Who would have thought it? Good mate Simon and I, two perfectly ordinary anglers of modest means, (well I say that, Simon earns a small fortune), questionable dress sense and even more questionable fishing ability, were about to find ourselves fishing behind enemy lines. Not literally, of course, although given the price of the property surrounding us, I wouldn't have been surprised to find armed security guards patrolling the riverbank asking to see our fishing licences, proof of income and the last three years of tax returns.
You see we were heading for Tiddington Road in Stratford-upon-Avon, a stretch of the Warwickshire Avon where the houses are so expensive that even the garden sheds probably have their own mortgage arrangements. We're talking million-pound-plus properties, riverside gardens and the sort of residents who probably refer to a barbel as something the gardener has been asked to remove from the ornamental pond.
You see I turned 54 this week, Tuesday the 3rd of November, and rather than celebrate in the conventional fashion with a few beers with the lads or a meal out with the family and the gradual realisation that my knees now make more noise than my fishing reel, I decided on my own terms another weekend fishing jaunt with Simon (we have had many over the years). Fishing, good food, a pub crawl or two and, hopefully, a fish. It seemed a perfectly reasonable way to mark another year of declining physical usefulness.
Now the accommodation was the Bend in the River Lodge, situated on the Avon Park Estate just outside Stratford, and although it wasn't exactly the cheapest way of celebrating a birthday, it did come with one rather significant advantage. Access to a stretch of river that is generally beyond the reach of the likes of us. Unless, of course, you happen to own a lodge, possess a substantial property portfolio or are called Tarquin and have a back garden so enormous that you need a pair of binoculars to see whether the gardener has turned up.
I imagine the residents of Tiddington Road don't so much go fishing as occasionally glance towards the river while sipping something expensive from a glass that probably costs more than my landing net. They might even have a barbel swimming past their lawns, although I suspect they would be more concerned about whether it was damaging the aquatic landscaping.
There is, incidentally, some rather interesting history attached to this stretch. The area around Tiddington, including nearby sites such as The Meads, has significant Roman archaeological connections, with evidence of settlement dating from the first to fourth centuries. Excavations have uncovered ditches, pottery, structural remains and even Roman burials. So, while Simon and I would be attempting to uncover a few barbel, our predecessors had been busy burying their dead and establishing a civilisation.
It's quite something to think that two thousand years ago people were going about their daily business here, probably worrying about taxes, food and whether the bloke next door was getting a better deal on his property. Not much has changed really, apart from the fact that the Romans didn't have to pay £4 million for a house with a river view.
The plan was simple. Pick up the keys at 3pm, get ourselves acquainted with the accommodation, have a good look around the river and then get the rods out. We'd fish until dusk, perhaps a little beyond, and then head off into Stratford for a curry at Aladdin's. A thoroughly civilised arrangement, although the fishing fraternity has a rather different definition of civilised to most people. For us, sitting in a muddy field in November, watching a quiver tip for four hours while developing the circulation of a frozen haddock, is considered an excellent weekend.
Now the river itself was looking moody. The Warwickshire Avon was running gin clear, with that rather dark and grey appearance it adopts when it knows perfectly well that you're going to struggle. Clear water, November conditions and a river that seemed about as interested in feeding as a pensioner after Christmas dinner.
We knew the score. During daylight hours, the fish can be frustratingly elusive, particularly when the water is clear. You can sit there watching the riverbed, convinced you've spotted a fish, only to discover it's a discarded crisp packet or a particularly ambitious leaf. As the light fades, however, things can change. Barbel become more confident, the river takes on a different character and suddenly there's a chance that something might happen.
And that blog readers is all the encouragement an angler needs.
We had the adjacent field available as well, which was another little bonus. There is something rather liberating about having a whole field and a private stretch of river to explore. Although I suspect that if the owners had known exactly what sort of people they were allowing access to their exclusive little corner of Warwickshire, they might have reconsidered. Two blokes with fishing rods, a collection of bait tubs and the combined sophistication of a pair of escaped zoo animals.
A barbel would be lovely, obviously. That's what we'd come for. But we weren't going to be fussy. A chub would be welcome, a decent roach would be celebrated and even a suicidal gudgeon would probably have been photographed from several angles and described as a magnificent specimen.
The beauty of these weekends, of course, is that the fishing is only part of the equation. There is the accommodation, the food, the beer, the conversation and the general business of putting the world to rights. Anglers are particularly good at this last activity. We can solve international conflicts, economic crises and the NHS waiting list between bites, despite being unable to organise a landing net and a pair of forceps at the same time.
So, with the keys collected at three, rods assembled and the first reconnaissance completed, we settled into our exclusive little kingdom. It was rather nice, actually. No crowds, no pressure, no neighbouring anglers casting over our lines and no bloke three pegs down shouting about how he'd had seventeen barbel out of the swim last Tuesday.
Just us, the river and the faint possibility of something with whiskers.
The plan was as the light began to soften and we settled into that familiar angler's routine. Checking rigs, adjusting bait, looking at the water, checking rigs again and generally doing everything except catching anything. It's amazing how much activity can be generated by two men sitting in chairs.
Eventually, darkness would arrive and we'd make our way to Aladdin's for a curry. The thought of a decent meal and a few drinks was certainly appealing, particularly as the fish were showing every indication of having booked themselves an evening off.
The following morning was going to be a slightly different affair. We'd be trotting maggots or perhaps putting out a small feeder, hoping to winkle out a few fish and avoid the dreaded blank. There's no shame in admitting that. We all like to pretend we're after specimen barbel, but sometimes a three-ounce roach can restore a man's confidence more effectively than a session with a clinical psychologist.
The bigger rods would then come back into play as we headed towards dusk again, hoping that the river might finally take pity on us. And later, naturally, there would be another excursion into Stratford for a few pleasantries. By pleasantries, I mean food and beer. Quite a lot of beer, potentially, depending on the behaviour of the fish and the strength of our resolve and a mates Wardy and Steveo would be joining us too which would be good.
Sunday was, at the time of writing, a little less certain. Simon would be departing because his son Harry was leading the police cadet parade in Leamington. A rather proud parental commitment, and quite rightly so. Although I couldn't help thinking that Simon was swapping a perfectly good riverbank for a parade ground full of young people marching in formation. Each to their own, I suppose.
I'd then be heading off to collect Sam for a bit more fishing, and there was even the possibility that Nic from Avon Angling might make an appearance. Whether this would improve our fishing prospects or simply introduce another person capable of explaining why we weren't catching anything remained to be seen.
And so, at fifty-four, I found myself contemplating another birthday weekend on the river. A weekend spent in an expensive lodge, fishing a privileged stretch of the Warwickshire Avon, surrounded by houses that cost more than most people will earn in several lifetimes.
There was something rather amusing about the whole arrangement. Here we were, two ordinary anglers enjoying the sort of private fishing that the general public can only dream about, while the Romans had been digging ditches and burying people in the very same neighbourhood.
I couldn't help wondering what they would have made of us. Probably thought we were completely mad, and they wouldn't have been wrong.
Anyway, enough of this preamble. The rods aren't going to cast themselves, the barbel aren't going to catch themselves and, knowing our luck, the only thing likely to be feeding confidently on this stretch of river is a family of swans.
Let's get fishing.
Well, the best-laid plans of mice and anglers, as they say. Having sorted the keys for the lodge, we were finally ready for a bit of fishing. Or so I thought, until I realised that the bag containing all my clothes and toiletries was still sitting somewhere other than where it should have been.
The River Avon was looking rather summery in front of the lodge, with very little flow, but upstream it narrowed nicely into a steady glide that looked ideal for trotting. Further up it was getting rather weedy and shallow, but there were a couple of handy fishing platforms which made life considerably easier.
There were indications almost immediately, so at least there were fish about. Unfortunately, the first proper bite came just as the light was fading and, naturally, I managed to miss it. I wouldn't want to give the impression that I was actually any good at this fishing business.
With an hour or so of darkness behind us and no sign of anything with a bit of shoulder, we called it a day. Fortunately, there was a handy footbridge across the river and within fifteen minutes we were in the pub, which was beginning to look like the most productive part of the trip.
The Indian restaurant is a favourite of Jasper Carrott who lives locally, and I've even spotted him in there a couple of times. The curry was excellent (Gale are you listening !!), the beer went down rather too easily and conversation turned to the following day's plans. Trotting it was, then. I started feeding maggots into the glide, and kept feeding, and feeding, and feeding. Initially it seemed that the only residents were minnows, which were clearly having a whale of a time, but eventually the dace arrived.
I did manage a lovely perch of 1lb 13oz, though, which was a cracking fish and the biggest perch I'd had for quite a while. A proper little beauty and certainly the highlight of the morning. One of the local residents then appeared dragging his canoe and stopped for a chat.
Sure enough, as darkness fell and the heavier rods were back out, absolutely nothing happened. Not a twitch, not a nod, not even the courtesy of a liner. Proper dead. The water temperature had dropped from a little over 11 degrees to just under 10, although it hardly felt Arctic. I even tried another swim further upstream, just in case the barbel had relocated, but apparently they were all still on holiday.
With the fishing going nowhere fast, we decided that a change of scenery was required and headed into Stratford for some decent scran, wine and beer. A quick photograph of all of us for the Lads WhatsApp group provided an unwelcome reminder that time is marching on. Simon is now 60 and, at 54, I was the youngest one there. I'm not sure when that happened, but looking at the photograph I suspect neither of us will be appearing in any fishing fashion magazines anytime soon. Still, at least we can still get into our waders, even if getting out of them is becoming an Olympic event.
The following morning Simon was heading home, but kindly joined me at dawn for one last attempt, armed with a cup of tea and a healthy dose of optimism. Sadly, the Avon remained completely uninterested. Not a chub, not a barbel and certainly nothing resembling the monsters described by our canoe-dragging friend. Simon eventually departed, having perhaps had enough of catching dace and watching motionless rod tips. I can't say I blamed him.
I decided to fetch Sam and give the lure rods an outing. We covered a fair bit of the fishable stretch, casting and retrieving until our arms were beginning to ache. Surely one of the resident pike would fancy a bit of artificial temptation? Apparently not. Even the jacks weren't interested, which is saying something. We threw everything at them, but the only thing getting any exercise was our casting arms.
I could have stayed until dusk for another crack at the bigger fish, but after the previous evening's excitement, or rather complete lack of it, I decided that home was calling. There was a family steak pie, mash and vegetables waiting for me, and frankly, the pie was looking a much safer bet than another encounter with the Avon.
So, no monster barbel, no big chub and no pike to speak of. In fact, the only things that seemed determined to feed were the dace, and they were clearly on some sort of feeding frenzy. The river isn't looking in particularly good nick at the moment, with the low, clear conditions making things difficult, so perhaps it wasn't entirely unexpected.
But do you know what? It was still a cracking weekend. A bit of fishing, a lovely perch, plenty of laughs, a decent curry, some excellent Turkish food and drink, and most importantly, a bit of proper me time away from the usual chaos. Sometimes you have to accept that the fish aren't going to play ball.
Although next time, I wouldn't mind if just one of those 15lb barbel decided to make an appearance. I'm not asking for much, am I?
And I'll try to remember my bloody luggage!
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