Warwickshire Avon - Wideboys and Wombats (River Carp !!)

When we first acquired our little section of the syndicate stretch, I can fully understand why the landowner only gave us one bit of river to play with initially. After all, there’s no point handing over several hundred yards of prime Warwickshire Avon to a collection of complete strangers who may immediately erect bivvies, fell half the woodland, install a three-course kitchen and generally behave as though they’ve been given planning permission for a small caravan park with fishing rods.

The general principle, I suspect, was very much out of sight, out of mind. If we could demonstrate that we were reasonably normal human beings who occasionally caught fish rather than a travelling circus of nocturnal woodland developers, then perhaps further negotiations could take place.

Fortunately, we must have passed the audition, because eventually the second section of river, rather grandly christened 'The Untrodden', became available to us too. 

This was largely down to the negotiating skills of George Burton, whose ability to persuade somebody to part with something is apparently only surpassed by Herb Cohen, although George has yet to publish a book entitled You Can Have The River, But Only If I Can Have The River First.

The Untrodden really does appear to be just that. There are stretches where you get the distinct impression that a human being hasn't cast a bait into it since the invention of the wheel, and possibly not even then, although there are rumours that a Bronze Age angler once lost a wooden float in swim fourteen.

The irony, of course, is that now we can drive virtually bankside and park behind the swim we intend to fish, the original stretch has become rather neglected. Previously, you had to park beside a busy road, climb through a hole in a fence that appeared to have been specifically designed to remove skin from your elbows, and then descend the steps I built many moons ago, which had gradually acquired the structural integrity of a well dunked digestive biscuit.

With the Warwickshire Avon currently running low, however, the neglected stretch suddenly looked rather interesting. It carries considerably more depth than some of the other water, and as anyone who fishes rivers knows, a bit of extra depth can make a man start thinking thoughts that would otherwise be considered completely unreasonable.

So, naturally, I decided to have a go.

Sam and I had fished the stretch on Sunday and, unfortunately, there were signs that somebody else had discovered it too. 

A makeshift rod rest had appeared, and the gap in the fence looked rather suspiciously inviting, which is generally the point where your mind starts imagining somebody arriving at midnight wearing camouflage, carrying three rods, a folding chair and a Tupperware box containing enough luncheon meat to feed Wolverhampton.

I had already put some scalded pellet in beforehand, knowing I was going to fish the following evening, so when I arrived at The Untrodden I parked at the bottom of the stretch and wandered over to the swim. 

I put some more bait out, had a look around and then decided it was probably time to make the original access slightly less accessible, if only to give any potential nocturnal entrepreneurs a minor inconvenience to overcome.

It wasn't exactly Fort Knox. I was merely trying to make getting through the fence sufficiently annoying that anyone contemplating a bit of unauthorised fishing might conclude that Netflix was actually a better option.

The evening itself was absolutely glorious. Clear skies, completely still water and that lovely period around dusk when the river starts changing character and you get the distinct feeling that something is about to happen, even though nothing has actually happened and you've spent the previous forty minutes staring at a motionless float like a man waiting for his broadband engineer.

As the light faded, the fish activity increased. Nothing enormous was topping, but there was enough going on to suggest that the river was waking up and, for a brief moment, I felt that I had timed things rather cleverly.

This is always dangerous.

The water was still absolutely tap-water clear, and from the swim I could see all the way down to the bottom in around six feet of water. Had it been twelve feet deep, I reckon I could have identified the make and model of any deadbait resting on the bottom, along with the expiry date on its packaging.

But this is the Warwickshire Avon, and once darkness arrives it has a habit of changing the rules. Things happen at dusk, things happen after dusk, and occasionally things happen that make you question whether the fish have been attending secret evening classes while you've been at work.

I filled the feeder with scalded pellet and attached a Sonubaits Oozing Sausage Sizzle dumbell, wrapped in one of my homemade Robin Red paste concoction. It was cast over the prebaited area, which had been sitting there for around thirty-six hours, and I settled back expecting, at best, a few enquiries from the local chub population.

What I wasn't expecting was what happened approximately twenty minutes later.

There were a couple of little bangs on the rod tip, followed by a steady pull that developed into one of those unmistakable something rather substantial has just decided it doesn't want to be here moments. I lifted into it and immediately found myself attached to a solid fish that appeared to have no interest whatsoever in discussing the matter.

Initially it simply sat there on the bottom. Then it started moving left in that familiar barbel fashion, and when it eventually felt the full bend of the Harrison rod it suddenly remembered that it had somewhere extremely important to be.

It took line like nothing I'd hooked for quite some time. The clutch was tightened as far as I dared, the reel was protesting, the rod was bent over and I was concentrating so hard that I probably looked like someone attempting to defuse a bomb using a packet of Twiglets.

I absolutely love this 1.75TC Harrison rod. It's got that wonderful combination of power and balance where you know you've got some serious stopping ability without feeling as though you're wielding a scaffolding pole.

The fish, however, wasn't particularly interested in my equipment review.

It was properly beasting me.

I did wonder whether I'd finally connected with some enormous barbel that had spent the last decade living underneath a submerged washing machine, and for a few moments thoughts of a new personal best began floating around my head.

This is another dangerous stage of fishing.

The brain starts doing things it shouldn't. You begin mentally writing the blog post, deciding which photograph will be the lead image and considering whether the words absolutely monstrous might be considered an understatement.

I was just about ready to put my hand over the spool and give it some additional encouragement when, after its initial twenty-yard run, the fish suddenly turned around and came charging back towards me.

Pheeeeeewwwww.

That was all very well, but when it eventually broke the surface I realised I hadn't hooked the gigantic barbel of my dreams at all.

I'd hooked a carp.

A very good carp, admittedly.

I'd caught a carp from this stretch before, a fourteen-pounder, but this fish was clearly bigger. For a few seconds I thought I'd got it under control, at which point the fish spotted the landing net and immediately decided that this was an unacceptable development.

It went absolutely berserk.

Another enormous run followed, accompanied by the sort of frantic clutch adjustment and rod manoeuvring normally associated with somebody trying to land a washing machine that has just been thrown into the river from a bridge.

I was holding on for dear life, praying that nothing would come adrift, but I was confident in the tackle. The Harrison rod was doing exactly what it needed to do, absorbing those savage lunges and taking some of the sting out of the fish's attempts to relocate itself to Birmingham.

Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the carp appeared to accept that its escape plan had been systematically dismantled.

The net went underneath it.

The fish went in.

I punched the air.

There are few things more satisfying than getting a good river fish safely into the net after a proper battle, particularly when you've spent the previous ten minutes wondering whether you're about to be humiliated by something with fins.

I let it rest for a while, sorted out the mat, sling and scales and eventually weighed it.

16lb 5oz.

Not a bad carp at all.

And this wasn't some obese, overfed, semi-domesticated lake carp whose idea of exercise is moving six feet between a boilie and a floating pellet. This was a proper river carp, built like a brick outhouse and shaped rather like an Australian wombat that had spent several years doing deadlifts.

An impressive beast, in other words.

I took a few photographs, admired it for a while and then slipped it back into the Avon. It swam away strongly, presumably off to tell its mates that some lunatic had tried to abduct it using a sausage-flavoured dumbell.

I carried on fishing for another forty-five minutes, well into darkness, but there wasn't so much as a chub pull. Nothing, nada, zilch, the sort of silence that makes you start wondering whether the fish have all gathered in another swim and are currently laughing at you.

It didn't matter.

I was still grinning.

There's something particularly satisfying about catching a surprise fish from water that you've perhaps been overlooking, especially when you arrive wondering whether there's actually anything worth bothering with and leave having just had your arms pulled off by a sixteen-pound river carp.

It also leaves the rather interesting question of what else might be lurking in that neglected stretch.

There are certainly barbel there. There are carp. There are chub, although apparently none of them felt sufficiently charitable to make an appearance on this particular evening, and given the depth and relative lack of disturbance, I suspect there may be one or two other surprises waiting for somebody sufficiently stupid—or optimistic—to go looking.

And that, really, is the problem.

Once you've caught one good fish from somewhere like this, you don't go home thinking, Lovely, that's that then.

You go home thinking, I wonder what's underneath that tree?

Then you start looking at the river differently.

And before you know it you're studying maps, checking levels, examining gaps in hedges and convincing yourself that a swim you haven't fished for three years is almost certainly holding the biggest fish in the county.

Which means, inevitably, I'll have to go back.

Not because I'm greedy, obviously.

Purely for research purposes.

And if another sixteen-pound carp happens to accidentally fall into my landing net while I'm conducting said research, then frankly it would be rude not to weigh it.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.56

There are certain noises in life that a sensible man learns to recognise, and one of them is the faint, nagging ache coming from the lower back which, when translated from the language of bodily complaints, basically means “pack your gear away, you idiot.” As a previous sufferer of sciatica (6mths of hell), I am normally reasonably good at listening to such warnings, although apparently there is a small but extremely stupid part of my brain that believes pain is merely the body's way of asking whether I fancy doing something considerably more physical. So, after Friday’s trotting exploits had left me with that annoying little ache down the lower back, what did I do the following morning

Well, obviously I went fishing, because common sense is very much like a waterproof jacket in my house: I know where it is, but rarely remember to bring it with me. Having spent the previous day kitting Sam out with some new fishing clothes because the boy appears to have discovered growth hormones and has shot up like a weed over the last couple of years, we headed off to the syndicate water where I planned to do some peg trimming while he christened his new baitcasting set-up. 

Looking back, there was absolutely nothing wrong with this plan apart from the small matter of me being the one who had to wield the cutting tools. The day before donning his new gear he'd been fishing on the local canal with his mate Noah where they dropped in to Martyn's Stratford on Avon Fishing and Outdoors where he gave them to free maggots where they caught 9 fish !!, Sam has certainly got his mojo back which is good. 

The water had cooled off considerably of late and, with a deadbait positioned where I could keep one eye on it, I started trimming away in a few swims while Sam went off chucking his lure around. I was secretly hoping the deadbait might produce something interesting while I was hacking away at the vegetation, because there is nothing quite like pretending you are doing essential fishery maintenance when what you really want is for a float, indicator or alarm to suddenly start doing something exciting. 

Sadly, the deadbait remained as lifeless as my enthusiasm for further peg maintenance and the pike, barbel and anything else with fins collectively decided that today was apparently a good day for a lie-in it was quiet !!.

Sam wasn't having much more luck either, although unlike his dad he had the advantage of possessing a functioning lower back and considerably more enthusiasm. 

With the river gin clear, he'd sensibly been trying more natural-coloured lures, but after a while he turned to me with the sort of expression normally reserved for children who have just decided that Dad clearly knows absolutely nothing about fishing. “Daddy, can we try the biggest lure now, I reckon we need to go OTT instead?”

Now, I would love to claim that I carefully analysed the conditions, considered the behaviour of the quarry and arrived at the conclusion that a larger, more conspicuous lure would be the logical choice. 

In reality, Sam suggested it and I immediately agreed, thereby allowing me to look like an experienced angler while contributing absolutely nothing to the decision-making process. The lure was duly attached, allowed to sink almost to the bottom and, on literally the first cast, something absolutely hammered it.

“I’ve got a fish on, I’ve got a fish on!” came the cry, at a volume normally associated with someone discovering that they'd won the lottery rather than caught a small pike. 

Sure enough, an unsuspecting pike had absolutely nailed the lure, proving once and for all that when confronted with gin-clear water and cautious fish, the correct answer is apparently to throw something resembling a brightly coloured aquatic brick directly at them. It wasn't a huge pike by any stretch of the imagination, but to Sam it might as well have been the biggest fish ever to swim the river, and judging by his grin I suspect he'd have happily carried it home and put it in the bath.

I landed it for him and gave him a close-up lesson in how to unhook a pike safely, explaining that next time it'll be his turn under my guidance. There is something particularly satisfying about watching your lad catch a fish using a rod and reel that he's only just started getting to grips with, especially when you've spent a small fortune on the aforementioned rod, reel, lures and clothing and are now emotionally committed to proving that buying all of it was absolutely necessary. 

Naturally, Sam was already planning the conversation with his mother before we'd even left the swim, and I could practically hear the words “I caught a pike” being rehearsed in his head.

There were no more bites after that, but quite frankly we'd already had what we came for and anything else would merely have been greedy. We packed up and headed home with Sam still buzzing about his fish, while I was beginning to feel that familiar ache in my back and wondering whether my body had perhaps been trying to communicate with me using a language I was deliberately refusing to learn. 

The irony wasn't lost on me that the youngest member of the party had demonstrated excellent lure selection, impeccable timing and considerably more common sense than his father.

Sunday arrived and, after cooking a roast, I had every intention of heading out in pursuit of a barbel because apparently one small pike and an aching back had not yet completely cured me of my stupidity. However, for perhaps the first time in living memory, I decided that sitting on the sofa and watching YouTube might actually be the sensible option, which was a decision so unusual that I half expected someone from the Environment Agency to knock on the door and check whether I was feeling alright. 

With three short sessions planned during the week anyway, I figured the barbel could wait and, judging by how my back felt after an afternoon doing absolutely nothing, I suspect it was quietly thanking me for finally developing some common sense.

And that, really, was the lesson from the weekend: Sam listened to his instincts, chose the ridiculous lure, caught a pike first cast of the big lure and went home looking like he'd just conquered the River Amazon. I ignored mine, tried to turn myself into a one-man groundskeeping department and spent the rest of the weekend negotiating with my lower back like it was an angry union representative. 

There are many things fishing teaches you over the years, but apparently one of them is that sometimes the cleverest thing an angler can do is put his feet up, watch someone else catch fish on YouTube and give his spine a well deserved day off.

Warwickshire Avon - Nurseries and Numismatography (Baby Barbel)

Well, autumn has certainly decided to announce its arrival, and judging by the temperature the other morning on the way to work, it had clearly forgotten to send a polite letter first. One minute we were enjoying the seemingly endless summer, the next I was sitting in the car wondering whether I'd accidentally driven north and ended up somewhere considerably closer to the Arctic Circle. It was, in other words, bloody chilly.

I'm not complaining though, because as much as the long, drawn-out summer was rather pleasant, after several weeks of sunshine and absolutely bugger all rain it did begin to feel like we'd been permanently relocated to Spain. The grass was turning the colour of an old pair of khaki trousers and every time you looked at the river you could almost hear it asking someone to please turn the tap back on. We like our seasons in Britain, or at least I do, particularly the ones where the weather becomes increasingly unsuitable for normal people and increasingly attractive to anglers.

There is something rather satisfying about the arrival of autumn, even if it does mean wearing a winter jacket before going to work while wondering where you put the gloves you haven't seen since February. The rivers start to look different, the trees begin throwing their leaves into the water with gay abandon and suddenly you can justify wearing six layers of clothing simply because you're going fishing. It is a wonderful time of year, provided you aren't expected to actually enjoy being outside for anything other than fishing.

Getting out this week was always going to be slightly problematic, largely because the diary makers had been at it again and filled the bloody thing with commitments. There is also the small matter of having a child with special needs at home, which means that although Sam is perfectly capable of looking after his brother for a couple of hours, anything much longer than that is something neither of us feels entirely comfortable with. That's just the way it is, and fishing, despite what some head wand donners who don't live in our shoes believe, occasionally has to take second place to real life.

The good news is that things are changing as Sam gets older, and the wife and I can now actually go out for a meal together without having to organise what resembles a military operation involving timetables, contingency plans and even rarer babysitters. Sam has grown up considerably, and not just vertically, although he is now taller than me which I find deeply offensive on a personal level. He also understands that from time to time he has to be responsible for his brother, which is something that has made life just that little bit easier.

Anyway, with the wife out, the house was mine, and apparently this was considered an opportunity for me to prepare myself some food rather than simply standing in front of the fridge repeatedly opening the door in the hope that something interesting would appear. The suggestion was, and I quote, "Why not make yourself some fish or something spicy?" which I interpreted as an instruction rather than a casual culinary suggestion. Naturally, I went for the second option because apparently I enjoy making decisions that will later have consequences for everyone around me.

What followed was a proper old-school garlic chilli chicken, the sort of meal where the recipe should really come with a warning from the Health and Safety Executive. By the time I'd finished cooking, the kitchen looked like a small explosion had taken place inside a Chinese takeaway and then decided to have a second go. There were chopped chillies everywhere, garlic on every conceivable surface and enough washing-up left behind to make me seriously consider moving house.

It was, however, absolutely bloody delicious, which is really all that matters when you've reached the point where the kitchen looks like evidence from a crime scene. I consumed enough garlic to ensure that for the following couple of days I wasn't so much breathing as exhaling a defensive chemical weapon. My work colleagues, unsurprisingly, were absolutely delighted when Friday lunchtime arrived and I finally disappeared from the building.

Forty-three hours had been ticked off for the week, the coffers were a few pennies heavier and I decided that enough was enough. I needed to go fishing, even if it was only for a couple of hours and even if the weather looked like it was considering throwing every possible variety of autumn at me simultaneously. So, on the way home, I decided to detour down to the Warwickshire Avon for a spot of trotting.

The swim I had in mind was one where you need to don the waders, which is always a good start when you're already slightly tired and the temperature has dropped sufficiently to make you question your life choices. 

Float peddler Dave Harrell had been down there not long previously and had apparently bagged up on chub and even managed a barbel trotting, which naturally made the whole thing sound considerably easier than it probably was. 

If Dave can do it, I thought, then surely I can too, although history has repeatedly demonstrated that this particular line of reasoning is deeply flawed.

I'd fished the stretch since Dave's visit and had previously enjoyed some success catching chub off the top on bread. Unfortunately, the warmer conditions seemed to have encouraged the bigger chub that had been sitting in the oxygenated water to relocate themselves to somewhere considerably more convenient for them and considerably less convenient for me. 

Still, I'd come this far and wasn't going home without at least having a poke around.

The weather wasn't exactly helping matters either, with a fairly strong wind blowing across the river and making the business of trotting a float look more like an exercise in remote-control boat operation. Despite wearing jeans underneath neoprene waders, after about two hours I was beginning to feel the cold creeping in. It was the sort of cold where you start telling yourself that you're perfectly comfortable while simultaneously wondering whether your feet can still actually feel anything.

The tactics were wonderfully simple, which is generally my preferred approach because the fewer things there are to go wrong, the fewer things I can subsequently blame. Six-millimetre mixed-colour pellets were loose-fed into the swim and a banded six-millimetre pellet was attached to a size 16 hook, which was about as complicated as the operation got. No twelve-page rig diagrams, no obscure Japanese hook pattern and no bait that costs more per kilo than the average family spends on groceries.

I fed the swim for about twenty minutes before making the first trot, mainly because I'd decided that the fish deserved a decent opportunity to arrive before I started disturbing them. The float went under and a small chublet was attached almost immediately, which was rather encouraging and also made me wonder whether I'd really needed to spend twenty minutes feeding the swim in the first place. Still, anglers are creatures of habit, and if you've spent twenty minutes throwing pellets into a river you feel obliged to pretend there was a carefully considered reason for doing it.

The next cast produced another bite, although this time the result was rather less satisfactory. The float disappeared, the fish shot off to the right with considerably more enthusiasm than the previous occupant and the hook promptly pulled just before it reached the safety of the reeds. Damn it, I thought, because that had probably been a decent chub and I'd managed to do the angling equivalent of dropping the winning lottery ticket down a drain.

Throughout the session it became increasingly obvious that the bigger chub simply weren't there, or if they were there they'd collectively decided to ignore me. The smaller chublets, however, were more than happy to keep me entertained and provided plenty of action, which is one of the reasons I enjoy trotting so much. You can spend hours chasing a particular fish and then suddenly realise that the smaller ones have actually provided most of the fun.

Then, completely unexpectedly, the float buried again towards the end of the run. The resulting fight didn't feel quite the same as the chub, and after a few moments it became apparent that I'd connected with something considerably more interesting than another small chub. It was a tiny baby barbel.

Now, I genuinely wasn't expecting that, and for a moment I just stood there with the sort of grin normally associated with somebody who has just discovered they've won something they didn't even enter. The little barbel had gate-crashed the chub party completely uninvited, but I couldn't have been happier to see it. Sometimes fishing has a funny way of giving you precisely what you didn't realise you were hoping for.

The significance of that little fish wasn't lost on me either, because this is one of the stretches affected by the severe fish kill back in June 2023. Thousands of dead fish, including mature chub, barbel and pike, were discovered along stretches of the Warwickshire Avon around Warwick and Barford, with angling subsequently suspended while the situation was investigated. The Environment Agency attributed the disaster primarily to low oxygen levels following sudden heavy summer storms washing accumulated road and gully pollutants into an already warm river, while local anglers raised other concerns including untreated sewage foam and pollution.

Whatever the precise combination of circumstances, the result was the same, and seeing so many dead fish was something that nobody who witnessed it is likely to forget. Rivers don't simply bounce back overnight from something like that, particularly when you're talking about mature fish that have taken years to reach any worthwhile size. Every surviving fish therefore seems a little bit more important, and every young fish feels like a tiny sign that the river is quietly getting on with the job of rebuilding itself.

I've caught barbel on this stretch during the previous season and have already had some this season as well, which has been hugely encouraging. But catching this particular little fish was different because it was so obviously young, and that made me wonder what the river might look like several years down the line if everything continues moving in the right direction. Perhaps that little fish will one day become one of those big, powerful Avon barbel that has some poor bloke standing in the reeds wondering why his rod has suddenly turned into a banana.

For me, that was the real highlight of the session. I hadn't caught anything big, I hadn't bagged up and I certainly hadn't achieved anything that would make the angling press sit up and take notice, but none of that mattered. Sometimes a fish doesn't have to weigh ten pounds to make an impression, and this one certainly did.

I sat there looking at the little barbel and couldn't help but smile. It was only a tiny fish, but given the history of the stretch it felt like a rather significant little fish, and one that I suspect I'll remember for a very long time. There was something rather special about seeing one of the next generation swimming around in a river that had been through such a terrible episode.

Eventually I packed away, climbed out of the waders and headed home feeling considerably happier than I had arrived. I'd been cold, I'd lost a decent chub, I'd caught a collection of chublets and I'd spent a couple of hours standing in a windy river wearing neoprene trousers like some sort of aquatic sausage. Yet somehow, that tiny barbel had made the whole thing worthwhile.

Fishing is funny like that. You can spend an entire season obsessing over big fish, looking at weather charts, river levels, moon phases and every other piece of information you can possibly find, only for the most memorable fish of the week to be something you could probably have carried home in a particularly enthusiastic cupped hand. It isn't always about what you catch, and occasionally the smallest fish can leave the biggest impression.

So, autumn is here, the temperatures are dropping and the rivers are beginning to look like proper fishing rivers again. The garlic has hopefully now vacated my pores, my colleagues have probably recovered sufficiently to return to work without fear and the diary makers have been warned that there are limits to how much of my life they are allowed to fill. Most importantly though, somewhere in the Warwickshire Avon there is now a tiny barbel swimming around, and for this angler, that was the icing on the cake.

Talking of Barbel, a link to Gale Lights podcast..

Warwickshire Avon - Pot Hunters and Piddingtonians

I’d not fished this particular stretch for barbel for quite some time, which is probably why, in a moment of complete irrationality, I suddenly developed the overwhelming urge to go and annoy one of them again. There are few things in life more predictable than an angler voluntarily returning to somewhere that has previously caused him considerable frustration, armed with exactly the same tackle and considerably more optimism. It’s a strategy that has served me badly for years, so naturally I saw no reason to change it now.

Upstream, since the fish kill in this area, there have been a few barbel coming out, which is encouraging, although the phrase “a few barbel” is quite sufficient to make an angler cancel weddings, birthdays, dental appointments and, if necessary, a minor operation. 

Tell an angler there are three barbel in a stretch and suddenly he’s studying Google Maps at two in the morning and explaining to his wife that he really does need to be there before sunrise because “the conditions are perfect”. This is despite the fact that the conditions are almost certainly identical to the previous forty-seven mornings when he stayed in bed.

Even I had managed to catch them in floodwater and towards the end of last season, so clearly something was going right, although I remain deeply suspicious whenever anything goes right in my fishing. 

Experience has taught me that good news on the river is usually followed shortly afterwards by a snapped hooklink, a lost fish or me standing in the car park wondering where I’ve put my keys. On one memorable occasion I found the keys in my hand, which probably says more about my state of mind than I’d like to admit.

Anyway, the swim I’d decided upon has a bit of history, although not necessarily the sort of history you’d want proudly displayed on the fishery website alongside pictures of smiling anglers holding enormous barbel. “This month’s featured swim: excellent depth, good cover and the location of a notorious illegal night-fishing incident” probably wouldn’t have quite the same ring to it as “Peaceful Riverside Peg With Stunning Views”. Although, to be fair, knowing there had been a bit of skulduggery there probably made it more attractive to me.

Legend has it that a professional pot hunter, who apparently had the same barber as Arthur Scargill, was once caught red-handed night fishing in this very swim, which, as these things tend to do, rather buggered things up for everybody else. I’m not sure whether the hairstyle was relevant to the crime, but once you’ve got a bloke skulking around beside the river at night looking like he’s just walked out of a 1984 miners’ strike, you’re probably going to remember him. It’s not every day you catch a barbel angler who shouldn't be there, who looks like he’s about to address a mass rally about pit closures.

The result is a strict curfew, meaning you have to be off the fishery half an hour after dusk, where using a head torch is apparently about as welcome as a relocated boat arrival to the Lib Dem voting village of Piddington. 

Now I’m not entirely sure what happened that night, but I suspect the fishery committee have never quite recovered from it. 

Somewhere in the club archives there is probably a handwritten document entitled The Incident, kept in a locked filing cabinet and brought out whenever somebody asks why they can’t stay an extra fifteen minutes.What I find slightly amusing is that nearly all of the stretch isn’t actually opposite houses, whereas some of the pegs that are have considerably less privacy and yet seem to contain rather more fish. 

Personally, I don’t particularly like fishing opposite houses because there’s always that nagging feeling that somebody is watching you through the curtains, wondering why a grown man has been sitting beside a river for four hours staring at a float that hasn’t moved. They probably also wonder why he occasionally whispers “come on” at it, as though the float is simply being deliberately difficult.

There’s also the possibility they’re wondering why you’ve just thrown half a pint of hemp into the river and are now looking at it expectantly, as though the hemp is about to produce a written response. But then again, if there are fish there, I have been known to overlook quite a lot of architectural inconvenience. I’d happily fish opposite Buckingham Palace if I knew there was a twenty-pound barbel underneath the bedroom window, although I might draw the line at being challenged by a member of the Royal Household especially Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor .

I suspect one reason those pegs produce so well is that one of the house owners feeds the swans, and I’m convinced a sizeable proportion of what she balls into the river doesn’t actually get eaten by a swan at all. The resident chub and barbel probably regard her as some sort of aquatic catering goddess, arriving daily with another complimentary buffet while we anglers stand downstream sprinkling pellets into the water and pretending we know what we’re doing. I can imagine the barbel forming a queue underwater, complete with somebody shouting, “Is she coming today?” and another replying, “Yes, excellent, cancel lunch.”

Frankly, if I lived there I’d be feeding them too, although I’d probably have a little sign saying “BARBEL ONLY – CHUB WILL BE CHARGED.” Followed by another saying “NO BLEAKS – YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE.” And possibly a third saying “PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANGLERS,” because judging by some of the people I’ve seen beside rivers, that may actually be the more important warning.

With dusk getting earlier and earlier as the weeks roll by, I’ve been thinking that this stretch could be ideal for a little campaign of my own. A few hours after work, a bit of barbel fishing and still home at a vaguely respectable hour for tea sounds almost suspiciously sensible for me. Normally my fishing plans involve being somewhere at an inappropriate time, carrying far too much equipment and returning home smelling like a combination of river mud, damp clothing and poor decision-making.

There is usually also a point where I question why I’m sitting beside a river in the dark while perfectly sensible people are indoors watching television. Then I remember I’m waiting for a barbel, and apparently that makes everything reasonable. This is one of the great mysteries of angling, because apparently sitting beside a river for three hours watching a motionless rod tip is completely acceptable if there’s a large fish involved.

The swim itself I’d not fished, bizarrely, even though I’ve been a club member for many years. You’d think after all that time I might have explored the place properly, but apparently I’ve been too busy fishing the same handful of swims repeatedly in the hope that one day the fish will finally surrender through sheer exhaustion. There is a certain logic to this, although I suspect the fish have probably worked out what I’m doing by now.

When you consider the shallow water coming down from upstream before it suddenly deepens off up from here, it’s an interesting little area. Over the years I’ve had both barbel and chub from those depths above here, which is always enough to make an experienced angler stop and look properly rather than simply chucking something in and hoping for the best. Although, obviously, I did briefly consider chucking something in and hoping for the best because old habits die hard.

I like areas like this because they stand out from the humdrum, and after years and years of fishing I’ve learned that if the water looks interesting, there’s usually a fish somewhere in it looking equally suspiciously at you. Quite possibly wondering what on earth you’re doing with that rod. Quite possibly also wondering why you’ve just spent twenty minutes staring at the swim before throwing a handful of food into it and then sitting down as though you’ve completed a scientific experiment.

Fish must think anglers are completely deranged. They probably have a support group somewhere under a tree root where they compare notes about the strange creatures who visit the riverbank. “This bloke turns up every Tuesday, throws food in the water and waits for us to eat it,” one probably says, while another replies, “Sounds serious, mate, you should move downstream.”

So, with the pot hunter swim chosen, the curfew mentally noted and the possibility of a swan-related food chain investigated from a safe distance, it was time to employ my usual Robin Red approach. 

There’s something reassuring about turning up at a river, looking at perfectly good water and then deciding what it really needs is a liberal application of something that smells like a mixture of paprika, toast and a doner kebab factory. 

I’ve never understood exactly why Robin Red works, but I’m increasingly convinced that if you put enough of it in the river, eventually something will turn up purely to find out what the hell is going on. Possibly a barbel, possibly a chub, or possibly an environmental health officer wondering why the river smells like someone has been cooking a kebab in the margins. At that point I’d probably pack up anyway, because explaining Robin Red to an official is considerably harder than explaining it to a barbel.

With everything sorted, I settled down and got fishing, knowing that I had a couple of hours before the river police apparently expected me to pack up and disappear into the gathering gloom.  

Now there is something wonderfully ridiculous about a curfew when you’re barbel fishing, because you can spend all day thinking about the session, drive home from work like a man possessed, rush down to the river, carry half your garage through the car park, carefully prepare the swim, bait up and cast out. Then somebody has effectively told you, “You’ve got about two hours, don’t get comfortable.”

The beauty of an after-work session is that you don’t need to catch much to feel you’ve had an evening out, although naturally I intended to catch something considerably larger than my expectations. Ideally something with a large mouth, broad shoulders and absolutely no intention of behaving itself. A barbel, in other words, although I’d have happily accepted anything that caused the landing net to leave the bank.

And with barbel slowly moving back into this stretch, a promising swim in front of me and Robin Red doing whatever mysterious things Robin Red does underwater, I had a feeling this could be the start of something rather interesting. 

Either that, or I was about to spend those limited hours staring at motionless tackle while feeding the river enough bait to make the local fish wonder whether Christmas had come early. Either way, I was perfectly happy, because when you’re sitting beside a river waiting for a barbel, apparently absolutely nothing happening is still considered a successful evening.

You go to the river hoping to catch a barbel and come home with a damp landing net, an empty bait tub, several kilograms of mud and a renewed appreciation for how little control you actually have over your life. You may not catch a fish, but you’ll definitely catch a cold, lose something and question at least three of your life choices. And, frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Anyway better get fishing, Mick enough of the waffle !!!

When I arrived at the swim it was hard to miss, to be honest, as there was a massive oak tree to my right and a rather nice-looking peg right out in front of me, which is generally a promising start to proceedings unless, of course, you are standing next to the wrong tree. 

The swim had a fair amount of streamer weed and reeds in it, but there was a lovely bit of flow and a quick donk around with the lead revealed a couple of rather tasty little spots in which to park a bait. So, with the important investigative work completed, I fed a mixture of scalded pellet and a bit of groundbait and left it all to have a little rest while I faffed about getting myself sorted.

The Avon is currently about as clear as the water coming out of your kitchen tap, which isn't exactly what you would describe as prime barbel conditions unless your barbel have recently taken up snorkelling and developed an appreciation for being watched. 

However, there is method in my madness, because that little window leading up to dusk and extending into what I like to call the witching hour can sometimes produce when the rest of the day has been about as productive as a chocolate teapot. 

And frankly, if you are going to sit beside a river doing absolutely nothing for several hours, you may as well choose the bit of the day when the fish are most likely to ruin that plan.

Around forty-five minutes before official dusk, a simple underarm lob with a 15mm Robin Red pellet and a little PVA bag saw the bait land nicely on one of the spots. I was now officially fishing, although technically I had been fishing for years if you count all the time spent buying tackle, talking about fishing and looking at weather forecasts. 

The rod was on the rest, the river was flowing nicely and all I had to do was wait for a barbel to come along and make the whole thing worthwhile.

It took a good while before the first bite arrived and, when it did, it came completely out of nowhere and absolutely hammered the rod over. For a moment I thought I had hooked the Avon equivalent of a runaway shopping trolley, such was the speed at which the rod was attempting to escape towards the water. Chub were the obvious suspect, and while I certainly wouldn't have complained, the target was very much a barbel and I was hoping something with whiskers rather than something with an attitude problem.

The trouble was, I stupidly hadn't checked whether the pellet was still attached, which is one of those things that seems incredibly obvious about fifteen minutes after you should have done it. Sure enough, after wondering why the swim had suddenly gone completely silent, I reeled in to discover that my Robin Red offering had vanished without trace. The only explanation I could come up with was that I had abandoned my usual ridiculously oversized pellet stops in favour of an off-the-shelf Korum version, allowing either the pellet to break down or the fish to pull the whole lot through the hole and escape into the night carrying my dinner with it.

Fortunately, there was no need to sit there conducting a full forensic investigation into pellet stops because around ten minutes after official dusk the rod top gave a couple of proper clangs before immediately entering full-on meltdown mode. I picked it up and connected with something that instantly felt like a barbel, the first powerful surge telling me everything I needed to know as it hugged the bottom and attempted to introduce itself to every weed bed in the vicinity. After that it broke the surface and went completely Tasmanian devil, which was very considerate of it because it saved me the trouble of wondering whether I had actually hooked anything interesting.

At one point the fish was right out in front of me and I had to pull it through some of the streamer weed, which thankfully proved less troublesome than it looked from the bank. The barbel wasn't particularly keen on this arrangement and made several determined attempts to continue its evening elsewhere, but eventually I got it into the net. And there it was, a lovely Avon barbel sitting there looking considerably more impressive than the rather questionable pellet-stopping arrangements that had preceded it.

I let the fish rest in the net while I packed everything away, because there was no point rushing after getting the hard bit right. Once everything was packed I had a proper look at the fish, grabbed a quick trophy shot and admired another cracking Avon barbel before returning it safely to the river. It wasn't a double, but frankly I wasn't going to start weighing it on the scales of disappointment when it had just provided a thoroughly enjoyable little session.

With curfew upon me, I headed off home feeling rather pleased with myself and, more importantly, already thinking about the next trip. This fish has definitely spurred me on to fish this stretch of the Avon a little more seriously, particularly some of those pegs that I've rather conveniently neglected while convincing myself that there must be better ones somewhere else. There is something rather satisfying about turning up after work, sitting there through the fading light and nicking a barbel just as the river starts to disappear into the darkness.

The Avon might be ridiculously clear at the moment, but as long as you pick your moment and resist the temptation to spend six hours staring at an unmoving isotopic rod top, there are still fish to be had. Another Avon barbel safely returned, another excuse to go fishing, and another completely legitimate reason to ignore whatever sensible plans I might have had for the next evening.

On to the next one.

Oh and yes before you ask, I forgot my hat !!

Warwickshire Avon - Baitcasterisation and Bankchairmanship

Sam has, somewhat unexpectedly, started showing a bit of interest in fishing again, which is obviously a good thing although I'm not entirely sure whether my bank account is going to agree with that assessment. There was a time when trying to get him interested in fishing was a bit like trying to persuade a cat that having a bath would be an enjoyable experience, so any sudden enthusiasm has to be encouraged before it disappears again.

Consequently, when he said he was happy to join me at the BIG Fish N Show at Baden Hall Fishery on Saturday, I wasn't going to start asking awkward questions about exactly why he wanted to go. Sometimes in life you simply accept a minor miracle when it happens and ask questions later.

The BIG Fish N Show is a relatively new addition to the angling calendar and it was the fact that it was being held outside that initially sparked my interest. I'm not quite sure what this says about me because the words "outdoor fishing show" and "British weather" aren't exactly a combination that normally fills me with confidence. 

Still, there were apparently loads of well-known anglers going to be there and I thought surely it couldn't be that bad, could it? Famous anglers, tackle manufacturers, fishing lakes and the prospect of spending several hours looking at fishing gear I didn't know I needed seemed like a reasonably good way of spending a Saturday.

The journey up wasn't too bad either and after about an hour and fifteen minutes travelling up the M6 we rolled into Baden Hall at around 9.00am. The car park was already pretty busy, which suggested that a significant proportion of the British angling population had independently arrived at exactly the same conclusion as us.

You always know a fishing show is going to be reasonably well attended when you start wondering whether you've accidentally parked at the wrong event. There were cars everywhere and people wandering around with the unmistakable look of anglers who had already mentally spent money despite not having got through the entrance yet.

Having never been to Baden Hall Fishery before, I was actually quite impressed with the place. The lakes looked pretty decent and there was plenty of space, although obviously my first thought was less about the quality of the fishery and more along the lines of "I wonder what's in there?"

There was one lake absolutely full of match anglers, all looking incredibly serious. They had the sort of concentration normally associated with bomb disposal, despite the fact that most of them appeared to be fishing for things that probably wouldn't have eaten the contents of my bait box if I'd thrown the entire thing in.

Another lake had more specialist anglers fishing, which was much more my sort of thing. There is something about specialist fishing that appeals to me because nobody seems quite as stressed about whether they've had 37 fish by lunchtime and whether the angler next to them has had 38.

The show itself had a reasonable turnout from the tackle manufacturers, with Trakker and Fox being particularly prominent. The carp anglers were absolutely loving it, especially the latest bivvies and bedchairs, and I have to admit that the modern bedchairs are bloody impressive.

They've come on enormously since the days when a fishing bed was essentially a folding metal frame with a thin piece of material stretched across it. Some of the modern versions look more comfortable than the bed I sleep in at home, and I'm beginning to think the only thing missing is somebody bringing you a cup of tea and asking whether you'd like the curtains drawn.

The Tempur mattress might have finally met its match. If you can get a bedchair with adjustable lumbar support, memory foam, a pillow and enough room to turn over without waking up your neighbour, I'm not sure why anybody would ever go home again.

The obvious problem is that the modern carp angler now seems to require more equipment to go fishing than I have in my entire house. Rods, reels, bivvies, bedchairs, sleeping bags, alarms, tables, chairs, cooking equipment and probably enough spare clothing to survive the Battle of the Somme.

I suppose if you're going to sit beside a lake for 72 hours waiting for a carp to eat a boilie, you might as well be comfortable. Personally, if I'm going to spend three nights beside a lake without catching anything, I generally just call it a holiday.

The Predator tackle stand was probably the busiest stand there, certainly from what I could see. There were people absolutely everywhere, and judging by the amount of tackle being carried away I suspect they must have had a fairly successful weekend.

Predator anglers are an interesting bunch because there seems to be an almost unlimited number of lures available for catching fish that are quite capable of eating virtually anything. Yet somehow you still need 47 different colours, four different sizes and something that looks like a diseased duck.

Sam was particularly taken with the Predator stand and eventually picked up an Abu Black Ops rod and reel. To be fair, it looked pretty cool, and there is something about black fishing tackle that makes you feel considerably more serious about your fishing even when you're standing on the bank wearing an old fleece with a crisp packet in the pocket.

I suspect that was probably at least 60 percent of the reason he bought it. The other 40 percent was probably because it looked like something you'd expect to see being used by a special forces operative in a film.

The Korum boys were there too and I had a chat with Harry Pardoe, who I've met before riverside where I put him on to some river Zander. It's always nice bumping into people you know at these things because you can immediately stop pretending you're interested in whatever stand you're standing in front of and have a proper conversation.

I've got a slightly complicated relationship with Korum gear these days. Some of their stuff is genuinely very good, while other items leave me wondering whether somebody has simply walked around the warehouse shouting "we need another product" and then put a logo on whatever happened to be lying on the floor. You just have to cherry-pick the good stuff from the dross. It's a bit like shopping in a charity shop, except everything costs more and there is considerably less chance of finding a decent pair of curtains.

The Winning Ways guys were there as well and there were loads of other familiar faces wandering around. Jeremy Wade was apparently there, which seems entirely appropriate because if there's one man who looks as though he could find a prehistoric monster hiding underneath a pallet, it's Jeremy Wade.

Terry Hearn was also apparently there, although despite wandering around for quite some time I never actually saw him. This has led me to believe that Terry has perfected some sort of advanced camouflage technique involving a hat, a hoodie and standing quietly behind a display of terminal tackle.

Then there were the YouTubers. Quite a lot of YouTubers, actually, which is probably something that every modern fishing show now has to have or the younger generation might suddenly remember that they could be outside actually fishing. Cal and Dani and Tom Wilshaw pedalling his coffee it's nice to actually see these people in person. 

The queue to see Carl from Fish With Carl was absolutely enormous. It seemed to stretch on forever and people were patiently waiting for their chance to meet him, have a photograph and presumably tell him how many times they'd watched his latest video. The queue was so long that I started wondering whether some of them had brought camping equipment. Which, given the amount of carp gear available at the show, wouldn't actually have been difficult.

Alan Blair was there as well, although by the time I saw him it looked as though he was having to make do with what could only be described as the dregs. I suspect this was probably exaggerated in my head because Alan still seemed to have plenty of people around him, but compared with the Carl queue it looked like he had been allocated the overflow car park.

I'm sure he wasn't bothered though. If you're Alan Blair, you're probably quite used to people wanting to talk to you, although I would imagine there comes a point where you start hoping somebody will ask you about the weather just so you can have a normal conversation. 

I managed to have a chat with Matt Hayes, which was one of the highlights for me. I've watched countless hours of his television programmes over the years, so it was quite strange standing there having an ordinary conversation with somebody whose face has been on my television for years.

Thankfully he was a thoroughly nice chap and very easy to talk to. There's always a slight danger when meeting someone you've watched on television that they turn out to be completely different in real life, but fortunately there was none of that. I didn't ask him whether he'd ever wondered what happened to all the fish he'd caught on television. I'm sure the answer is probably more complicated than "they're still in the river".

I also had a good chat with Jack Perks, who is much more on my sort of wavelength. He's one of those anglers who seems equally happy targeting the smaller species as he is going after the bigger stuff, which is something I can relate to.

There is something very satisfying about catching a small fish that you've deliberately targeted. You don't always need a fish that looks like it needs its own postcode to make a fishing trip worthwhile.

Apparently Jack is going to be fishing for tuna and blue shark soon, which is quite a leap from some of the smaller species he targets. I did briefly wonder whether he would be taking a 10ft feeder rod and a tin of luncheon meat, but presumably he'll have something slightly more substantial.

I bought a book from Jack as well and got him to sign it. I now own a signed book by Jack Perks, which makes me feel considerably more cultured than I actually am.

Of course, owning a signed fishing book doesn't necessarily mean you are going to read it. At the moment it's sitting somewhere safe, which is usually the first stage in ensuring that you never see it again. Cal and Dani were there too, along with Tom Wilshaw and Danny from Danny's Angling Blog on the Korum stand. There really was a decent selection of people there and, for a relatively new show, it seemed to have attracted a fair amount of interest.

The weather, inevitably, had decided that it wasn't going to make things too easy. We had a series of showers coming through, which meant everybody was repeatedly putting waterproofs on, taking waterproofs off and then putting them back on again five minutes later.

It's the traditional British outdoor experience. You don't actually dress for the weather, you dress for all possible weather conditions simultaneously and then spend the day carrying the clothes you aren't currently wearing.

The Angling Trust had clearly identified an opportunity. They were selling umbrellas for a tenner to people stuck in the queues and, judging by the number of them being carried around, they must have shifted quite a few.

There's something very British about paying ten pounds for an umbrella because you've voluntarily attended an outdoor event in September. Somewhere in the distance, a weather forecaster was probably laughing. I did think about buying one, but then remembered that I already own approximately 14 umbrellas, none of which are ever where I need them. This is one of the great mysteries of domestic life.

You can have six umbrellas in your house and still leave home in the rain without one. They don't disappear exactly, they simply relocate themselves to places where they become completely useless. Eventually we'd seen enough and decided to head home. It had been a good day though and, considering we'd spent most of it walking around looking at fishing tackle rather than actually fishing, I'd say it had been a success.

Then came the small matter of the M6. The motorway had apparently decided that Saturday wasn't difficult enough already and there was gridlock traffic, so eventually I ended up using the M6 Toll.

Twelve quid.

Twelve bloody quid.

There is something deeply offensive about paying £12 for the privilege of driving on a road because the free road has decided to stop functioning. I kept expecting somebody at the toll booth to hand me a small complimentary packet of crisps as compensation.

Still, we got home eventually and Sam was keen to try out his new baitcaster the following morning. This was rather encouraging because the last thing I wanted was for him to spend a load of money on a rod and reel and then leave it sitting in the corner looking decorative.

So Sunday morning saw us heading off to a new water for me this season. The river was low, clear and sluggish, which are three words that don't exactly fill you with confidence when you're hoping to catch a predator. Still, we gave it a go. We tried numerous lures, changed colours, changed sizes and generally went through enough tackle to make it look as though we'd been commissioned by a lure manufacturer.

The river looked absolutely beautiful though. Gin clear water, low levels and that sort of quiet Sunday morning atmosphere where you can convince yourself that the fish are definitely there and you're merely waiting for the right moment.

Eventually there was a sign of life and a reasonable pike took a Replicant lure. Suddenly everything changed because when you're lure fishing for pike and something actually grabs the lure, all the previous hours of fruitless casting are immediately forgiven. Unfortunately the pike didn't seem particularly interested in remaining attached to the lure. After the first proper pull off the rod, it simply came off.

There was no dramatic conclusion, no photograph and certainly no fish in the net. Just that horrible moment where you realise that the thing you've been waiting for all morning has happened and lasted approximately three seconds. The pike presumably swam away feeling rather pleased with itself. I imagine it is now telling the story to other pike about the day it encountered two anglers who spent several hours throwing things at it and then managed to lose it when it finally decided to cooperate.

Sam, meanwhile, seemed to take to the baitcaster remarkably quickly. He got the hang of casting it almost immediately, which was slightly irritating because I was expecting there to be a reasonable amount of shared suffering.

Instead, he looked as though he'd been using one for years. There is nothing quite like watching someone else pick up a piece of fishing tackle for the first time and immediately work it out while you're standing beside them wondering why yours has just produced a bird's nest.

For me, the baitcaster represented a considerably steeper learning curve. There are knobs everywhere. Little knobs, big knobs, magnetic knobs, braking adjustments and various other things that apparently need to be altered depending on the lure, the wind, the line and presumably the phase of the moon.

I spent a considerable amount of time fiddling with things. Every adjustment seemed to produce a different result and I was beginning to feel less like an angler and more like somebody repairing a malfunctioning washing machine.

Eventually you get a cast that works beautifully and think you've cracked it. Then you make another cast and the reel immediately explodes into a bird's nest that looks like you've been knitting with fishing line.

Still, Sam was getting on with it brilliantly. If he continues at this rate, he'll soon be teaching me how to use mine that is gathering dust, which would be quite humiliating but probably inevitable. After Sunday dinner I decided that I needed some peace and quiet, so I headed off to the syndicate stretch. There is something rather nice about going fishing after Sunday dinner, particularly when everybody else is occupied doing something that doesn't involve you.

The river was still low and clear and, once again, the fish appeared to have decided that today wasn't the day. I had a couple of small pulls, but nothing materialised into anything meaningful.

Sometimes you can spend hours fishing a swim knowing there is almost certainly a fish somewhere nearby, but getting it to actually do anything is another matter entirely. It's like knowing somebody is in the house because you can hear them moving around but they refuse to answer the door.

I stayed into dark anyway. There's always that thought that perhaps the fish will switch on as daylight disappears, and if you've already spent several hours sitting there, you might as well give yourself the opportunity to be disappointed in the darkness as well.

The beauty of fishing into dark is that everything becomes more mysterious. Every little pluck feels significant, every swirl could be a fish and every noise in the bushes becomes either an otter, a deer or something that is about to murder you.

Usually it's a leaf.

On this particular occasion I had my comfortable chair with me, complete with lumbar support. This is another sign that fishing has gradually changed over the years because once upon a time I would have happily sat on anything that vaguely resembled a chair.

Now I'm apparently looking for ergonomic support.

The lumbar support was actually very good. So good, in fact, that I began to wonder whether it was perhaps working a little too well. At some point during the evening I became aware that I had apparently drifted off. Not a full night's sleep obviously, but enough of a nodding session to make me question whether I was actually fishing or simply conducting a long-term experiment into the sleep-inducing qualities of riverside chairs.

The worst thing is that you wake up and immediately look at the rod as though you've been keeping a close eye on it. Nobody needs to know that you were asleep.

You look around, adjust the rod slightly and adopt the facial expression of somebody who has been intensely analysing the water for the last twenty minutes. Meanwhile, your chair is sitting there looking extremely guilty. There is something very peaceful about fishing into darkness though. Even when you're not catching, there's the sound of the river, the occasional movement in the margins and the feeling that you're temporarily removed from all the normal nonsense of everyday life.

And sometimes, apparently, the lumbar support removes you a little further than intended.

So the weekend produced one escaped pike, a new baitcaster, a signed book, another fishing beanie, some leads, several conversations with anglers I've watched on television and enough tackle browsing to make my bank account feel slightly nervous.

Sam seems to have rediscovered his interest in fishing, which is probably the biggest success of the whole weekend. If nothing else, we've now got somebody else in the house who can justify buying fishing tackle, which is an opportunity that absolutely must not be wasted.

The BIG Fish N Show was actually a very good day out. The weather could have been kinder, the M6 could have been less ridiculous and the M6 Toll could perhaps have been £12 cheaper, but I'd definitely go again next year. And if the show continues to grow, I expect the queues will get even longer, the tackle stands will get even bigger and the carp bedchairs will eventually become indistinguishable from actual beds.

At which point I may finally give in.

Because if I'm going to spend a few hours beside a low and clear river catching absolutely nothing, I might as well be comfortable.

In fact, if anybody knows where I can get one of those modern carp bedchairs with lumbar support, memory foam and a built-in cup holder, let me know.

I'll probably need somewhere to put the kettle while I have my afternoon nap.

Because clearly this is what fishing has become.

BIG fish, expensive tackle, baitcasters, celebrity anglers, motorway tolls and a comfortable chair from which to watch absolutely nothing happen.

And, if you're lucky, one pike that falls off.