There are days in an angler’s calendar that promise greatness. Days where the mist hangs mysteriously over the fields like a scene from a low-budget fantasy film, days where you wake with purpose, spring out of bed, and most importantly don’t feel like death warmed up because you haven’t been bathing your liver in Merlot the night before.
This, dear reader, was one of those days. I leapt out of bed as fresh as a Mountain Dew advert, ready to take on the world, or at least ready to lob bread at fish with unrealistic optimism. Dry January, despite YouTube’s well-timed attempts to derail me via targeted ads featuring cheerful sociopaths telling me I deserve a drink, was going strong. My willpower rare, delicate, and about as dependable as a politician’s promise was still intact.
The plan was straightforward: hit the Arrow like a caffeinated otter, strike into a chub or two, and revel in that smug satisfaction that only a successful winter session can deliver. I’d even sorted the tackle the night before, which is practically unheard of.
Usually, I’m rummaging in the back of the car like a raccoon in a skip, finding month-old pork pies and floats I’d assumed were lost to the ages. I even woke up after one of those sleeps where you open your eyes and think, “So this is what it feels like to not consume a distilled vineyard before bed.” Simply marvellous.
But fate fickle, cruel, and clearly a fan of slapstick comedy had other ideas. I decided to check to see if there wasn’t a match on. And of course, there was. Thirty-odd organised individuals most likely lined up like an angling firing squad, each armed with poles long enough to vault the Severn. Plans, as they say, utterly and spectacularly scuppered.
So off to the Warwickshire Stour I went, muttering to myself like a man who’d just realised he’d left his wallet in a taxi. The Stour, bless it, can be brilliant after a flood. Huge roach sometimes appear like shimmering aquatic miracles, drawn to colour and flow like a drunk to a kebab shop. I was brimming with optimism. That is, until I laid eyes on the river.
A green so intense it could probably power a small village if you hooked it up to a turbine. A green that made me ponder whether the Ninja Turtles were about to emerge asking for pizza recommendations. I had expected weak tea. I got neon mushy peas.
Still, the chub can’t resist bread in a small cage feeder when the river’s tanking through, and I came prepared.
Size 12 hook, thumbnail-sized flake of Warburtons, and chub-scaled gear that whispers confidence even if the angler using it is mostly running on blind faith and caffeine.
The first swim was the banker. The Almighty Banker. The swim where, nine times out of ten, you’d expect at least a tentative pluck or the tell-tale movement of something that isn’t submerged shopping trolleys.
It’s sheltered by trees and a nice high bank that blocks the worst of the wind though the wind was still lively enough to blow the moustache off a walrus. I cast in, sat back, and tried to look like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
Twenty minutes passed. Not a twitch. Not a tremble. Nothing. If the quivertip had shown any less movement, I’d have assumed I’d accidentally superglued it to the rest of the rod. So on I trudged, swim to swim like a wandering prophet with a bait bucket. Each spot looked fishy seductive even but each gave me absolutely nothing.
I could’ve been fishing in a chlorinated swimming pool for all the interest I got. By swim number five (banker number two), I finally saw the quivertip give the slightest tremor. A nibble! Or possibly wind vibration. Or maybe the river sneezing. Hard to say. But I reeled in to find the bread gone. Something had happened, and that was enough to inflate my optimism like a punctured football being blown up with a foot pump.
Refreshed, inspired, and with the grace of a man who definitely knows how to cast, I filled the feeder again, stuck on a perfect piece of bread, took aim at the sweet spot… and immediately launched it straight into an overhanging branch like an absolute clown. I stared at it in disbelief as the feeder swung gently, taunting me like some kind of annoying river-side wind chime.
I pulled. I tugged. I even gave it the classic “wiggle and swear” technique, which has a success rate of approximately 0.0047%. Nothing. So I yanked with a bit more conviction, fully expecting the rig to drop back into the swim.
Instead, the line snapped, the feeder swung back, and my quivertip decided it fancied a career as a submarine. Off it plopped into the river, vanishing into the murky green depths like Leonardo DiCaprio at the end of Titanic (apparently I've not seen it). Goodbye, old friend.
Session over. Abruptly. Dramatically. Stupidly.
 |
| Spot the piece of bread in the tree - Where's Wally ? !! |
Now, unlike Nic from Avon Angling, whose car boot resembles a fully stocked tackle megastore with more spare rods than a medieval armoury, the back of my car contains only the essentials: half a sandwich, mismatched gloves, vague hope, and definitely no spare quivertips.
Tail firmly between my legs, I admitted defeat, climbed into the car, and grumbled all the way home. Sometimes fishing teaches you patience. Sometimes it teaches you humility. And sometimes it just smacks you round the face with a radioactive river and flings your quivertip into oblivion.
But fear not. There’s always tomorrow (or most likely next Friday). And besides, at least I didn’t break Dry January. Small mercies.
0 comments:
Post a Comment