Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.141 (Canal Zander)

The canals again. Of course they are. Like a bad kebab or an ex you swore you’d never text, they have a funny way of pulling you back in. Not that I’m complaining (I absolutely am), but when you’ve spent years chasing Zander, you start to realise yesterday’s hotspot is today’s fishless trench. The fish haven’t disappeared they’ve just moved, probably laughing at you while doing so, fins up, watching you stubbornly cast into the aquatic equivalent of a deserted car park.

And the thing is, you know this. Every logical part of your brain is telling you, “They’re not here anymore.” But logic doesn’t stand a chance against angler optimism. 

Because the next cast could be the one. It’s always the next cast. It’s never the last fifty you’ve just fired out with all the conviction of a man slowly losing the plot.

Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about leapfrogging along a stretch of canal like a slightly unhinged heron. 

One minute you’re convinced this is the swim you’ve analysed it, felt it in your bones, practically written the catch report in your head. The next minute, nothing. 

Not a twitch, not a knock, not even the courtesy of a missed bite to keep the dream alive. So off you go again, marching down the towpath with all the grace of a man who’s just realised he’s been casting into absolutely nothing.

But that’s Zander fishing. They could be anywhere and usually are just not where you are.

You start noticing things you’d normally ignore. The way the light hits the water. The subtle changes in depth. That one overhanging bush that looks fishy but has betrayed you more times than you’d care to admit. You tell yourself this time will be different. It never is. But still, you cast there anyway. Tradition, at this point.

Boats, mind you, are a different story. Most anglers curse them muttering under their breath as the peaceful canal turns into a churning mess. Me? I welcome them like a long-lost mate. Honestly, I’m half tempted to wave them down and ask them to do another pass.

Nothing gets the canal stirred up quite like a narrowboat chugging through, turning the water into a murky soup of opportunity. It’s chaos but it’s productive chaos. The silt lifts, visibility drops, and suddenly everything feels alive. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch underwater. Dinner time.

In my head, the Zander are snapping into action, darting about like opportunistic little thieves, picking off anything that looks remotely edible. Meanwhile, I’m stood there trying to look like I planned it all along, as if I personally arranged for this boat to come through at precisely the right moment. In reality, I’m just as reactive as the fish scrambling to get a bait back in the water before the moment passes.

Timing, as always, is everything. And I’m usually just slightly off it.

So for this grand return to canal life, I opted for convenience. No big expedition, no overthinking—just simple, efficient fishing. Four-minute drive, short stroll, rods out. Done. The kind of session you tell yourself is “low pressure,” which of course immediately turns it into the exact opposite.

I’d even splashed out on £40 worth of deadbaits—a serious investment, or so I thought. The sort of purchase that makes you stand a little taller, like you’ve properly committed. No shortcuts today. Premium bait. Premium results. That was the plan. 

Turns out, they were basically free.

Courtesy of what can only be described as a floral disaster of Olympic proportions.

Now, I’m no flower expert but I know enough to recognise when something meant to impress has gone catastrophically wrong. What arrived looked less like a thoughtful gift and more like the aftermath of a long-distance desert crossing. Limp, lifeless, and about as inspiring as a blank session in January. Even the wrapping seemed embarrassed. There’s a particular kind of disappointment when you open something expecting a reaction and instead get… that. You can’t even fake enthusiasm. You just sort of nod, like, “Yes. These are… definitely flowers.”

To their credit, the M&S customer service team sorted it sharpish. Refund on the way, apologies made, crisis averted. And just like that, those £40 deadbaits transformed from a questionable financial decision into what felt like a gift from the angling gods themselves.

Funny how quickly perspective shifts.

Anyway, back to the fishing.

The canal looked… well, like a canal. Slightly questionable water colour, that faint earthy smell you pretend not to notice, the odd ripple that could mean everything or absolutely nothing. Classic. There’s always that feeling when you arrive the quiet uncertainty. You’re either about to have a session you’ll talk about for weeks, or you’re about to spend several hours politely pretending this was “still enjoyable.”

There is no in-between.

I set up with that cautious optimism every angler knows. Not too hopeful—you don’t want to jinx it—but not completely defeated either. Just enough belief to keep you casting. The first few casts felt good. Always do. Everything’s fresh, the bait’s perfect, your confidence hasn’t taken any hits yet.

Then time starts to stretch.

Ten minutes. Nothing.
Twenty minutes. Still nothing.
Half an hour… and now you’re starting to think.

Was that a knock? Probably not.
Should I move? Maybe.
Are they even here? …let’s not go there yet.

Then, just as doubt starts creeping in properly, a boat appears in the distance. Slow, steady, inevitable.

Perfect.

I reposition slightly, get ready, make sure everything’s set. As the boat pushes through, the water transforms clear lines replaced by swirling clouds of silt, the whole canal suddenly alive with movement. This is it. This is the window.

Cast out. Let it settle. Wait.

Every second feels louder now. You’re tuned in, hyper-aware, watching for anything. A tap, a twitch, the slightest sign.

And then—

Maybe something. Or maybe not.

That’s the thing with Zander fishing. It plays with your head. Half the battle is figuring out what’s real and what’s just you wanting it to be real. You convince yourself you felt something, strike into nothing, and stand there hoping no one saw.

Still, you keep going. Move a little further. Try another spot. Adjust, adapt, repeat.

Leapfrogging down the canal, chasing that one moment where everything lines up. Where instinct, timing, and a bit of luck finally agree to cooperate.

Because eventually, it does happen.

Not always. Not even often.

But just enough to keep you coming back.

So… how did I do?

I pulled up at the swim full of optimism, only to be immediately greeted by what can only be described as a thoughtfully pre-packaged gift from the local canine community. Nothing says “welcome back to the canals” like a dog poo bag just slung on the floor the bag swinging gently in the breeze like some sort of grim bunting. Ah yes, the great outdoors nature at its finest, lovingly gift-wrapped by strangers.

Anyway, plans changed quicker than a politician’s promises, and my grand 2.5-hour session was ruthlessly trimmed down to a measly 1.5 thanks to last-minute domestic negotiations (which I lost, obviously). Still, rods out, dignity slightly dented, and spirits cautiously high, I got down to business.

Then bang! Ten minutes in and I’m into a fish. Not just any fish, mind you, but a Zander with the temperament of a caffeinated ferret. It went absolutely berserk the moment it felt steel, thrashing about like I’d insulted its entire bloodline. After a brief but spirited argument, I managed to persuade it into the net.

I gave it a quick eyeball estimate 3lb 8oz. Turns out I was only an ounce off. Frankly, I’m considering a side career as a human weighing scale. Job done. Efficient. Clinical. Almost suspiciously competent. Buoyed by success (and clearly now an angling prodigy), I spent the rest of the session rotating through four more swims like a man convinced lightning would strike twice. It didn’t. Not even a sniff. The fish had clearly clocked off early, probably laughing about me somewhere underwater.

Still, one lively Zander, a bit of sunshine, and only minor psychological damage from the dog poo incident overall, a solid return to the canal. Back on the scoreboard, dignity mostly intact, and with just enough success to guarantee I’ll be back for more punishment soon.

Warwickshire Avon - Barbelistic and Bedraggled

The final day of the river season always arrives a bit like the last day of school equal parts excitement, nostalgia, and the quiet suspicion that something mildly ridiculous will happen before the bell rings. This year was no exception. I awoke with grand plans of sneaking off early, rod in hand, making the most of those precious final hours before the curtain came down on another season. Unfortunately, those plans collided head-on with domestic reality. 

The Wife, quite reasonably it must be said, had declared that an early Mother’s Day outing in Stratford-upon-Avon was required, preferably involving a respectable amount of food and an irresponsible quantity of white wine. 

My role in this arrangement was simple: chauffeur, payer, and general dogsbody. Naturally, I accepted my fate with the stoicism of a man who knows that resistance is both futile and likely to reduce future fishing permissions.

The morning progressed well enough. Stratford was looking as picturesque as ever tourists wandering about looking for Shakespeare, swans behaving like they owned the place, and restaurants happily removing money from my wallet in exchange for lunch. 

The Wife was in excellent spirits, which generally translates to “another large glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.” Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, a tiny angling alarm clock was ticking away. The river season was ending, the light would fade eventually, and somewhere out there a barbel might be considering its final bite before the great closed-season fast. Still, all things considered, it was a pleasant enough diversion. I even convinced myself that perhaps the fish would appreciate the extra rest before my arrival.

Then came the mattress incident.

What was meant to be a “quick stop” at a bed shop for Sam’s new mattress turned into the sort of retail expedition normally reserved for Arctic explorers. Apparently modern mattress purchasing involves computers, posture analysis, demonstrations, and what I can only describe as interpretive lying down. One moment we were “just popping in,” and the next thing I knew we were being guided through the building like VIP guests at some sort of bedding museum. 

I glanced at my watch repeatedly, each time discovering that another half hour had vanished into the great commercial void. Two hours somehow turned into four out. Four! By the time we escaped with a mattress suitable for a teenager (who, incidentally, could probably sleep perfectly well on a pile of coats), I was already composing my fishing obituary in my head.

Still, hope springs eternal in the heart of an angler.

With Saturday’s match cancelled due to high water conditions, I reasoned that a quick visit to the legendary Piccadilly Circus stretch would be ideal. 

Only ten minutes away, and historically about as reliable as river fishing ever gets. If a barbel was going to save my season, that swim had form. The Wife and the rabble were safely deposited at home, and I set off like a man chasing the final bus of the evening. Upon arriving at the official car park, I had a brief moment of blissful optimism. Empty. Not a car in sight. For a fleeting second I imagined I’d have the whole place to myself. But angling optimism is a fragile thing. 

As I approached the first field I spotted a vehicle parked brazenly by the gate over the footbridge. Now, this field is meant strictly for match days, but clearly some enterprising soul had decided that rules were more of a suggestion than a requirement. Ah well, I thought, perhaps they’d wandered off somewhere else.

No such luck.

Sure enough, when I reached the bank there they were: one match angler and his mate. The mate, incidentally, had arrived on a motorbike (yes a motoebike) and parked it directly behind him like they were staging a fishing-themed remake of Easy Rider. I must admit I had a little chuckle to myself. Outside of the clique there’s often much muttering about rules and etiquette, but within the inner circle it seems to be more of a “park where you fancy and crack on” arrangement. Still, they turned out to be decent blokes, which is always worth more than perfect parking discipline.

The match angler was fishing meat and had already landed a tidy barbel of about seven pounds. Lovely fish and a promising sign. He was in good spirits too, mentioning that the club could do with some positive reports after all the gloom following that fish kill a couple of years back. “Let us know if you catch one,” he said. “We need a bit of good news.” No pressure then.

By now it was creeping towards five in the afternoon. The day had been lovely, but the breeze had taken on that sharp edge that reminds you winter hasn’t quite given up yet. Standing in the shade felt like someone had quietly opened a fridge door behind you. Still, the river looked perfect—coloured water sliding along nicely, the sort of conditions that whisper “barbel” to any optimist holding a rod.

I decided to go all in with a Robin Red attack. 15m drilled pellet and a matching paste wrap. A PVA bag of krill freebies and if ever there was a bait that could persuade a barbel to have one last reckless munch before the closed season, it’s that spicy little wonder. I settled into the swim and waited for the magic to begin.

Forty-five minutes later I was still waiting.

Not even a polite chub rattle. Nothing. The rod tip might as well have been carved from oak. Eventually boredom got the better of me and I shuffled a couple of pegs upstream to a swim where I’d landed a near-double back in December during proper flood conditions. If lightning was going to strike twice, this seemed as good a spot as any.

Twenty minutes later: still nothing.

At this point I began to suspect the fish had held a secret meeting earlier that afternoon and voted unanimously to ignore me. So back I went to the original swim for one last attempt. The sun had dipped below the horizon by now and the light was fading in that slow, quiet way rivers seem to specialise in. It was one of those evenings where every sound feels slightly louder and every ripple seems important.

And then it happened.

Thump. Thump.

The rod tip knocked twice like someone tapping politely on a door… and then absolutely melted down. Line peeled off the reel and suddenly the whole world snapped into focus. Barbel! it, charged downstream like it had somewhere urgent to be. Unfortunately that destination appeared to be a submerged tree, which meant I had to apply a firm amount of persuasion to convince it otherwise. The rod bent, the reel protested, and after a few tense seconds I managed to turn it away from disaster.

What followed was a thoroughly enjoyable scrap. Not a monster by any means, but strong enough to remind me why barbel are such magnificent creatures. Eventually the fish slid over the net cord and I let out the sort of satisfied sigh normally reserved for finishing a difficult DIY project without swearing too much.

After a well deserved rest in the landing net, a quick photograph in the dull light, and a moment of admiration, the fish was returned to the coloured water where it vanished with a flick of its tail. A perfect end-of-season gesture.

By then the match angler and his motorbike-support crew had packed up and left, which was a shame because he’d asked me to report any barbel captures. I like to think somewhere out there the rumour mill eventually delivered the news: one final barbel to round things off.

I fished on until curfew, but that was the only bite of the evening. Curiously the chub didn’t show up at all, which is odd because that swim has recently resembled chub soup. Rivers are funny like that. One week they’re bustling with fish, the next week they’re as quiet as a library.

Still, I couldn’t complain.

A barbel on the last evening of the season feels rather poetic. The past few weeks have actually been a bit of a purple patch for me, which naturally means I’m now fully expecting my fortunes to return to their usual level of “character building” once the season reopens on the 16th of June.

But that’s fishing.

You endure the quiet days, the mattress shops, the motorbike anglers, the freezing breezes and the endless blank spells… all for those moments when the rod tip thumps and the reel screams.

And if you can end the season with a barbel in the net and a good story to tell, well, that’s not a bad result at all.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.50

Back at the syndicate stretch again, embarking on that most noble of late-season quests: winkle out a half-respectable chub before the curtain comes down. I’d grand plans of sneaking into Piccadilly Circus for a cheeky afternoon-into-dusk session rod tips trembling with anticipation, the kettle working overtime, and me settling in like a man with absolutely nowhere else to be.

Alas, domestic life executed one of those last-minute pirouettes wives seem professionally trained in. Suddenly the dream of riverbank reverie evaporated and I was back on dad duties instead of watching the tip for that tell-tale knock.

To be fair, the Wife had endured what can only be described as a Vag Cam appointment 24 hours earlier (yes, exactly what it sounds like). Mercifully it hadn’t been too grim, and by Friday afternoon she’d decided she was perfectly fine to head off to yoga  despite having a uterus reportedly filled with enough water to make even a grown man wince in sympathy.

So off she went, limbering up, while I stayed home performing my own form of advanced flexibility: bending my fishing plans around family logistics. Bugger.

The weather was doing its best impression of a wind swept and damp flannel and my knee was still staging a protest after that Glasgow jaunt. Over sixty thousand steps in two days what was I thinking? At my age that’s practically an ultramarathon. 

The shin splints have migrated north and taken up residence on the inside of my right knee like an unwelcome squatter. Still, between ice packs and a liberal smear of Voltarol, I’m hobbling along well enough to pursue matters piscatorial. 

Roving the swims was the plan, dodgy knee or not, because sometimes the chub don’t come to you, you have to go knocking on their door like an overly persistent Jehovah’s Witness with a landing net.

Tactics were simplicity itself: bread in the feeder, cheesepaste on the hook, and faith in the river gods. Proper chub fishing none of this space-age nonsense.

Word had reached the grapevine that fellow syndicate member Ade Busby author of Barbel Under the Bridge and part-time tormentor of lesser anglers like myself had recently bagged a 6lb 6oz chub on this stretch. 

Daylight had produced nothing for him, mind you, and then the moment the light dipped… bang. Typical chub behaviour really: sulking all afternoon like teenagers and then suddenly deciding they’re ravenous once you can barely see your rod tip.

The river was rising, which I greeted with cautious optimism. A bit of extra colour can be a chub angler’s best mate like fishing behind frosted glass where the fish can’t quite see you fluffing the cast. Sadly, it wasn’t quite the rich, chocolatey broth I’d been hoping for. More of a piss weak tea job. Still, hope springs eternal when there’s cheespaste in the bag and time on the clock.

I ambled onto the stretch with all the confidence of a man who had absolutely no evidence to support it. George Burton and Dave Williams were already stationed along the bank like two thoughtful garden gnomes contemplating the mysteries of the universe or more accurately, why the river looked so perfect yet so completely unwilling to give up a fish. 

After a brief riverside conference (which mostly consisted of scratching chins and saying “they’ve got to be here somewhere”), I decided to go on the rove, which in fishing terms means wandering about pretending you have a plan.

Off I went, creaking my way from swim to swim like an elderly heron that had done one yoga class too many in the 1980s and never quite recovered. The feeder plopped into crease lines, slid under suspicious looking bushes, and landed in those delightfully “chubby” swims where you just know a fish the size of a small sausage dog should be lurking with bad intentions. Each cast had that wonderful moment where the rod tip quivered ever so slightly and the imagination instantly leapt ahead to the weigh-in speech: “Well lads, I did say they were having it…”

Alas, the river had other plans. Swim after swim looked magnificent  the sort of swims that appear in glossy magazines with captions like ‘Guaranteed Chub Holding Area’ yet contained absolutely nothing except water, mild disappointment, and the distant echo of my own optimism quietly deflating. I switched to bread at one point, which felt like a tactical masterstroke until several tiny fish arrived to nibble it like pensioners sampling free cheese at a supermarket. Encouraging, yes. Useful, no. Meanwhile, the chub whom I shall now refer to as “Me Chub” had clearly taken the day off.

Eventually curfew crept up the bank like a bailiff with a clipboard. I packed up and left George and Dave to it, wishing them luck in the sort of tone usually reserved for people about to assemble flat-pack furniture without the instructions. As it turned out, they fared exactly the same as me. Three anglers, a lovely river, decent rising river conditions… and not a single fish among us. A perfect blank. Still, tomorrow is another day the final day of the river season. Which of course means the chub will almost certainly decide to feed like piranhas five minutes after we’ve all packed up for the year. 🎣

Warwickshire Avon - Bailiffs and Bedlam

There is, I’m often asked, a reason why I remain gloriously absent from the glowing circus tent that is social media. The answer is quite simple really: self-preservation. Many moons ago back when phones were for ringing people and a “stream” meant something with water and trout in it I decided I didn’t particularly want my existence narrated in real time to strangers who felt the need to comment on it while eating toast in their pants. 

From the outside looking in it all appears rather… consuming. Facebook, Tik-Tok, Instagram an endless digital village green where everyone is shouting, nobody is listening, and somewhere in the corner a man is angrily arguing about the correct way to hold a carp.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely immune to the odd pang of jealousy. Some of the fish that appear on these platforms are the sort that would make a saint swear. 

Huge great slabs of whiskered magnificence that look like they’ve been fed on protein shakes and small livestock. Of course I’m jealous any angler with a pulse would be. But attached to these aquatic triumphs is always a curious side order of vitriol. 

Perfect strangers furiously debating rigs, baits, ethics, lunar cycles and the moral integrity of a landing net. It’s a bit like watching a pub argument except everyone is typing and nobody has spilled a pint yet.

And then there are the dietary announcements. For reasons known only to the internet, people now feel compelled to inform the world about their digestive relationship with the “carnivore diet”. I do not wish to know this. I barely wish to know this about close family members, let alone Trevor from Doncaster who has been eating nothing but steak since February and would like to discuss the consequences. Angling used to involve fish, rivers and the occasional thermos of tea. Now it appears to involve gastrointestinal updates and motivational quotes over pictures of kettles.

Instagram, of course, is a different kettle of filtered fish entirely. A magical land where everyone lives a flawless life, owns immaculate tackle, and appears permanently bathed in golden evening sunlight even at half past eleven on a Tuesday morning. Reality, as we know, is rather less glamorous. I remember once while zander fishing on the canal, quietly minding my own business and contemplating a sandwich of questionable freshness, when a young woman arrived at the aqueduct car park with the sort of purpose normally reserved for bomb disposal teams.

Out came a paddleboard. Out came a wetsuit. Out came a phone attached to a stick that probably cost more than my first rod. She paddled precisely fifty yards into the middle of the aqueduct, posed heroically against the skyline for several photographs, and then paddled straight back again, packed everything into the car and drove off. I can only assume that somewhere online a caption appeared reading something along the lines of: “Morning paddle — five miles of peaceful canal vibes ✨.” Meanwhile the only witness, a slightly baffled angler with a flask and a couple of Zander rods, was left wondering if he’d just watched Cinderella arrive at the ball and leave before the buffet opened.

Still, each to their own. The world is a broad church and some of its members apparently enjoy photographing themselves pretending to exercise. Personally, I prefer fishing.

Which brings us neatly to another smash-and-grab sortie down at what I affectionately call Warwickshire Avon’s Shanghai Pudong an industrious little stretch where curfews are obeyed, barbel occasionally make questionable life choices, and the river seems to have recovered somewhat from the dreaded oxygen crash that knocked things sideways for a while. Word from the match yesterday was that a few barbel had shown themselves again, which is always encouraging. Rivers heal in their own time, and with the rain we’ve had lately the fish tend to shuffle about looking for nicer accommodation. Bit like anglers really, only with fewer folding chairs.

Last time I visited, things kicked off gloriously as the light faded, the sort of frantic spell where rods thump, reels complain and you begin to suspect the fish have collectively agreed to ruin your evening in the most delightful way possible. Naturally I returned armed with exactly the same cunning plan.

A 15mm robin red pellet. A paste wrap. A little PVA bag of freebies for good measure. The angling equivalent of ordering the same meal at a restaurant because it didn’t poison you last time.

Anyway I rolled into the car park just as the bailiff was hauling his dog out the motor, ready for its evening patrol like some sort of furry fisheries enforcement officer. We had a quick natter, the usual exchange of fishing wisdom (and mild exaggeration), before both of us wandered up toward the river. I plonked myself into one of the pegs opposite the houses. Not exactly my dream swim you know the sort, where you feel like you’re fishing in someone’s back garden but the fish clearly hadn’t read my preference list because that’s where they were hanging about.

The bailiff let the dog stretch its legs while I got the rods sorted and a bait in the drink. It was one of those slow starts where the river looks suspiciously innocent, like butter wouldn’t melt in its flow. Eventually, just as the bailiff wandered back up the bank toward me, the rod gave a proper whack and folded over like it had just remembered an unpaid electricity bill. A chub had absolutely nailed it. After a short but lively scrap a very respectable fish slid into the net. Job done !!

With that fish returned and the bailiff heading back toward his car, I glanced at the clock and realised I had less than 45 minutes before curfew. On this stretch that means rods out half an hour after dusk, which is normally about the time things actually start happening. Typical fishing logic really. Luckily the fish hadn’t read the rule book either because the swim suddenly switched on like someone had flicked a light switch.

What followed was one of those glorious little feeding spells where you barely get settled again before the rod tip tries to launch itself into the river. In the space of that short window I managed another four chub, with the final one tipping the scales at a very tidy five pounds. Proper river scrap merchants too  the sort that make you wonder if they’ve been secretly lifting weights in the margins.

One odd thing though: after every fish the hair rig seemed to be getting longer. At first I thought I was imagining it, but no the chub were hitting the bait so hard they were actually stretching the hair. By the end of the session it must have grown nearly two inches. Not that it mattered much, because the bites were so ridiculous the fish were practically hooking themselves while I stood there grinning like an idiot.

No barbel graced the net this time, but honestly I wasn’t too bothered. It was one of those classic smash-and-grab sessions where everything just comes together for a short burst of action. Add in a howling wind that looked like it was trying to relocate half the riverside trees to the next county and it somehow made the whole thing even more enjoyable.

It’s a real shame the season’s nearly done because the fish are clearly in the mood for a proper feed. Still, if this session was anything to go by, they’re finishing the season exactly how anglers like it  slightly chaotic, wildly entertaining, and just long enough to leave you wishing you had another hour.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.49

It was one of those clear Warwickshire evenings when the Avon moves like a thoughtful old philosopher, slow, green, and apparently pondering the meaning of worms. I had settled into my usual swim just below the bend where the reeds droop into the current like bored spectators at a county cricket match. The target, as always, was barbel those whiskered torpedoes of the riverbed, equal parts muscle and mischief.

Traditionalists will tell you that barbel fishing requires little more than patience, luncheon meat, and a spiritual acceptance that the fish are almost certainly laughing at you from beneath a snag.

But the modern world moves on.

Recently, while enjoying a cup of tea of such heroic strength it could have stripped varnish, I stumbled across news of the Royal Navy's 300 million Dragonfire laser system a device capable of striking objects with extraordinary precision using concentrated light.

Apparently it costs about £10 to fire the laser to shoot down a drone, which is rather remarkable when you consider that the usual solution involves launching a missile that costs something in the region of one million quid.

Naturally, my first thought was not of naval defence. (boy we need it)

My first thought was: I wonder if that would help with barbel.

Consider the possibilities.

You’ve located a proper Avon specimen one of those great bronze-backed fellows that sits beneath the far-bank roots like a nightclub bouncer who’s seen it all before. Normally the process involves a careful cast, a well-placed lead, and a quiet prayer to the patron saint of anglers.

But imagine instead a discreet tripod-mounted laser array beside the tackle box.

A gentle beam across the water… just enough to illuminate the precise feeding lane of His Whiskered Majesty. No splashing leads. No tangled rigs. Just pure, scientific piscatorial persuasion.

One could even imagine several practical applications.

• Precision bait warming gently heating a cube of luncheon meat to release maximum aroma into the glide.
• Snag trimming a tidy zap to that one offending twig that eats every rig you send downstream.
• Barbel encouragement—a polite flash of light to suggest that yes, dinner is indeed served and located conveniently near your hooklink.

Of course the purists would object.

They always do.

“Next you’ll be fishing with satellites,” they’ll mutter, while threading yet another heroic cube of cheese paste onto a hook roughly the size of farm machinery. 

But anglers have always embraced technology. Carbon rods, braided lines, bite alarms that scream like startled smoke detectors, and bait boats, bait boats FFS, The slope has been slippery for years.

And somewhere down that slope there may one day be a man on the Warwickshire Avon quietly adjusting the targeting optics on a portable directed-energy platform.

Not to harm the fish, you understand.

He simply wishes to highlight the exact patch of gravel where a twelve-pound barbel is about to pick up his bait. And when the rod finally hoops over magnificently, violently, gloriously he will play the fish in the time-honoured fashion: bent rod, slipping clutch, and a grin wide enough to concern the herons. 

Because whether you’re armed with a tin of luncheon meat or the latest in directed-energy technology, one truth remains constant on the banks of the Avon.

The barbel are still in charge.

And they know it.

Enough of that Mick, to the fishing !!!

I rolled out of work at half-four with the sort of optimism only an angler can possess—namely the belief that tonight, tonight, the river would reward my persistence instead of laughing at me like it had done for the previous forty-odd attempts. 

My destination was the stretch affectionately known as Piccadilly Circus, which in fishing terms means “good pegs” but in reality usually resembles the M25 at rush hour with rods. 

As I trundled closer, hopes high and kettle in mind, the car park appeared on the left… full. To the right, a field… also full. Cars everywhere. Blokes everywhere. Trolleys stacked so high with gear they looked capable of surviving a three-month Arctic expedition. The match had clearly just finished. I muttered something polite and respectful like “Bugger.”

Plan B it was then. Not far away, thankfully, though the riverbank field resembled a sponge that had recently fought a losing battle with the Atlantic Ocean. The track was non negotiable. 

I parked the car just inside the gate and began the usual angling ballet: rod out, bag on shoulder, bait tub under arm, trying to look like a man who absolutely meant to step in that puddle. The swim I fancied was the one that had kindly produced a cracking 5lb 10oz chub at the end of last season. A proper swim it is too features everywhere, cover down the right, a tidy crease and a little slack close in that screams “fish live here, mate.” Or at least whispers it politely.

Now with dusk less than an hour away and my curfew looming like an over-enthusiastic bailiff, I went straight in with the good stuff: a 15mm Robin Red drilled pellet, paste wrap, and a PVA bag of little pellets for company. The sort of bait package that either catches a fish or at the very least makes you feel like you know what you’re doing. Out it went, plopping nicely into the crease. Then I sat back to “chill”, which in reality meant slowly turning into an icicle while pretending the wind was refreshing. The water was a positively tropical 9.4 degrees however, decent if you ask me. 

The evening looked perfect in that picturesque sort of way clear sky, sun dipping, everything glowing beautifully. Unfortunately, the fish hadn’t been consulted. The rod tip remained as still as a taxidermy exhibit. Not even a cheeky chub pluck. Just me, the river, and the creeping suspicion I’d once again driven somewhere purely to sit in the cold. Then, about half an hour in, there was a twitch. Maybe a line bite. Maybe a fish. Maybe the river simply mocking me again. Still, it was activity, and after fifty sessions where I have tried for barbel in and amongst them you learn to celebrate even theoretical fish.

A short while later the rod tip gave two sharp bangs, the rod hooped over, and suddenly everything went into what anglers like to call “melt-down mode.” I lifted into the fish and immediately knew it wasn’t a chub. This was a barbel, and a lively one at that. The smaller barbel seem to fight like they’ve had three espressos and an argument with a swan, and this one tore about the swim, and taking line with admirable enthusiasm. Given the number of times I’d fished this stretch without so much as a polite sniff, I suspect I was more surprised than the fish.

Eventually after much puffing, muttering, and pretending I was in control the fish slid over the net cord. “A fish! A fish!” I may or may not have said out loud like a Victorian naturalist discovering a new species. And not just any fish either: a barbel, and my first from this stretch after what felt like roughly seventeen geological eras of effort.

With darkness closing in and my curfew ticking loudly in my head, I conducted the world’s fastest photoshoot. The phone flash did well, though the riverbank lighting could generously be described as “mysterious gloom.” The barbel was returned after resting, the tackle sorted, and I legged it back across the soggy field like a man who had finally achieved redemption, whilst leaving Nic from Avon Angling a voice message. 

Nearly Fifty sessions it had taken. Fifty. But as I drove home, smug grin firmly attached, I realised something important: sometimes persistence pays off… and sometimes it just makes the eventual barbel taste even sweeter. Figuratively speaking of course. The barbel was fine. I, however, was absolutely buzzing. 🎣another smash and grab session that went to plan. Only a few days left, why the heck is it always the same every season, the bigger fish seem to show themselves just as the drawbridge goes up. 

Mill Cottage Eardiston - Teme Time and Therapy

Mill Cottage on the banks of the River Teme has become less a fishing destination and more a decompression chamber. You arrive carrying the invisible rucksack of life deadlines, expectations, minor irritations about supermarket self-checkouts and by the time the kettle’s boiled you’re discussing river levels as if they are matters of national importance. The door shuts, and with it shuts the world of diary makers and “just circling back” emails. Out there it’s all terribly urgent. In here it’s simply, “Yorkshire Tea or something stronger?”

Now this time it wasn’t young Sam bounding about with November optimism and frostbitten fingers. No, this was old Simon’s shift. Sixty this year, which seems frankly outrageous given that in my mind we are both still roughly thirty-five and indestructible. 

Simon is what I describe as a high flyer. Not the budget airline type, but the corporate variety. His phone usually vibrates with the urgency of global consequence. I still don’t truly understand what he does. He’s explained it. I’ve nodded. There were graphs mentioned. Possibly stakeholders. All I know is it commands a large salary, larger expectations and even larger tax bills. At Mill Cottage, however, his greatest responsibility was not dropping the bait tub lid into the margins.

We’d roll up late Friday afternoon at Mill Cottage on the banks of the River Teme, unload the mountain of “essential” tackle (half of which never sees daylight) and have a proper go for a barbel into dark. No messing about, rods out, eyes on the tips, that hopeful last-light feeling where every knock could be the one. Once fully convinced we’d given it our best tactical effort, we’d pack down and head into Tenbury Wells for a curry and a pub purely for recovery purposes, obviously before retreating to the cottage to put the world to rights over a nightcap or two.

Saturday would begin with Simon producing a full English of such substance it required a sit-down afterwards. Then a full day on the river, no distractions, just us, the flow, and whatever the Teme fancied offering up. Saturday evening? No plan whatsoever. That was the beauty of it. We’d see where the mood took us more fishing, more food in the town, or just more solving of global issues from the comfort of a cottage sofa.

Simon would head off sometime Sunday as he had other engagements important ones, no doubt involving words I don’t understand and I’d stay on, fishing as long as it felt right. If it was fishing well, I might linger into dusk. If not, I’d pack up and head home to gently disturb the wife and pretend I hadn’t enjoyed every minute of the escape.

Loose plans, basically. And like all loose plans on a fishing weekend, entirely subject to change over the course of it.

The river was fining down nicely, which for anglers is the equivalent of a chef announcing the oven is at exactly the right temperature. When Sam and I fished it back in November it had more colour than I prefer and the air temperature could have preserved meat it was baltic. This time it was milder, almost civilised, and I dared to hope for a bit more clarity in the water. You don’t ask for miracles on the Teme. You ask for half a foot of visibility and a fighting chance.

There was, of course, an outside chance of a barbel. There is always an outside chance of a barbel. It is that outside chance which justifies packing like you’re relocating permanently. So along with the barbel rod went the usual trotting gear because if the river invites you to run a float through a glide, you accept politely and the lighter feeder rod with the maggot feeder, purely on the sensible basis that catching something is preferable to catching nothing. I have reached an age where I appreciate pragmatism.

The joy of these trips isn’t measured in bites per hour. It’s measured in conversation per kettle boil. Simon and I have known each other for many years now, the sort of years that slip by at an alarming rate. We’ve both been busy in our own ways, him flying high in whatever stratosphere he inhabits, me navigating my own currents. These weekends are scarce. That scarcity makes them valuable. There is something medicinal about standing side by side, watching a river move at its own pace, neither of you needing to be anywhere else.

We talked about work, of course. You can’t entirely empty the rucksack without unpacking it a bit. But the Teme has a way of shrinking problems to a manageable size. A missed opportunity sounds less dramatic when you’re retying a hooklength. A looming meeting loses its menace when a robin is inspecting your bait tray. 

Simon, who normally operates at a tempo somewhere between brisk and frantic and is probably up there with the biggest carbon footprint, visibly slowed. 

His shoulders dropped. His sentences shortened. He began to comment on the light on the water rather than the volatility of markets.

The cottage itself played its part. Good food, better drink, and that pleasant tiredness that only fresh air can manufacture. 

There is a particular satisfaction in eating heartily after a day outside, even if the fish have not exactly queued up to meet you. 

We laughed about November’s baltic conditions, about numb fingers and the complex tasting notes of a 15 year old malt, and agreed that this milder spell felt like a generous concession from the weather gods.

We approached the river with quiet optimism. The barbel rod stood there like a promise. The trotting rod offered rhythm and involvement. The maggot feeder sat ready as the dependable option. Nothing extravagant. Nothing forced. Just two old friends doing what they have done for many a year: watching, waiting, occasionally striking, often reflecting.

There is a peculiar magic in temporarily stepping into that “other world.” No traffic noise. No relentless ping of notifications. Just the steady push of current against gravel and the occasional plop that may or may not mean anything at all. Time stretches differently by a river. An hour can feel like five minutes, or five minutes like an hour, depending entirely on whether your tip has twitched.

And as always happens on such trips, the scoreboard becomes secondary. The true haul is measured in laughter, in the shared silence of a long glide, in the understanding that although life grows busier and birthdays gather pace, you can still carve out a pocket of stillness if you try.

So we fished. We talked. We unwound. We let the river do what rivers have always done while we remembered, briefly, how to do the same.

Well, how did we do ?

There are weekends on the river when everything goes to plan, and then there are weekends on the Teme when the fish appear to have held a committee meeting and unanimously agreed to ignore you. This particular outing fell firmly into the latter category. 

The river was so clear you could probably have read the date on a coin at the bottom, which is wonderful for scenic photography but about as useful for catching fish as a chocolate teapot. Still, armed with blind optimism, a feeder full of groundbait and a lobworm that had clearly not signed up for this adventure, I lobbed out and waited like a man expecting miracles.

After a fair while of staring at the tip and contemplating life’s big questions — such as why fish seem to develop PhDs in angling avoidance the moment you arrive  the rod finally nodded. Lo and behold, a barbel! One single, glorious, probably slightly confused barbel that had clearly taken a wrong turn at Worcester and ended up eating my worm. I’d love to say it was pure skill, but in truth I suspect luck, divine intervention, or possibly a momentary lapse in judgement by the fish.

Simon, meanwhile, endured what can only be described as a character-building session. He managed the odd grayling, which fought gamely enough, but at one point hooked something considerably more interesting which promptly made its escape in a manner best described as “emotionally damaging.” There was a brief moment of silence, followed by the universal angler phrase: “That was a decent one that was.”

I had a little wander into a very nice looking swim on the BAA section and had a dabble with the maggot feeder. The swim looked perfect. The sort of swim you stare at and think, “Yes… fish definitely live here.” Unfortunately the fish seemed to have moved house, gone on holiday, or simply decided they had other commitments. Not even dusk  normally the grand opening ceremony of the evening feeding frenzy bothered to produce so much as a twitch.

In hindsight the gin-clear water probably didn’t help. The fish could see absolutely everything. Hooks, line, feeders, and quite possibly the mild desperation in my facial expression. Still, I did employ a cunning tactic by baiting the swim and leaving it to rest for a while, which either encouraged the barbel or simply gave it enough time to forget what a hook looks like.

Despite the fishing being what scientists would classify as “a bit tricky,” the weekend itself was a roaring success. There was excellent food, even better grog, and plenty of the sort of laughter that usually begins with someone saying “Do you remember when…” before descending into total nonsense.

Perhaps most impressively of all, Simon didn’t mention work once all weekend, which is roughly as rare as catching three barbel before breakfast on the Teme in low clear water. There were tunes playing, stories flowing, and the general feeling that even when the fish aren’t cooperating, being beside a river with good company is still a pretty fine way to spend a couple of days.

So yes, one barbel, a handful of grayling, a bonus dace, and a story about the one that got away. Not exactly the stuff of record books but certainly the sort of weekend that reminds you why anglers keep coming back for more punishment.