Warwickshire Avon - Barbelistic and Bedraggled

The final day of the river season always arrives a bit like the last day of school equal parts excitement, nostalgia, and the quiet suspicion that something mildly ridiculous will happen before the bell rings. This year was no exception. I awoke with grand plans of sneaking off early, rod in hand, making the most of those precious final hours before the curtain came down on another season. Unfortunately, those plans collided head-on with domestic reality. 

The Wife, quite reasonably it must be said, had declared that an early Mother’s Day outing in Stratford-upon-Avon was required, preferably involving a respectable amount of food and an irresponsible quantity of white wine. 

My role in this arrangement was simple: chauffeur, payer, and general dogsbody. Naturally, I accepted my fate with the stoicism of a man who knows that resistance is both futile and likely to reduce future fishing permissions.

The morning progressed well enough. Stratford was looking as picturesque as ever tourists wandering about looking for Shakespeare, swans behaving like they owned the place, and restaurants happily removing money from my wallet in exchange for lunch. 

The Wife was in excellent spirits, which generally translates to “another large glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.” Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, a tiny angling alarm clock was ticking away. The river season was ending, the light would fade eventually, and somewhere out there a barbel might be considering its final bite before the great closed-season fast. Still, all things considered, it was a pleasant enough diversion. I even convinced myself that perhaps the fish would appreciate the extra rest before my arrival.

Then came the mattress incident.

What was meant to be a “quick stop” at a bed shop for Sam’s new mattress turned into the sort of retail expedition normally reserved for Arctic explorers. Apparently modern mattress purchasing involves computers, posture analysis, demonstrations, and what I can only describe as interpretive lying down. One moment we were “just popping in,” and the next thing I knew we were being guided through the building like VIP guests at some sort of bedding museum. 

I glanced at my watch repeatedly, each time discovering that another half hour had vanished into the great commercial void. Two hours somehow turned into four out. Four! By the time we escaped with a mattress suitable for a teenager (who, incidentally, could probably sleep perfectly well on a pile of coats), I was already composing my fishing obituary in my head.

Still, hope springs eternal in the heart of an angler.

With Saturday’s match cancelled due to high water conditions, I reasoned that a quick visit to the legendary Piccadilly Circus stretch would be ideal. 

Only ten minutes away, and historically about as reliable as river fishing ever gets. If a barbel was going to save my season, that swim had form. The Wife and the rabble were safely deposited at home, and I set off like a man chasing the final bus of the evening. Upon arriving at the official car park, I had a brief moment of blissful optimism. Empty. Not a car in sight. For a fleeting second I imagined I’d have the whole place to myself. But angling optimism is a fragile thing. 

As I approached the first field I spotted a vehicle parked brazenly by the gate over the footbridge. Now, this field is meant strictly for match days, but clearly some enterprising soul had decided that rules were more of a suggestion than a requirement. Ah well, I thought, perhaps they’d wandered off somewhere else.

No such luck.

Sure enough, when I reached the bank there they were: one match angler and his mate. The mate, incidentally, had arrived on a motorbike (yes a motoebike) and parked it directly behind him like they were staging a fishing-themed remake of Easy Rider. I must admit I had a little chuckle to myself. Outside of the clique there’s often much muttering about rules and etiquette, but within the inner circle it seems to be more of a “park where you fancy and crack on” arrangement. Still, they turned out to be decent blokes, which is always worth more than perfect parking discipline.

The match angler was fishing meat and had already landed a tidy barbel of about seven pounds. Lovely fish and a promising sign. He was in good spirits too, mentioning that the club could do with some positive reports after all the gloom following that fish kill a couple of years back. “Let us know if you catch one,” he said. “We need a bit of good news.” No pressure then.

By now it was creeping towards five in the afternoon. The day had been lovely, but the breeze had taken on that sharp edge that reminds you winter hasn’t quite given up yet. Standing in the shade felt like someone had quietly opened a fridge door behind you. Still, the river looked perfect—coloured water sliding along nicely, the sort of conditions that whisper “barbel” to any optimist holding a rod.

I decided to go all in with a Robin Red attack. 15m drilled pellet and a matching paste wrap. A PVA bag of krill freebies and if ever there was a bait that could persuade a barbel to have one last reckless munch before the closed season, it’s that spicy little wonder. I settled into the swim and waited for the magic to begin.

Forty-five minutes later I was still waiting.

Not even a polite chub rattle. Nothing. The rod tip might as well have been carved from oak. Eventually boredom got the better of me and I shuffled a couple of pegs upstream to a swim where I’d landed a near-double back in December during proper flood conditions. If lightning was going to strike twice, this seemed as good a spot as any.

Twenty minutes later: still nothing.

At this point I began to suspect the fish had held a secret meeting earlier that afternoon and voted unanimously to ignore me. So back I went to the original swim for one last attempt. The sun had dipped below the horizon by now and the light was fading in that slow, quiet way rivers seem to specialise in. It was one of those evenings where every sound feels slightly louder and every ripple seems important.

And then it happened.

Thump. Thump.

The rod tip knocked twice like someone tapping politely on a door… and then absolutely melted down. Line peeled off the reel and suddenly the whole world snapped into focus. Barbel! it, charged downstream like it had somewhere urgent to be. Unfortunately that destination appeared to be a submerged tree, which meant I had to apply a firm amount of persuasion to convince it otherwise. The rod bent, the reel protested, and after a few tense seconds I managed to turn it away from disaster.

What followed was a thoroughly enjoyable scrap. Not a monster by any means, but strong enough to remind me why barbel are such magnificent creatures. Eventually the fish slid over the net cord and I let out the sort of satisfied sigh normally reserved for finishing a difficult DIY project without swearing too much.

After a well deserved rest in the landing net, a quick photograph in the dull light, and a moment of admiration, the fish was returned to the coloured water where it vanished with a flick of its tail. A perfect end-of-season gesture.

By then the match angler and his motorbike-support crew had packed up and left, which was a shame because he’d asked me to report any barbel captures. I like to think somewhere out there the rumour mill eventually delivered the news: one final barbel to round things off.

I fished on until curfew, but that was the only bite of the evening. Curiously the chub didn’t show up at all, which is odd because that swim has recently resembled chub soup. Rivers are funny like that. One week they’re bustling with fish, the next week they’re as quiet as a library.

Still, I couldn’t complain.

A barbel on the last evening of the season feels rather poetic. The past few weeks have actually been a bit of a purple patch for me, which naturally means I’m now fully expecting my fortunes to return to their usual level of “character building” once the season reopens on the 16th of June.

But that’s fishing.

You endure the quiet days, the mattress shops, the motorbike anglers, the freezing breezes and the endless blank spells… all for those moments when the rod tip thumps and the reel screams.

And if you can end the season with a barbel in the net and a good story to tell, well, that’s not a bad result at all.