morning when the tinnitus starts doing its own ambient remix, that I find myself wondering whether life might have panned out differently had I known, back in the early nineties, that the barbel stocks in Warwickshire resembled something closer to the biblical plague proportions of the mighty Trent.
Had this knowledge been imparted to me perhaps by a benevolent angling oracle wearing a bucket hat I might have stepped down from those speaker arrays, stopped using my inner ear as a bass port, and invested instead in a decent pair of waders and some tins of spam.
Of course, this would have required foresight, and foresight was in tragically short supply when one was twenty-something, chemically optimistic, and convinced that the meaning of life could be found somewhere between a strobe light and a white label pressing from Detroit.
Standing on speakers was not just encouraged, it was practically a civic duty.
If the bass didn’t rearrange your internal organs, you weren’t really listening. The fact that I now hear a constant high-pitched whine is simply my brain nostalgically replaying the encore.
Then came the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act of 1994, a piece of legislation so poetically absurd that it managed to define music by its repetitiveness.
A “succession of repetitive beats,” they said, as though that wasn’t also an accurate description of both angling conversation and the average heart rate of a tench.
The police were handed the power to shut down joy itself, prompting electronic musicians to respond in the only reasonable way: by writing deliberately non-repetitive music purely out of spite. Somewhere in this period, I realised that nothing bonds people quite like being told they’re not allowed to enjoy themselves rhythmically.
Fast-forward three decades and here I am, fifty-three years old, with three gigs booked and a spine that sounds like gravel being stirred with a bank stick. Sasha and my DJ mate Steve Parry in his hometown Liverpool. Deep Dish at the legendary Sub Club in Glasgow. And, looming gloriously on the horizon, 808 State in Brum, those heroic knob-twizzlers who proved that a Roland TB-303 could sound like an alien frog trapped in a biscuit tin. I and the ageing likeminded will attend all of them with the unshakeable belief that age is merely a suggestion.
My wife, bless her, continues to find it baffling that the same man who seeks enlightenment and solitude beside a river at dawn can willingly stand in a dark room being physically assaulted by subwoofers. She sees contradiction. I see balance. One moment you’re feeling the subtle pluck of a barbel three feet under the surface; the next you’re feeling bass frequencies rearranging your kidneys. Both, in their own way, are deeply spiritual experiences though only one of them requires glow sticks.
And so I continue, oscillating happily between riverbank and rave floor, ignoring the ache in my knees and the faint whistling in my ears. Because once a raver, always a raver. It gets into the system, much like that groundbait smell in a fleece you’ve washed seven times and still can’t wear to Tesco. You don’t fight it. You accept it. You crack on. And if, one day, I’m found peacefully expired in a bivvy while a phantom 4/4 beat plays in my head, I’ll consider that a life very well lived.
With tackle already in the car there are few phrases sweeter to the angler’s ear than “midday finish.” It has the same magical properties as “free pint,” “go on then,” and “that’ll do nicely.” Forty-three hours neatly ticked off in the design studio, brain switched to standby mode, and before the boss could even finish saying “see you Monday,” The smaller rivers and streams were, sadly, still behaving like they’d just watched an action film and fancied a go themselves bank-high, angry, and intent on carrying away anything foolish enough to stand near them.
So Plan A, B and most of C were abandoned. Enter the Warwickshire Avon: still full of herself, mind, but calming down just enough to look fishable rather than murderous. A rare and beautiful compromise. Roving tactics were the order of the day. No seat box, no bivvy, no unnecessary items such as comfort or dignity. Just a loaf of bread, a lump of cheesepaste with the aroma of a French dairy gone rogue, and the quiet optimism that only an angler can muster after a working week.
The river had that look about it, the sort of look that suggests common sense should prevail and the flask lid should remain firmly screwed shut. It was up and banging through, shoulders hunched against its own momentum, dragging winter detritus along as if in a foul mood and in no hurry to apologise for it. I’d expected the stretch to be mine, entirely and indulgently so, but there was already evidence that another soul had questioned their own judgement as severely as I was questioning mine. Who, after all, is stupid enough to fish in these conditions? Apparently, at least two of us. Thankfully the other was a wildfowler on reccy.
Still, I know this piece of water rather well. Intimately, in fact. Like an ex-girlfriend whose habits you never quite forget, even when you wish you could. For all the river’s bluster and chest-beating there are little places where it softens, pauses, takes a breath. Slacks that sit there quietly, pretending they aren’t exactly where a chub would want to be when everything else is in a bad temper. That knowledge alone was enough to keep me honest as I set up, despite the wind that had teeth and the sort of rain that never really commits but somehow always leaves you damp and faintly miserable.
I settled into what I consider the best slack on the stretch, the sort of swim you’d happily defend in court. Cheesepaste went on the hook, cheesy garlic bread crammed dutifully into the feeder, and I convinced myself that patience was going to be rewarded. Half an hour passed. Nothing. Not a tremor, not a suggestion, not even the courtesy of a false alarm. The tip might as well have been painted on. Eventually realism won out over optimism, and it was time to shoulder the gear and start roving.
Swim after swim told the same story. I lingered longer than usual, partly out of stubbornness and partly because conditions like these don’t lend themselves to quick fixes. If a chub was at home, it was going to take its time answering the door. But the tip remained obstinately lifeless, and with each move the wind seemed to find a new angle from which to make its presence felt. You begin to question your bait, your rig, your sanity, and eventually your entire angling philosophy.
Down towards the end of the stretch there’s a likely little slack, close in, easy to overlook when the river’s quieter but worth a dabble when it’s throwing its weight around. By now the sun was slipping away, low and unhelpful, shining directly into my eyes with all the sympathy of a pub landlord at closing time. Ten minutes in, just as I was considering another move, the tip gave two sharp, unmistakable pulls. Instinct took over. I struck, lifted into a solid fish, and for a brief, ridiculous moment allowed myself to believe.
Reality, as it often does, arrived promptly. I knew almost immediately it wasn’t the fish I wanted. A chub, yes, but a little rascal rather than the bar-of-soap six-pounder I’d been daydreaming about. Still, a fish is a fish is a fish, and the blank was avoided. There’s always comfort in that, even if it’s a slightly hollow one.
With time running out, optimism made one last appearance and suggested a return to the best slack. It had, after all, been primed for a good hour and looked as good as it ever would. Sadly, if there was a decent chub in residence, it was clearly on holiday. A final move to a hard, snag-ridden swim followed the sort you fish knowing full well it might end badly, but unable to resist the “what if”.
Fifteen minutes later, without so much as a bite, I lifted the rod and felt that horrible, unmistakable dead weight. The feeder and the entire rig were well and truly stuck, embraced by a snag with no intention of letting go. A few cautious tugs became firmer ones, and eventually there was nothing for it but to pull for a break. Lost the lot. Bugger.
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