A rather nice Sunday it was in Stratford-upon-Avon, I must admit, with anglers seemingly emerging from every bush, hedge and suspiciously convenient patch of riverbank.
The Rec was absolutely rammed with fishermen, and, even better, quite a few youngsters were amongst them always good to see the next generation getting their waders muddy.
The water, unfortunately, was so clear you could probably have counted the scales on a gudgeon from the bridge, which isn't exactly ideal when you're trying to convince a barbel that your bait is something it absolutely must eat immediately.
Walking past Lucy’s Mill weir, we spotted a couple of young anglers, complete with tripods and the sort of enthusiasm normally reserved for discovering buried treasure, who had managed to tempt a barbel of around four pounds. They were absolutely chuffed to bits and rightly so. A proper little river prize, and a rather handsome fish to boot.
There’s something very encouraging about seeing youngsters catching good fish and looking genuinely delighted by it. Long may it continue… although perhaps next time somebody could have a word with the river and ask it to turn the lights off a bit.
The Sunday roast dinner we religiously have, despite the increasingly concerned eyebrow raises from certain members of the household, made way for sausages, an obscene quantity of buttery mash, onion gravy and peas.
It was the sort of meal that makes you feel better about life, although with two hungry teenagers involved, the portion sizes were less “family dinner” and more “catering for a minor sporting event”.
There is, of course, no better sausage than a standard pork sausage from A W Lashfords, who have been making sausages since 1889. Back in 1916, during the First World War, when demand increased significantly, a pound of their finest would set you back four old pence.
Four pence. You can't even get a teenager to look up from their phone for four pence these days.
During the inter-war years they also started producing faggots, which really are superb. In fact, thinking about them now is making me hungry again, which is slightly annoying given that I’ve only just eaten and have absolutely no need for another meal.
Nothing good is cheap these days though, particularly when you have two hungry teenagers in attendance. A joint of beef brisket might not actually have cost that much more, but it would have disappeared so quickly that I’d have spent the evening wondering whether I had actually cooked it in the first place.
Anyway, after dinner I fancied a short fishing session to walk it off. Thankfully, despite being back drinking again now that I’m allowed to do so without everyone looking at me like I’ve just announced I’m taking up competitive juggling, that could wait until I got back.
I headed for a local stretch with the intention of trying to winkle out a barbel or, failing that, a decent chub. There had been a match on during the day, which isn't exactly ideal, although match anglers do at least provide a useful service by ensuring there isn't a maggot, caster or microscopic grain of groundbait left alive within half a mile of their peg.
When I arrived, however, a topping decent fish showed in one particular swim. The decision was therefore made for me, as it usually is when a fish has the good manners to advertise its presence.
Dusk was only an hour away, so I put a small amount of bait in and slowly got myself sorted. These are my favourite sort of sessions really; no expeditionary logistics, no tackle spread across the riverbank like a jumble sale and no food requirements capable of sustaining a family of six for three days.
Just a rod, a few bits of bait and the vague belief that something large might make a mistake.
I eventually cast out with some homemade paste and a Robin Red pellet, this time using a PVA bag of small pellets and a lead rather than a feeder. The bait had barely settled before the rod tip started twitching.
Then rattling.
Then tapping.
It was doing absolutely everything except screaming, “I’m a barbel, you idiot, strike now.”
But I sat on my hands. Years of experience have taught me that the more excited you get about a bite, the less likely it is to be a bite.There were decent fish showing in the swim too, which naturally made matters considerably worse. Every swirl became a barbel, every tap became a barbel and every slight movement of the rod tip became, in my head, a fish of biblical proportions.
In reality, it was probably something about the size of a Greggs beef and stilton bake.
Still, I waited.
And waited.
And eventually waited some more.
To cut a long story short, there was nothing to strike at. Not even a gluttonous chub which had managed to hook itself through sheer enthusiasm.
The river had basically dangled the possibility of a decent fish in front of me, allowed me to sit there getting increasingly excited about it and then decided it would be funnier if I caught absolutely nothing.
It was right.
Eventually the curfew arrived and I had to pack up. The club don't want you using headtorches, which I completely understand because there are rules for a reason, although I did find this particularly amusing when the same dog walker appeared on the opposite bank.
This wasn't a dog walker so much as a mobile lighthouse.
His torch was absolutely enormous and lit up the opposite bank, the trees, the water and probably several villages in the general vicinity. It was like a scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, only instead of aliens arriving, there was a bloke walking a Labrador.
I half expected the river to start bubbling and a spaceship to emerge from behind the trees.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting there in near darkness because my little headtorch apparently represents an unacceptable threat to the tranquillity of the countryside.
Still, rules are rules.
So I packed everything away, walked back to the car and headed home having achieved precisely what I'd set out to achieve.
Absolutely nothing.
Another blank.
Still, at least there were sausages.
And, if I'm being completely honest, the sausages had produced considerably more action than the fishing.
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