The River Arrow - Bovinae and Bovarism

Now there are days when you wake up and know that a spot of fishing is exactly what you need, and then there are days when your body is telling you to stay in bed, drink something warm and stop behaving like a complete idiot. 

Unfortunately, when there's a river involved, I have a remarkable ability to ignore the latter, so despite having a cold and a trip to Glasgow looming the following morning, I decided that a bit of sunshine and fresh air would do me the world of good.

After all, what could possibly go wrong? A few hours roving the Arrow, a loaf of bread, a couple of obliging chub and home in time for a nice cup of tea, surely. 

Mind you, I've been fishing long enough to know that whenever you start making sensible predictions about how a session will unfold, the fishing gods are already preparing something to make you look like a complete berk.

The Arrow, like many of the local rivers, was looking extremely low and clear, which is lovely if you're a kingfisher or a water vole but rather less appealing if you're hoping to deceive a suspicious chub. 

In conditions like these, the fish can see everything, including your carefully concealed approach, your expensive tackle and possibly the sandwich you had for lunch three hours earlier.

Still, I set off with optimism in my heart and a nose that appeared to have developed a plumbing fault. The countryside was looking glorious, the sun was shining, and for a little while I forgot that I felt like I'd been dragged backwards through a hedge by a particularly aggressive badger.

Then I spotted the cattle.

Now, I have nothing against cows, provided they remain in their designated areas and don't interfere with my fishing. Unfortunately, amongst the cows and calves was what looked suspiciously like a bull, and I found myself conducting a rather serious assessment of the situation.

I like fishing, but I'm not sufficiently committed to the cause to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a large bovine gentleman, particularly when my immune system appears to have gone on strike. I could just imagine explaining to a paramedic that I'd been flattened by a bull while trying to catch a two-pound chub, and I suspect even the paramedic might struggle to maintain a professional expression.

So, with a tactical withdrawal worthy of a military commander who has just discovered the enemy has considerably more firepower, I moved away from the bovine bother and continued my roving adventure elsewhere.

The fishing wasn't easy, though, and the clear water meant that stealth was essential. I crept along the bank, peering into each swim and trying to move quietly, although sneaking about with a cold is a bit like trying to rob a bank while carrying a tambourine and shouting about your latest symptoms.

Then, quite by chance, I came across a group of chub feeding off the surface.

Well, now we were talking!

There is something wonderfully exciting about finding fish feeding confidently, especially when you've spent the previous hour wondering whether the only thing likely to take your bait is a passing leaf. I watched them carefully, presented the bread and waited for the magic to happen.

And happen it did.

The bait was taken, the rod bent beautifully and suddenly I was attached to a chub. For a few glorious seconds, I forgot about my cold, my impending journey to Glasgow and the fact that I'd nearly had a close encounter with a bull.

Then the hook pulled.

Oh, for goodness' sake!

One minute I was playing a fish, and the next I was standing there holding a rod that had become about as useful as a chocolate teapot. 

The fish had gone, my confidence had taken a considerable dent, and I was left wondering whether the chub had escaped or simply decided that I wasn't worth the trouble.

Naturally, I replayed the whole incident in my head about seventeen times, each replay producing a slightly larger fish and a slightly more tragic account of my misfortune. 

By the time I'd finished, the lost chub was probably approaching record proportions, despite the fact that I'd barely seen it.

Never mind, I told myself. There would be other fish.

This is one of the great lies of angling, along with “I'll only have another cast” and “I don't need any more tackle.” Nevertheless, I moved on, determined to make the most of the afternoon.

The next swim looked promising, but one of the chub had clearly spotted me. I presented the bait, hoping that the fish might overlook my presence, only for it to swim upstream without a care in the world.

And I'm convinced it stuck two fins up at me as it went.

Honestly, the cheek of it! Here I was, a poorly bloke making an enormous effort to present a respectable piece of bread, and this aquatic hooligan couldn't even pretend to be interested. It simply disappeared upstream, presumably to tell its mates about the strange creature on the bank who looked as though he needed a week in bed.

“Oh, so you're cagey, are you?” I muttered. “Too good for my bread, are you? Well, don't come crying to me when the river freezes over!”

The fish, naturally, remained completely unmoved by my little speech. I suspect it had heard considerably worse from anglers over the years.

There was still one deeper swim worth trying, though, and I wasn't about to give up just yet. I settled in, introduced some bread and watched carefully as it drifted through the swim.

A few minutes passed before I noticed a little movement.

Pluck, pluck.

Now, those two little indications are enough to make even the most experienced angler sit up straight. The imagination immediately gets to work, transforming a tentative nibble into a monster chub that will require a specially reinforced landing net and possibly the assistance of the fire brigade.

Then the line tightened, the rod bent and I was into another fish!

At last, something was going according to plan.

I played the chub carefully, determined not to repeat the earlier mistake, and soon enough it was safely in the net. It wasn't a monster, but then this was a small section of river, not some mythical waterway populated exclusively by six-pound chub with personal trainers.

It was a lovely little fish, and more importantly, the blank had been avoided.

There is something deeply satisfying about catching a fish when conditions are difficult, particularly on a small river where stealth, observation and a little patience can make all the difference. You might not catch a monster, but you've earned that fish, and sometimes that's worth considerably more than the size of the scales.

 I returned the chub safely and immediately began thinking about catching another one, because apparently one fish is never enough for an angler. We could land a perfectly respectable catch, have a wonderful afternoon and still convince ourselves that the next swim holds the fish of a lifetime.

It's a terrible affliction, and I'm not sure there's a cure.

I persevered for a little longer, but my cold was beginning to remind me that I wasn't exactly in peak physical condition. My nose was running like a burst water main, my head was throbbing, and I was starting to wonder whether another chub was really worth the possibility of arriving in Glasgow looking like a Victorian ghost.

I decided to leave a voice message for Nic from Avon Angling, who had been catching some Warwickshire Avon barbel on the float. His fishing sounded rather more exciting than my own battle against low water, suspicious chub and agricultural wildlife.

Nic got back to me, and after a brief chat he delivered a rather sensible observation.

“Yeah, you do sound rough, Mick. I'd get off for some rest if I was you.”

Well, that told me!

I'd spent the afternoon convincing myself that fresh air was doing me good, only to discover that I apparently sounded like a rusty tractor attempting to start in the middle of winter. The worst part was that Nic was absolutely right.

I could have ignored him, carried on fishing and tried to squeeze another fish out of the river, but sometimes even the most stubborn angler has to accept defeat. Besides, I had a journey to Glasgow ahead of me, and the prospect of spending the weekend coughing like a bloke who'd swallowed a bag of gravel wasn't especially appealing.

So I packed away and called it a day.

All things considered, it had been a rather enjoyable little adventure. I'd escaped the bull, found some feeding chub, lost one fish in spectacularly annoying fashion, been given the aquatic equivalent of two fingers by another and finally managed to land one before common sense intervened.

Not a bad result, really.

The Arrow had provided a lovely few hours in the sunshine, and although the conditions were tough, there is always something satisfying about roving a small river and trying to work out where the fish are holding. You never quite know what the next swim might produce, and that uncertainty is a big part of the attraction.

As for Glasgow, the gig is on Sunday, so I'm hoping that a little rest, some good food and perhaps a couple of medicinal drams will get me back into reasonable working order. I'm not claiming the drams are medically approved, naturally, but I'm willing to conduct a little informal research into their restorative properties.

For now, the tackle is away, the chub can relax, and the bull can continue running his little riverside empire without any interference from me. Next time, I'll hopefully be feeling considerably better, the river might have a touch more colour, and perhaps the chub will be slightly less inclined to take the mickey. Although, knowing my luck, I'll probably turn up to find the bull waiting for me with a fishing rod of his own.

On to the next one, which looks like being well into next week.

Tight lines, folks!