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.