Warwickshire Avon - Madhouses and Mega Dinghies

After returning from our holiday in North Devon, I must admit I'm on a bit of a downer. There is something particularly cruel about coming home after a holiday where the weather has been glorious, the scenery has been stunning and life has somehow managed to slow down, only to discover that normality has been sitting on the doorstep waiting for you. 

I've spent most of the week wondering whether I could quietly move into the car and drive back without anyone noticing, especially when there was a day rave in Westward Ho! Saturday with none other than Billy 'Daniel' Bunter a veteran of the rave scene I fully emersed myself in back in the 90's. (anyone got a time machine ?)

To make matters worse, this would have been a cracking week to still be down there because of the eclipse. North Devon would have been one of those places where you could sit by the coast, watch the sky put on its little celestial performance and enjoy the sea breeze taking the edge off the midday sunshine. Instead I'm back here, looking at the garden and wondering whether putting factor 50 on my fishing chair counts as preparation for a session.

The weather has been absolutely superb, but for fishing it has been almost too good. You see there's barely been a breath of wind and the rivers are clear enough to see what the fish had for breakfast, which isn't particularly helpful when you're trying to persuade something with fins that it hasn't actually seen you standing there. Still, I suppose we shouldn't complain because there are worse things in life than sitting in the garden with a cold cider knowing that winter will no doubt be a washout again. 

Mind you, the lack of wind hasn't stopped some rather extraordinary things happening elsewhere. Apparently a Mega Dinghy managed to cross the English Channel carrying around 230 people, which is supposedly the largest number to make the journey in a single vessel. When I read that, I suddenly felt rather less adventurous about my own decision not to go fishing in this heat and dangle my legs in the paddling pool instead. 

The inflatable was apparently so packed that passengers were having to dangle their legs in the water as it entered the busy shipping route. Two hundred and thirty people on one inflatable boat crossing the Channel is the sort of thing that makes you wonder whether somebody misunderstood the instructions when they were told to "make sure everyone has a seat." 

Now some weeks you can feel the fishing gods looking down, having a right old chuckle to themselves. Every weather app looked like it had been sponsored by Satan, the rivers resembled warm Horlicks, and the fish had clearly booked annual leave without consulting me. Every time I looked out of the window it was either blisteringly hot or blowing a hoolie. About as inspiring for fishing as a wet Sunday in a caravan showroom.

Luckily, food stepped into the breach with all the reliability of a Labrador spotting a dropped sausage. Tuesday's spicy Pad Kra Pao with the wife at Yoga was magnificent, crowned by two duck eggs so obscenely rich they deserved separate billing on the menu and probably their own Instagram account. Honestly, those eggs had more yolk than a stand-up comedian. They nearly outshone the meal itself, which takes some doing.

Monday wasn't exactly a hardship either. A curry with my old mate Phippo always guarantees plenty of nonsense gets talked, most of it impossible to repeat in polite company and the rest best forgotten before breakfast. The food was spot on and the company even better. It's amazing how solving the world's problems over a vindaloo never actually solves any of them.

On the way home I pulled into a dried-up corn field to watch the eclipse. Typical really the entire sky was crystal clear apart from one stubborn cloud glued to the sun like a toddler clinging to a Farley's Rusk, determined to ruin everyone's day. 

You honestly couldn't script it if you tried. Mother Nature clearly enjoys winding anglers up just as much as the fish do.

In fairness, the sky did go strangely gloomy despite the sunshine trying its hardest to burn your retinas out. The shadows became ridiculously sharp and stretched for miles, which was probably the most impressive bit. 

The eclipse itself, though, felt a touch underwhelming after all the build-up. Rather like driving three hours to catch a gudgeon when someone promised you a thirty-pound carp.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining, unless it's the one parked in front of the eclipse. The heat has at least encouraged the wife and me to retreat into the garden once the kids are finally asleep. 

We've spent several evenings with a drink in hand watching the Perseids put on a display far better than anything on terrestrial television. Sometimes doing absolutely nothing turns out to be the highlight of the week.

The night sky has been absolutely littered with shooting stars, meteors and satellites gliding silently overhead. Every few minutes another streak flashed across the darkness while satellites wandered by pretending they owned the place. It certainly puts life into perspective for a few moments. Then someone inevitably asks if you've remembered to lock the shed.

As I write this, I've got two glorious weeks off work and they're packed tighter than a match angler's keepnet. First comes the mighty River Severn where, fingers crossed, the fish are in a better mood than they have been lately. Then it's off to the Atlantic courtesy of the Canary Islands in search of something that actually pulls back properly. I could certainly do with a bent rod restoring a bit of enthusiasm.

If that wasn't enough, the holiday concludes the day after we get back with a whistle stop trip to Glasgow to watch knob-twiddling maestro Anthony Pappa alongside a collection of fellow Australian progressive house DJs. 

It's difficult explaining progressive house to anyone who's never experienced it. To the untrained eye it just looks like blokes fiddling with expensive mixers for three hours. To the rest of us enjoying the scene from the 90's, it's absolute magic.

Hopefully the next two weeks will recharge the batteries enough for work not to feel like a life sentence. A decent holiday has a funny way of resetting the head. Catching a few fish would help enormously too. Stranger things have happened, although admittedly not many.

September sees the annual liver and body amnesty. After ten days of enthusiastic research at an all-inclusive in the Canaries and Devon in the mix as well, I think the poor thing deserves thirty days of peace and quiet. It has been a loyal servant over the years and deserves a month on the substitutes' bench. Consider it a well-earned sabbatical and hopefully some timber lost.

With any luck the weather will have calmed down by then and the rivers will resemble rivers again instead of oversized warm baths. I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to get after the barbel because that's where my head really is. Despite all the moaning, hope remains an angler's favourite bait. Anyway, enough waffling better get fishing before another cloud decides to have the last laugh.

You see with work finished early after banking my hours, I had a tiny window to flick a lump of bread about in search of a chub. It wasn't exactly overflowing with optimism, more a case of turning up because hope can be remarkably thick-headed. 

There are days when an angler glides to the river brimful of confidence, convinced the fish have been holding a committee meeting solely to discuss how best to throw themselves upon his hook. Then there are the days when the river greets you with the sort of grin usually reserved for tax inspectors and dentists. Mine, dear reader, fell squarely into the latter category.

The first chub was exactly where I expected it to be, tucked into a snag fortress that would have made medieval castle builders nod with approval. It gave my floating crust all the attention of a duke ignoring a chimney sweep before slowly wafting back into its woody sanctuary. I, meanwhile, was left trying to persuade myself that staring contests with fish counted as productive angling.

 Determined to seize the moment, I launched what I believed to be a "Luke the Nuke" cast of breathtaking precision. 

The river, however, had nominated a rather large overhanging tree as the true recipient of my masterpiece. 

Seconds later half the county's forestry programme came crashing into the swim with a splash that sent my solitary audience of one chub fleeing downstream in search of quieter company.

Off I trudged to the famed pool swim where, naturally, every respectable chub in the parish had gathered for what looked suspiciously like a social occasion. 

Reaching them would have required wading until the river lapped somewhere beneath my armpits, and even optimism has its limits. I decided drowning for a fish was perhaps an unnecessary flourish to the day's entertainment.

The next stretch was alive with fish, although unfortunately they all appeared to have been assembled from the junior section of the species handbook. 

Tiny dace, miniature roach and chublets no heavier than a decent sandwich darted at everything. Amongst the aquatic nursery lurked three proper chub, each treating my bread offerings with the sort of polite indifference normally shown to unsolicited salesmen.

Eventually a tiny chub took pity on me and saved the blank, which was rather like receiving a consolation prize after losing the village fete tug-of-war. Then, at last, salvation appeared in the shape of a decent fish homing in on my crust like a heat-seeking missile. 

I missed the first strike with admirable incompetence, only to hook it perfectly on the second attempt before it buried itself in the reeds and shed the hook with infuriating ease.

So ended another chapter in the grand book of Piscatorial Quagswagging, where triumph remained tantalisingly out of reach and calamity always seemed one cast ahead. 

The chub won on points, the trees claimed the best catch of the afternoon, and I returned home with little more than wet footwear and another tale to bore the neighbours with. Still, that's fishing—because if every trip ended in glory, we'd have nothing nearly as entertaining to laugh about afterwards.