Warwickshire Avon - Brouhaha and Befuddlement

I'd not fished this stretch for a good while, and as I walked down the field with the rod over my shoulder, it felt like I was visiting an old mate I'd somehow neglected. 

The river had that familiar look about it, clear enough to show every crease and shallow, yet carrying just enough pace to make you believe something decent could turn up at any moment. 

In winter the place screams chub, proper old warriors that sit in the steady glides and only betray themselves with the odd swirl under a drifting crust. 

Summer can be even more exciting, because when the bread starts travelling downstream untouched and then suddenly disappears in a confident sip, you know you've found fish that have forgotten how cautious they're supposed to be.

Of course, the trouble with chub is that they rarely give you many chances. One fish slips up, the rod hoops over, and the rest of the shoal seem to hold an emergency meeting before vanishing into thin air. I've lost count of the times I've thought I'd cracked it only for the river to fall silent after a single capture. It's often one fish and you're done, and that's part of what keeps you coming back.

This trip, though, wasn't really about chub. I knew there were barbel in the area and I'd had it in my head for weeks that I ought to have a proper dabble for them. One swim kept coming back into my thoughts every time I looked at the map or drove over the bridge. The weir had my name on it.

I rolled into the car park down the neglected track around eleven in the morning and immediately spotted another angler's car. That told me all I needed to know because if you're after barbel on a stretch like that, the weir is usually the first place you look especially in the early season summer months. Sure enough, a bloke and his young son were already set up there, having started at dawn and showing far more commitment to the cause than I'd managed. They looked tired in that happy sort of way anglers do when they've already had a bit of action.

We got chatting and they told me they'd lost a couple of fish, one to a hook pull and another to an underwater snag. The chap was still replaying the lost fish in his head, waving his arms around to show how hard it had pulled before everything went solid. They also mentioned a group of kids had been wild swimming earlier and causing a bit of a nuisance, so in their view I'd arrived at exactly the right time. After a few more minutes they packed up and left me to it.

With the swim finally free, I settled in with no great expectations beyond maybe a barbel if the stars aligned. Truth be told, a decent chub would have done me just fine. I was determined not to rush around this time, but to sit it out, watch the river and actually relax for once. Sometimes the best fishing happens when you stop trying to force it.

The first thing I noticed was just how clear the water was. Looking into the margins I could see boulders scattered about like someone had emptied a builder's yard into the river, which immediately made me suspicious of what lay farther out. I was effectively fishing blind, so I spent a while leading around carefully until the lead finally landed with a satisfying donk on a cleaner patch. That sound alone can lift an angler's confidence by a good twenty percent.

The weather helped too. The brutal mid-thirties heat had finally eased and the air felt comfortable again, warm enough for a T-shirt but not so hot that you spent the whole session hiding in whatever shade you could find. A light breeze occasionally rippled the surface and carried the smell of summer riverbanks. It felt fishy, as we always say, even though none of us can properly explain what that means.

About half an hour in, the rod tip gave a proper thump that had chub written all over it. Not a timid tap or a line twitch, but a confident bang right on the tip that made me grab the rod immediately. Oddly, the fish didn't come back for a second go. Whether it felt the resistance or simply changed its mind, I never found out.

For the next couple of hours the river settled into that hypnotic rhythm that makes river fishing so addictive. Paddleboarders drifted past, kayakers bounced through the faster water and the occasional dog walker stopped for a chat. The weir carried enough pace that nobody came too close to the lines, and I found myself simply enjoying being there. Even without a fish, it was hard to complain.

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, the rod tip rattled again. One sharp knock, then another, and before I could fully process it the rod pulled round in a full-blooded meltdown. Anyone who has spent time chasing barbel knows that four-foot twitch of the rod, that unmistakable savage nodding that seems to travel through the entire setup. In that instant I knew exactly what was on the other end.

I lifted into a solid fish and immediately felt that heavy, determined weight that only a good barbel seems to produce. It hugged the bottom and powered upstream, taking line while I tried to apply as much side strain as I dared. For a few glorious seconds it felt like the sort of battle you replay in your head for years. The rod was bent, the reel was ticking and my heart rate was somewhere near sprinting pace.

Then the fish revealed its real intentions. The pressure changed, the line angled awkwardly and suddenly everything locked up solid. Boulder, root, snag, whatever it was, the barbel had found it with the precision of a guided missile and buried itself there. I knew the likely outcome immediately, but hope makes fools of all anglers.

I gave it time. Sometimes a fish will panic, swim free and give you another chance, so I stood there with the rod held high, willing it to move. Nothing happened. The fish had done me over properly and there was a grudging part of me that almost admired it.

Eventually the inevitable happened and I was left staring at a motionless line and thinking a few words that wouldn't make it into a family fishing magazine. Still, that's barbel fishing. You can do everything right and the river will still find a way to remind you who's in charge. Some days you land them, and some days they teach you a lesson.

The interesting thing was that I now knew exactly where one of the snags lived. Information like that is never wasted on a river, and often a lost fish tells you more than an easy capture ever could. I started thinking about different angles, lighter leads, maybe fishing slightly farther downstream and steering a hooked fish away from trouble. The cogs were already turning.

 I gave it another hour after that, but the swim had gone quiet. No more knocks, no more savage lunges, not even a suspicious line bite. The light began to soften and I found myself packing away with that mixture of frustration and satisfaction that only fishing seems capable of producing. I'd lost the battle, but somehow the session still felt like a success.

Walking back to the car, I realised how much I'd enjoyed simply sitting by the river again. The conversation with the father and son, the drifting paddleboards, the clear water over the stones and that single electrifying barbel take had all combined into the sort of day that sticks in the memory. 

You don't always need a fish on the bank to feel that a session was worthwhile. Sometimes one unforgettable bite is enough.

And really, is there anything quite like a full-on barbel bite? One moment the river is silent, the next the rod is trying to leap into the water and every nerve in your body wakes up at once. 

It's violent, sudden and completely addictive. Lose a few, land a few, get outwitted more often than you'd like, and somehow you still find yourself planning the next trip before you've even driven home.

So the weir and I aren't finished yet. There's a snag mapped in my head now, a fish somewhere out there that got the better of me, and a feeling that the next visit might be very interesting indeed. The river has a habit of keeping a few stories unfinished. That's probably why we keep going back, still the pint later was nice, very nice !!!