Warwickshire Avon - Subconspiratorialism and Seclusionaryness

Well, with the rivers looking less like rivers and more like mobile sections of the North Atlantic that had accidentally taken a wrong turn at Gloucester, fishing had, in the most British understatement possible, been “curtailed somewhat,” which is to say that every stretch of water within sensible driving distance was either the colour of builder’s tea or attempting to annex the nearest towpath, and so when Friday arrived work concluding mercifully at midday like a benevolent headmaster ringing the last bell before summer I found myself faced with that most dangerous of propositions: opportunity. 

The sensible angler inside me, the one who owns far too many rods for a man with only two hands and a slightly unreliable left knee, suggested a speculative wander down the canal for a zander or two, because canals at least have the decency not to rise three feet in an afternoon; but the Avon, swelling faster than my blood pressure when subjected to the six o’clock news and its parade of doom, gloom and men pointing at graphs, was doing its level best to resemble a liquid freight train, and in truth I simply wasn’t feeling it. 

There are days when the piscatorial muse whispers sweet nothings about chub beneath far-bank willows, and then there are days when she shrugs, orders takeaway and tells you to put your feet up, and so it was that I, alone in the house and answerable to no one but the kettle, drew the curtains with theatrical finality, powered up the surround sound system I had installed in a fit of technological optimism back in 2008, and committed myself to cinema rather than cyprinids.

The film in question Sinners, as recommended by my twin brother, who shares both my face, my questionable judgement and well worn liver turned out to be an unexpectedly rich slice of Mississippi-set supernatural mayhem, all juke joints, gangsters and things that go bump in the Delta night, and I must confess it was rather splendid.

The sort of movie that grips you by the lapels and refuses to let go, much like an irate bailiff or a particularly committed barbel; indeed I’d go so far as to say it was one of my favourites in a good long while, and as the bass rumbled through speakers that had previously known only the Shipping Forecast and the occasional overenthusiastic weather bulletin, I felt entirely vindicated in my decision to swap waders for popcorn. 

Outside, of course, the meteorological farce continued unabated, low-pressure systems queuing over the UK as though waiting for discounted pasties, all because a stubborn slab of high pressure had parked itself over Scandinavia like a Volvo abandoned outside a fjord, blocking the usual eastward progress of weather fronts and ensuring that we, down here, received day after day of mizzle, drizzle and full-fat deluge, the rivers remaining emphatically knackered and in no mood to entertain a man with a landing net and misplaced optimism.

And yet, as every angler knows, the soul requires variety, and so it was that Liverpool beckoned, specifically the WAV Garden, where for a solid twelve hours twelve, dear reader, which is roughly the gestation period of a small mammal I found myself enthusiastically rearranging my limbs to the sounds of progressive house DJs, Sasha headlining with the sort of authority normally reserved for monarchs and particularly confident carp, the bass so insistent that one could have navigated to the venue blindfolded, guided solely by the rather large seismic wobble in one’s sternum. 

The covered ground level did its noble best to muffle proceedings for the sake of civic harmony, but even so you could feel it half a mile away, a subterranean heartbeat pulsing through the city, and when proceedings shifted downstairs (Steve Parry one of favourites was playing) into the dark and dingy tunnel club mercifully before the neighbours could marshal their complaints, I was granted a tour of the labyrinthine interior from a well known fella and DJ (Thanks Paul), a temple to rhythm that left me grinning like a newcomer to raving who’d just been transported to a rave in the 1990's. 

It is, I find, a remarkable tonic, this occasional surrender to music and motion; at 53 years of age, when society gently suggests you take up beige hobbies and begin sentences with “back in my day,” there is something gloriously defiant about dancing until the early hours, and the wellbeing boost it provides is not unlike that first savage pull on a rod tip when a fish decides your offering is irresistible proof that one is still, in fact, alive and kicking as is the tinnitus STILL !!

Fishing hovered at the back of my mind throughout, of course it did, because once afflicted we are never truly cured, but I did not miss it that weekend; the rivers would continue their impression of liquid chaos regardless of my presence, and sometimes absence sharpens the appetite better than any groundbait.

Thus it was that a midweek work-from-home day presented itself like a conspiratorial wink from the universe, and I seized the chance for a quick smash-and-grab on the Warwickshire Avon, which, though still high and carrying more debris than a teenager’s bedroom floor, had at least ceased its attempt to relocate entirely to the Midlands. 

With perhaps two viable swims and less than an hour to deploy my dubious cunning and one my slightly off the beaten secret swim, I approached the task with the efficiency of a burglar on a tight schedule, rod assembled in record time, bait introduced with minimal ceremony, every sense tuned to the possibility of a chub lurking behind some crease in the slack water, smug and silver and entirely unaware that a middle-aged man with damp boots and renewed optimism had come calling.

Whether I caught or blanked is almost beside the point, for in truth the joy lay in the opportunism, the snatched hour between spreadsheets and responsibilities, the quiet rebellion of stepping down a muddy bank while colleagues elsewhere refreshed inboxes. 

As I stood there watching the swollen river slide past with deceptive calm, I reflected that life, like angling, is rarely about perfect conditions; it is about choosing your moments, embracing the distractions be they horror films or hedonistic dance floors and returning, when the mood and the river both allow, to the water’s edge with just enough hope to make it interesting.

Anyway, dear readers, there I was hotfooting it like a ferret that’s just remembered it left the gas on towards what I optimistically refer to as the “big slack swim.” Now when I say “big,” I mean in spirit rather than in actual cubic footage of fishable water, because upon arrival I was greeted by a river so full it looked like it had eaten Christmas twice and was contemplating the cheeseboard. 

The water was barely contained within its banks, sulking and bulging like a badly packed sleeping bag, and I quickly realised I’d have to fish it in about a foot of water. A foot. I’ve seen deeper puddles in supermarket car parks.

Still, never one to be defeated by mere hydrological excess, I plopped in a few hopeful nuggets of cheesepaste little yellow parcels of optimism and stood there like a man who has just posted a letter to himself. Nothing. Not a tremor. Not a flicker. The river gave me the cold shoulder. So, with the sort of dignity only an angler can muster when retreating from a terrible decision, I once again set my feet to “brisk embarrassment” mode and hoofed it off to what I call the Secret Swim.

Now, I shall not reveal the location of the Secret Swim. Not because I fear hordes of anglers descending upon it with bivvies the size of small retail parks, but because if I told you it wouldn’t be secret anymore and I’d have to rename it something awkward like “Formerly Secret Swim (Now Ruined).” Let’s just say it doesn’t get fished much. Possibly because it requires a short scramble, a duck under a hawthorn bush, and the sort of commitment usually reserved for assembling Scandinavian furniture.

But oh, what a sight greeted me. The swim looked perfect. You know the large slack away from the main flow that whispers “chub” in hushed, fishy tones, a couple of inviting snags that say, “Go on then, if you’re brave.” The light was beginning to soften into that golden half-hour before dusk when everything looks like it’s been filtered through a nostalgic biscuit tin. 

I hurriedly set up, flicked the large bread flake this time into position, and settled in for what I assumed would be a pleasant, fishless contemplation of life.

Ten minutes later, I was staring at my landing net in mild disbelief.

Two chub. Not just any chub. Two proper, respectable, broad-shouldered river residents, both four-pounders, with the larger tipping the scales at 4lb 10oz. Four-ten! That’s not a chub, that’s a statement. 

The bigger one fought like it had something to prove charging for every snag in the postcode, rod bent properly double, my heart performing percussion in my chest like an overenthusiastic drummer at a village fete. At one point I’m fairly certain the fish looked back at me as if to say, “You’ll have to do better than that, sunshine.”

Eventually, after a brief but spirited disagreement about ownership of the river, I coaxed it into the net. A beautiful fish. Bronze flanks glowing in the evening light, fins pristine, attitude exemplary. The sort of chub that makes you forgive every blank, every tangled rig, every time you’ve accidentally trodden in something unidentifiable and moist.

Naturally, I decided to stick it out. Because when you’ve had two fish in ten minutes, common sense says, “Strike while the iron is hot.” Unfortunately, angling common sense is more of a polite suggestion than an enforceable rule. The swim, having delivered its generosity, promptly shut up shop. I sat there, rod poised, watching the sun melt into the horizon like a pat of butter on hot toast. No more bites. Not even a twitch. The river had gone back to being a picture postcard with delusions of grandeur.

Still, I couldn’t complain. It had been what I like to call a “smash and grab” session—no marathon endurance test, no midnight philosophical crisis, just a quick raid, a brace of quality fish, and home in time to recount it all with unnecessary embellishment. These are the sessions that keep you coming back. Short, sharp, and just chaotic enough to make you feel like you’ve achieved something vaguely heroic.

And the conditions? Mild as you like. Water temperature at 9.1 degrees—practically tropical by winter river standards. The ground’s been soaking up that gentle rain like a sponge in a washing-up advert, then quietly releasing it back into the river, which explains why the levels were climbing faster than my optimism after the first bite. It all felt alive. Moving. Promising.

So yes, a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Two cracking chub, a sunset worth bottling, and only minimal sprinting between swims. I really must do more of these opportunistic little raids. There’s something wonderfully mischievous about slipping down to a barely fished corner of river, whispering a bit of cheesepaste and bread into the current, and nicking a couple of its finest residents before they realise what’s happened.

Until next time, keep your hooks sharp, your secrets secret, and your feet ready for rapid deployment. The river waits for no one especially not a man standing ankle-deep in a foot of water wondering where all the fish have gone.