I was genuinely surprised the other day when Sam announced that he wanted to go fishing. This is becoming something of a rare event these days, a bit like seeing a kingfisher in a swim you've been baiting for three weeks, because getting a fifteen-year-old out of bed and away from a screen requires planning, negotiation and, on occasion, the sort of psychological warfare normally reserved for hostage situations.
Like his mother, Sam has developed a rather healthy appreciation of his bed, although at his age I suppose I can't really complain. The difference is that when I was fifteen I wasn't particularly interested in sleeping until lunchtime because I was too busy roaming the streets, riding my BMX, building dens and generally doing things which, viewed from the perspective of adulthood, probably involved considerably more opportunities for serious injury than I realised at the time.
Fishing was also a big part of it, and I remember cycling over to Somers in Meriden with my brother, rods strapped to our BMXs, probably looking like a couple of Victorian chimney sweeps who had somehow acquired bicycles. We thought nothing of it, whereas today if I suggested Sam cycled several miles to a stretch of river with a fishing rod attached to his bike, I'd probably have Social Services, the police and holier than thou Chris Packham turning up on the doorstep.
Of course, times change, and gaming is a massive part of young people's lives now. Those lockdowns certainly didn't help, although when you're stuck indoors for weeks on end with your mates available only through a headset, I suppose Call of Duty, Siege and whatever else the kids are playing these days became the equivalent of sitting on the wall outside the chippy and talking complete rubbish for six hours.
Sam's latest enthusiasm for fishing was partly driven by a Temu purchase, which immediately raised my eyebrows because I'm not entirely convinced that the words 'Temu' and 'quality fishing tackle' have ever previously appeared in the same sentence. Still, he'd bought himself a pike lure for about £1.50, a multi-jointed affair which, to be perfectly honest, didn't look half bad when I inspected it.
I'd expected something which would fall apart if a pike so much as looked at it, but it actually appeared reasonably well made. I suppose for £1.50 you can't expect it to come with a certificate from the British Standards Institution, a handwritten note from the lure maker and a small gold-plated plaque commemorating its birth, but it certainly looked capable of catching something.
The other part of the Temu order was rather more difficult to explain. Sam had purchased a balaclava, black ski goggles and a propeller hat, which is a combination that raises rather more questions than it answers and isn't something you generally expect to see assembled together unless you've accidentally wandered onto the set of a low-budget Scandinavian children's television programme.
Apparently this is connected with playing Siege, where he likes to dress in the sort of sweatshop-produced tactical gear that makes him look like a counter-terrorism operative who's been sent to neutralise a particularly dangerous gang of pike. I decided not to ask too many questions, because frankly I'm happier knowing less.
Anyway, the syndicate stretch is ideal for a short session, so there was no need for one of those ridiculous 4.00am starts that I used to consider perfectly normal and now regard as a form of self-inflicted sleep deprivation. These days I'm rather enjoying my bed myself, and by just gone eight o'clock we were ready to go, with Sam actually prepared before me, which was a slightly disturbing indication that something important was happening.
The conditions weren't exactly screaming 'lure fishing bonanza', but we'd come to fish, so fish we would. Sam headed off with his £1.50 Temu pike impersonator while I prepared myself for the more sedate pursuit of perch and chublets with a smaller Salmo Hornet, because apparently I'd reached the stage of life where catching a six-ounce perch had become an entirely acceptable objective.
Then, about five casts in, came the shout every parent who takes their offspring fishing wants to hear.
"I've got one on! I've got one on!"
There was a slight pause before the second declaration, delivered with considerably more certainty and volume.
"It's a pike! It's a pike!"
And, remarkably, he was absolutely right.
I looked over and there it was, a decent pike which I'd estimate at around five or six pounds, and suddenly that £1.50 Temu lure had gone from being an amusing experiment to the most expensive object on the bank because, as we all know, once a lure catches a fish it becomes priceless.
I grabbed the landing net and headed over, and Sam was doing exactly what he needed to do, keeping the fish moving and trying to prevent it from finding the nearest bit of underwater vegetation. Unfortunately, the landing net was at full stretch and the pike had other ideas, heading off to the right with Sam having to apply some serious side strain to stop it disappearing into the snaggy bits.
For a moment it looked as though we'd got it beaten.
The fish was coming towards the net, the Temu lure was hanging out of its mouth, Sam was concentrating like a bomb disposal expert and I was standing there with the net thinking this was all going remarkably well considering we'd spent approximately the price of a packet of crisps on the lure.
And then the pike launched itself out of the water.
Under the tension of the line it somehow managed to throw the hooks, and in the blink of an eye we went from 'that's a lovely fish' to 'Damn it!!!'
There are few sounds in fishing more depressing than the collective groan produced by an angler and his dad when a good fish falls off at the net. Sam was absolutely gutted, and I was gutted for him, because when you've watched your son hook a decent pike within five casts, the fish has already become something much larger in your imagination than it actually was.
It was probably twenty pounds by the time we got home, judging by the way these things normally develop.
Still, that's pike fishing, and there wasn't much Sam could do about it. He carried on fishing the swim and had a couple more follows and one or two snatched attempts, but nothing properly connected, so eventually we decided to have a wander and see if we could find anything else willing to participate in our little Temu-sponsored expedition.
We went on the rove, both of us now fishing lures, although I'd sensibly downsized to the Salmo Hornet in the hope of finding a perch or perhaps one of the Avon chublets. Sam continued with the pike tackle, presumably confident that another aquatic missile was waiting beneath the surface to redeem the previous one.
Sadly, the river had other plans.
It was tough as old boots.
We worked our way along the stretch, casting likely spots and covering different bits of water, but the expected procession of perch, chub and pike failed to materialise. It was one of those sessions where every swim looks as though it should contain something, but the fish have apparently received a memo informing them that today was not the day to cooperate.
Eventually Sam returned to the swim where he'd hooked the pike, which at least gave him another opportunity to torment himself by imagining the fish he'd lost. While fishing there he managed to pick up a dace on the retrieve, which he'd somehow managed to impale with the lure rather than actually catch in the conventional manner.
Fortunately the dace went back absolutely fine, so we could at least claim another species for the morning, although I'm not entirely sure 'accidentally speared by lure' is a technique that will be appearing in the next edition of Improve Your Coarse Fishing.
And that, unfortunately, was about it.
Two and a half hours of fishing produced a missed pike, a few follows, a couple of snatched attempts and one rather unfortunate dace, which isn't exactly the sort of catch report that gets the national press knocking on the door. Still, Sam had enjoyed himself, and for me that is considerably more important than filling the net.
The interesting thing is that the river can change dramatically as the light begins to disappear.
I've always found this stretch comes alive as the light levels drop, particularly when the Avon is clear, and it can feel like you're fishing an entirely different river once dusk starts creeping in.
During the brighter part of the day it can look almost devoid of life, but give it a bit of shade and low light and suddenly you start wondering whether every dark shape under the far bank is a chub, a barbel or something considerably more interesting.
Before we packed up, I put some more bait down in one of the swims, as I always like to do.
There isn't much point in fishing an empty-looking swim and then simply walking away from it, particularly when you know from experience that a bit of regular bait can eventually encourage the better fish to hang around.
I'll have another go during the week, probably into dusk and beyond, and see if I can winkle out a decent chub or perhaps another barbel. The Avon has a habit of keeping a few cards close to its chest, and sometimes the best fishing begins just when the sensible people have gone home for their tea.
So, all in all, not the most productive couple of hours, but definitely one I'll remember.
Sam hooked his first pike of the session within about five casts on a £1.50 Temu lure, lost it dramatically at the net and was then reduced to catching a dace by the wrong end. Meanwhile, his dad stood there with a landing net, a Salmo Hornet and the gradually dawning realisation that perhaps the teenager who'd rather be gaming isn't quite as difficult to tempt out fishing as he'd imagined.
Perhaps the answer isn't banning the Xbox after all.
Perhaps we just need to buy more cheap Chinese fishing tackle.
Although I'm still drawing the line at the propeller hat.
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