There are certain news stories that make you stop what you’re doing, read them again and wonder if someone has accidentally put the wrong location on the press release. Five Mexican men, a secret meth lab and remote farmland near Furnace End in Warwickshire meanwhile I’m sat here preparing to go barbel fishing on the Warwickshire Avon, which suddenly feels like a slightly more questionable evening activity than it did this morning.
I had been looking forward to a peaceful few hours by the river, watching the light fade over the Avon while waiting for a chub or barbel to do something vaguely interesting.
Now, having read about Furnace End, I’m wondering whether every unoccupied farm building in Warwickshire has a secret second purpose and whether I should be checking the postcode on my fishing ticket before setting off.
The timing is particularly unfortunate because I’ll be fishing into dusk, which is normally one of my favourite times to be beside a river. The planes from the local airfield and wildlife quieten down apart from the resident barn owl, the river takes on that lovely evening glow and, if you’re lucky, a fish comes charging through the swim like it’s just remembered it left the oven on.
But suddenly every rustle in the hedge is going to sound suspicious. Normally I’d assume it was a rabbit, pheasant or someone else fishing illegally close enough to me to become personally irritating, but now I’ll be wondering whether I’ve stumbled across Warwickshire’s answer to Breaking Bad while trying to catch a fish.
The irony is that fishing in to dusk requires a certain amount of preparation. Rods, reels, leads, bait, landing net, unhooking mat, headtorch and enough other assorted fishing paraphernalia to make a casual observer wonder whether you’re actually going fishing or preparing to establish a small outdoor branch of Angling Direct.
I can imagine the conversation if the authorities happened to wander past. “What are you doing here?” they’d ask. “Barbel fishing,” I’d reply. “And what’s in those bags?” “Pellets.” A pause. “What sort?” “Halibut.” Another pause. “Right, carry on.”
The real problem is that fishermen already look slightly suspicious when sitting motionless beside a river after dark. Add a headtorch, a couple of bait tubs and an unhealthy interest in secluded stretches of countryside and suddenly you’re only one clipboard away from needing to explain yourself to several different government departments.
Still, there is one reassuring difference between me and the unfortunate occupants of the Furnace End operation. I’m hoping to produce a barbel, whereas apparently they were hoping to produce something rather less desirable. My only chemical reaction this evening should hopefully be the one that occurs when a strong Avon barbel picks up a pellet and converts my peaceful evening into several minutes of frantic rod-holding.
So off I’ll went, into the Warwickshire dusk, armed with fishing tackle and a slightly heightened awareness of remote farm buildings. If the fish were feeding, I’ll be perfectly happy; if they aren’t, I’ll probably pack up early rather than sit there wondering whether that distant generator is agricultural machinery or something that definitely isn’t mentioned in the Angling Trust rulebook. Because there’s nothing quite like a relaxing evening beside the river. Although after this week’s news, I might stick to the swims with good mobile phone reception. You know, just in case, don't want any agro now do we !!
I rocked up at the syndicate stretch at around 6.40pm, which, when you consider dusk was allegedly somewhere around 8.10pm, didn't leave me with an enormous amount of time to actually do any fishing. Still, this is the Warwickshire Avon and when it's low and clear like it is at the moment, there's absolutely no point rushing about like a caffeinated meerkat because nothing much tends to happen until the light starts disappearing.
I lobbed a couple of cricket-ball-sized balls of groundbait into the swim, each one liberally seasoned with a few freebie pellets, and then retired to the car to avoid the rain. At one point it was absolutely hammering down with such enthusiasm that I briefly contemplated the sort of sensible decision that normal people make, namely driving home, putting the kettle on and pretending I'd never been fishing.
Thankfully, after about ten minutes the biblical deluge subsided and I got the gear sorted out. The plan was a PVA bag of freebies, a large 15mm Robin Red pellet on the hair and the whole lot wrapped in a homemade paste which smelled strongly of spicy, savoury meat, or possibly the contents of a particularly questionable butcher's bin.
By about 7.30pm the rod was finally out, at which precise moment the heavens decided that my waterproof clothing needed a proper field test. Fortunately, the waterproof trousers and soft-shell jacket appeared to be doing their job, so I settled down beneath a very overcast, slightly peculiar-looking sky, with a decent breeze rattling through everything.
And despite the weather, it was actually rather pleasant. There's something about being sat beside a river in miserable conditions, with the rain in your face and everything smelling damp, that seems to amplify the senses, probably because you're concentrating very hard on not getting wet.
As darkness approached I was expecting the usual Avon nocturnal shenanigans to begin. The resident owl made an appearance and then disappeared off to conduct more important owl business, the bats milled around for a while before gradually thinning out, but the fish appeared to have collectively agreed that tonight was going to be a sponsored silence.
In fact, even 45 minutes after dusk it was still surprisingly light. I could probably have walked to the end of the field and back without a headtorch, although obviously I wasn't going anywhere because I'd imposed a strict 9.00pm curfew on myself and, unlike most of my fishing plans, this one appeared to have some vague connection with reality.
Then, approximately 30 seconds before my self-imposed bedtime, the rod absolutely detonated.
It was one of the most violent bites I've ever had, catching the baitrunner completely by surprise and sending me into action with all the grace and composure of a man who has just discovered he's left the oven on. The fish made an alarming amount of ground almost immediately and I could actually feel the line grating as it headed for somewhere considerably more solid than where I wanted it to be.
Initially I thought it might be a big chub, which would have been lovely, but as I kept the line tight and tried to get another angle on it, the fish eventually came out from the snag. Under the beam of the headtorch I finally got a proper look and thought, in the highly articulate manner fishermen adopt in moments of excitement: "Errrrrrrrrr... that's not a chub."
It was a big barbel.
At this point the peaceful evening descended into complete chaos. The fish was absolutely determined to return to its snag, I was equally determined that it wasn't going back there, and somewhere in the middle of this argument I managed to convince myself that I had everything completely under control.
I didn't.
There was a particularly hairy moment during the netting attempt when things went spectacularly wrong, the sort of moment where time slows down and you can see your carefully prepared fish of a lifetime swimming off into the darkness while your landing net is apparently working for the other side. Somehow, though, the fish remained attached and eventually I managed to get it safely into the net.
Result.
It was clearly a double, so I let the fish rest in the extended landing net while the C-shaped snag rest stood guard like some sort of aquatic security officer. I packed the car away, sorted myself out and then, with the adrenaline beginning to subside, finally got the fish onto the scales.
11lb 15oz.
Not quite twelve pounds, which is obviously a devastating blow to its self-esteem, but close enough to make absolutely no difference whatsoever to the grin that was spreading across my face.
A few trophy shots followed before I gave the fish another good rest and then watched it disappear back into its lair under the beam of the headtorch. And just like that, the syndicate stretch had once again produced one of its big residents, 30 seconds before I was due to pack up.
So there we have it: three hours of preparation, groundbait, pellets, paste, rain, bats, owls, darkness and absolutely nothing happening, followed by thirty seconds of complete mayhem and an 11lb 15oz barbel. Sometimes the river doesn't just test your patience; it waits until you're literally reaching for the car keys before reminding you who's actually in charge.
I drove home with a grin from ear to ear, which is generally considered a perfectly acceptable symptom of having just landed a cracking barbel. The 9.00pm curfew had been obeyed to the second, the fish had gone back safely, and once again the Warwickshire Avon had demonstrated that if you're prepared to sit there looking miserable for long enough, it may eventually reward you for your stupidity.
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