Sunday mornings and I have a bit of an understanding. The family don't really get going until lunchtime, so rather than pretending I was some sort of hardcore dawn raider, I decided to embrace the laziness and head for the syndicate stretch where I could park right behind my peg.
Why carry half a tackle shop across fields when you can practically fish from the boot of the car? Naturally, I still managed to bring everything apart from the kitchen sink, although looking back that probably wouldn't have looked out of place either.
The weather clearly hadn't read the forecast. We've had weeks of dry weather, yet somehow I found myself diving back into the car to dodge a couple of proper heavy showers. With a pint and a half of maggots to get through, I fancied a nice few hours trotting. The river, however, had other ideas.
Every run through produced the same result. Minnows, tiny dace and bleak had formed some sort of underwater feeding frenzy and were demolishing the maggots before anything worthwhile even had a sniff.
I tried fishing deeper thinking perhaps the better fish were holding near the bottom. Sadly, all I'd achieved was feeding exactly the same tiny fish at a slightly different depth. After about an hour I'd had enough. There's only so long you can convince yourself that catching fish the size of your little finger is exciting before admitting defeat.
So it was time for Plan B... bread and chub.
I've caught chub off the surface in this pool before, so I started introducing bits of bread. The tiny fish absolutely mullered every flake, but all that commotion often attracts bigger fish into the swim.
For a good half an hour absolutely nothing happened. Then, right over on the far side of the pool, I spotted that unmistakable bow wave that only a feeding chub seems capable of making. A lump of bread went straight onto the hook and landed close to where I'd seen the fish. It disappeared almost instantly, but I struck into absolutely nothing.
Thankfully I don't think the fish felt the hook. Another piece of bread went straight back out while I muttered a few choice words about my timing. The current started dragging the line out of position, but it didn't matter. About ten seconds later the bread vanished again and this time everything connected beautifully.
The rod hooped over and a proper summer chub thumped away with those lovely heavy head shakes. A few moments later a cracking fish slipped over the rim of the landing net, showing off those beautiful bronze summer colours. As often happens with chub, the swim immediately went quiet. Not a swirl, not a shadow and certainly not another chance.
I wandered downstream to another favourite swim armed with a fresh loaf and plenty of optimism.
Several slices later I'd successfully fed every small fish in Warwickshire while the chub were clearly attending a meeting elsewhere. With nothing happening, I headed back to the original swim. I sat in the car for half an hour, watched the water, flicked the odd bit of bread in and simply enjoyed doing absolutely nothing.
Sure enough, another bow wave appeared. It was almost like watching a replay of the first fish.
Bread on. Cast out. Wait... slurp... fish on.
This one wasn't quite as big as the first, but it fought just as honestly and rounded off the morning perfectly. Two lovely surface-caught chub from a session that looked like it was heading for disaster.
Watching those chub suddenly appear reminded me of Luke Littler playing Gerwyn Price.
Price can be firing in huge averages and looking in complete control, but Littler has this incredible habit of waiting for the right moment before clinically taking his chance with a 167 check out, just like those chub that appeared from nowhere after half an hour of patience.
That was the end of the session. No huge haul and no personal best, just a couple of lovely fish and a thoroughly enjoyable few hours beside the river.
The maggots almost certainly ended up feeding several thousand minnows, bleak and dace. Somewhere on that stretch there's probably a tiny fish telling his mates about the best Sunday buffet he's ever attended.
The older I get, the more I realise fishing isn't always about catching loads of fish. Sometimes it's simply about switching the world off for a few hours and concentrating on nothing more than where the next piece of bread should land.
It's amazing what fishing can do for the mind. Not mindfulness... just mind blank, and sometimes that's exactly what the doctor ordered.
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