Warwickshire Avon - Chubberificity and Conspiratorialism

Now here are few things in angling more baffling than a shoal of chub in full feeding frenzy. One moment they are charging about like shoppers on the first day of a closing-down sale, hoovering up every crust of bread that lands on the water. The next, they have collectively decided that bread is a dangerous conspiracy and should be avoided at all costs.

I have often suspected that chub hold emergency committee meetings beneath overhanging willow trees. One fish takes a bite, disappears skyward in a shower of spray and panic, and suddenly the remaining members of the shoal gather to discuss health and safety concerns. The motion is carried unanimously. Bread is banned until further notice.

Their eyesight certainly does not help the angler's cause. Chub seem capable of spotting a fisherman blink from three counties away. They can detect the shadow of a cap, the movement of a sleeve, or the careless crunch of a boot on gravel. To approach a good chub swim often requires the stealth of a burglar and the dignity of a man crawling through nettles on all fours.

Then comes the famous "once bitten" problem. Most creatures, when presented with free food, simply eat it. Chub, however, appear to conduct a full risk assessment. If two of their friends vanish after eating floating bread, the remainder become deeply suspicious of anything white, buoyant, or remotely bread-shaped.

The frustrating thing is that they rarely leave. That would be far too convenient. Instead, under the polarised sunglasses they remain tucked beneath a snag, staring at every piece of bread drifting over their heads. You can see them. They can see you. The bread can see both of you. Yet nobody is willing to make the first move.

The situation is made worse by their remarkable ability to become full. An angler, in a moment of generosity, may scatter enough bread to feed a small village. The chub accept this offering with gratitude before promptly losing interest in every hookbait presented thereafter. It is rather like serving someone a three-course meal and then wondering why they decline dessert.

For this reason, the successful chub angler must become a nomad. Catch one or two fish and move on. When the swim goes quiet, resist the urge to stare accusingly at the water. The chub have not left the river. They are simply sitting under a branch somewhere, discussing recent events and waiting for you to make another mistake.

A freelined piece of bread often remains the most convincing presentation. No float. No lead. No complicated arrangement resembling a small maritime engineering project. Just bread drifting naturally downstream as though it has accidentally fallen from a careless picnicker's lunch basket.

Polarised sunglasses are another valuable aid. They allow the angler to peer through the surface glare and discover chub hiding in places that appear entirely unsuitable for fish. You will frequently find them tucked beneath roots, branches, shadows, and other locations apparently chosen specifically to frustrate anglers.

Most important of all is the art of remaining unseen. Chub do not appreciate dramatic entrances. They prefer fishermen to arrive quietly, stay low, and behave as though they are attempting to infiltrate enemy territory. The less attention you draw to yourself, the more likely the chub are to forget that humans were ever invented.

Of course, there comes a point when the battle is lost. The bread drifts untouched. The fish remain motionless. The committee has spoken. Once a shoal of chub has switched off, they do so with a level of determination normally associated with government paperwork and railway replacement bus services.

At this stage there is only one sensible course of action. Pack away the rod, accept defeat with good grace, and head for the local pub. A pint in comfortable surroundings is infinitely more rewarding than spending another hour trying to outwit a fish that has already outwitted you.

The chub can remain beneath their willow tree conducting investigations into suspicious floating objects and drafting new feeding regulations. Meanwhile, you can sit with a well-earned pint and reflect on the simple truth that chub are not merely fish. They are mischievous little riverbank philosophers whose favourite pastime is making anglers question their own intelligence.

Anyway back to it the opening day of the season found me unable to resist a cheeky return post work visit in pursuit of a few chub. It would have been rude not to, after all. Arriving at the official car park, I was surprised to find not another angler in sight. At first I wondered if everyone knew something I didn't. Then I looked at the river. Gin clear. The fish could probably see my smile.

With the place operating under a strict curfew, there wasn't much point waiting for darkness proper, so I set about creeping between three swims. The chub, obligingly, had not read the rule book and five found their way to the net in little more than an hour. As expected, once they spotted me stomping about like an escaped farmhand, they grew suspicious. Fortunately, a switch to sinking bread or the old trick of a floating crust a foot above the sinking hookbait restored relations.

Five chub mostly over 3 and a 4lber, a pleasant evening, and not a soul to witness either my success or the alarming state of my casting. A fine start to the season. Next stop is a new stretch where, with any luck, I'll be able to fish into dusk and give the chub a sporting chance of avoiding me.

Warwickshire Avon - Buns and Baloney

Forty-eight hours before the start of the river season, after Sean's monumental efforts a day before I was hard at work cutting fishing pegs on the syndicate stretch. Armed with loppers, a strimmer and a healthy dose of enthusiasm, I spent the morning transforming overgrown jungle into fishable swims. By the time I finished, I was hot, tired and ready for home. The job had gone well, the pegs looked great and all that remained was the drive back. Or so I thought.

On the way home, I passed another club water and made the classic angler's mistake: "I'll just have a quick look." It's a phrase responsible for more lost evenings than any other in fishing. A few minutes later, standing at the tail of a swim, I couldn't believe my eyes. 

Cruising through the clear water were several enormous chub. These weren't average fish either. A few  looked comfortably over five pounds and carried themselves with the confidence of creatures that had never seen a landing net.

To make sure I wasn't imagining things, I tossed a small piece of bread onto the surface. Instantly one of the giants rose and slurped it down without hesitation. Then another fish appeared and took a second piece. Then another. Before long, several good chub were happily taking bread from the surface as though they had been waiting all day for someone to arrive with refreshments. 15 or so decent chub, no doubt about it !!

I stood motionless. After years of searching for fish like these, I had accidentally stumbled across a shoal of monsters during a random stop on the way home from peg cutting. The drive home was a strange experience. Physically I was behind the wheel, but mentally I was still staring into that swim, watching giant chub sipping bread from the surface. That evening, family members attempted conversation. I nodded politely and gave short answers, but my mind was occupied elsewhere. Every thought led back to those fish.

The following day was even worse. Every spare moment was spent planning a return visit. What tackle should I take? How much bread would I need? Which position would give me the best chance? By lunchtime I had a strategy. By teatime I had revised it. By bedtime I had developed what could only be described as a military operation. 

The plan was simple. On the morning of the 16th of June, just after dawn and before starting work, I would sneak back to the swim for a quick smash-and-grab session. I would arrive quietly, feed a little bread, catch one of the big chub and then head straight to work as though this sort of thing happened every day.

Well that was the plan !!

And it worked !!! The alarm went off at a time usually reserved for burglars and milkmen, and by 5.15am I was stood beside a deserted river armed with nothing more than a loaf of bread and misplaced optimism. 

Thankfully it didn't take long before a chub betrayed itself with a rise and promptly inhaled the offering as if it hadn't eaten since Christmas. 

Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one interested in free food. A moorhen had apparently appointed itself Head of Bread Distribution and spent the entire session trying to intercept every piece that hit the water. 

At one point it already had a mouthful large enough to feed a family of four, yet still performed an aerial U-turn worthy of the Red Arrows to chase another crust. Greedy little blighter. 

Meanwhile, a kingfisher drifted through the swim with the sort of calm dignity the moorhen could only dream of, simply enjoying the morning without behaving like a feathered tax collector. The chub, thankfully, were more cooperative. 

Three found their way into the net, including a cracking fish of 4lb. Then, just as quickly as they'd switched on, they switched off. 

Peering from the bridge I could still see several chub mooching about, but they had all the enthusiasm of teenagers asked to tidy their bedrooms. No matter. The river had delivered, the bread had worked, and after a short but thoroughly enjoyable session, normal service was resumed. Happy days indeed. Tight lines for the new season, blog readers, I'll hopefully do the same later. 

Oh and 4 Million blog hits how did that happen !! ? answers on a postcard !!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.150 (Canal Zander)

Now mad Ed Miliband has announced that by 2040 we shall all be doing our bit to save the planet by eating less meat, fewer dairy products and, if the CCC head wand experts get their way, possibly surviving entirely on kale, lentils and positive thinking. Apparently livestock numbers must fall, fields must become forests and cows will need to find alternative career paths. It all sounds terribly sensible until you're like me sitting in a restaurant staring at a beef rib the size of a garden bench.

Upon hearing this latest environmental vision, you see I felt duty-bound to make a contribution to the nation's remaining cattle population. Therefore, after work, I visited Hickory's and ordered an eight-hour slow-cooked beef rib. What arrived at the table was less a meal and more a small archaeological discovery. Had a team from Time Team wandered in with brushes and clipboards, I wouldn't have been remotely surprised.

The rib was very nice indeed. Tender, smoky and gloriously unapologetic. It looked as though it had come from a cow that had spent its entire life lifting weights and listening to motivational speeches. By the halfway point I was beginning to suspect I might need a support vehicle for the journey home. By the end, I was approximately sixty per cent barbecue sauce and entirely at peace with the world, and I'm still tasting beef a few days later

Suitably fortified and after a pint in the naff Varsity, I headed off to see Peter Bleksley's talk, The Makings of a Murderer at the Warwick Art Centre. Now Bleksley, a former undercover detective and founding member of Scotland Yard's undercover unit, has lived a life that makes most action films seem a little pedestrian. Listening to his stories of infiltrating criminal gangs, living under assumed identities and surviving assassination plots was genuinely fascinating and occasionally chilling.

There was a moment when Peter described operating among dangerous criminals while remaining calm under extraordinary pressure. I found myself comparing his experiences to my own. Peter spent years deceiving organised crime networks. I once nodded politely through a twenty-minute explanation of artisanal oat milk because I didn't want to seem rude. We all have our battles.

The event took place on the Warwick university campus (which is in Coventry😄 Shhhhhssshhhh ), which led me to expect at least a little excitement. In modern Britain, almost any public gathering carries the possibility that someone may take offence on behalf of somebody else who hasn't yet realised they are offended especially when Peter is a no nonsense talking on the right of centre politically. I had mentally prepared for a small group of protesters armed with banners, slogans and an unwavering belief that shouting constitutes debate.

Yet nothing happened. Not a heckler in sight. No chants, no interruptions and no emergency demonstrations. The audience simply listened, laughed and enjoyed the evening. It was all wonderfully civilised. In fact, it was so peaceful that I began to wonder whether the student activists were otherwise engaged.

Perhaps they had another cause to champion. Perhaps they were busy composing a strongly worded online petition. Or perhaps they were gathered in some community workshop debating the finer points of sustainability, social justice or whatever issue happened to be dominating the news cycle that week. As an old git who still occasionally wishes it were the 1990s, one can never be entirely sure these days. 

It's a shame as they missed out on mystery of the “weird” hitman who killed Nairn banker Alistair Wilson. The case may be filed away as "nothing more to see here" by some Scottish police officers, but Peter clearly didn’t get that memo. He’s been investigating it for years, and some old interview footage showed that he’s made so many trips to Nairn since the murder that he probably knows the town better than some of the locals. The case may be cold, but Peter’s determination certainly isn’t.

Anyway as the evening ended and I waddled back towards the car carrying enough beef-derived energy to power a small village, I reflected on the curious contradictions of modern life. We are encouraged to eat less meat, yet restaurants continue producing ribs worthy of national heritage status.

We are urged to be more environmentally conscious while navigating roadworks that seem destined to last longer than some governments. We are promised that new technologies and industries will transform the economy, while the practical realities of building that future often prove rather more complicated than the slogans suggest.

We live in a country where undercover detectives can tell extraordinary stories about battling hardened criminals, yet social media remains full of people voluntarily broadcasting every detail of their lives to complete strangers. Somewhere between those two extremes lies modern Britain, muddling along as it always has, trying to balance progress, practicality and common sense.

The Romans complained about the younger generation. The Victorians complained about changing times. Today we debate climate targets while enthusiastically ordering enough barbecue beef to alarm a cardiologist. The details change, but the national pastime of grumbling remains remarkably consistent, albeit rather more expensive.

As for me, I fully accept that the future may involve more vegetables, fewer steaks and a countryside populated by newly planted woodland. If that day comes, naturally I shall face it with good grace and quiet dignity whilst waving around a Japanese Gyuto.

Anyway, after climbing down off my soapbox I'd better get fishing hadn't I? Not that anyone asked for my opinion of course, but that rarely stops me. Having solved most of the sport's problems in my head, it seemed only fair to wet a line.I could have gone at the weekend and, truth be told, the tackle had been sat in the car ready to go. Every time I opened the boot it looked at me as if to say, "Are we fishing or just going sightseeing?" In the end though, I headed down to the Warwickshire Avon instead.

The mission was peg trimming on the syndicate stretch ahead of the new season. To be fair, Sean had already done most of the graft a couple of days before I arrived. My contribution was largely cosmetic, but I was happy enough taking the credit for looking enthusiastic. Just being back beside the river was enough to keep a smile on my face. The Avon looked absolutely spot on and full of promise. It's funny how quickly a river can lift your spirits after weeks of staring at turbid canal water.

The canal and the river really are chalk and cheese. One is steady, predictable and dependable. The other feels alive, forever changing, and always capable of throwing up a surprise when you least expect it. By the time this post appears, the new season will be underway and everything will be back in business. The pegs were looking tidy and ready for action. All that remained was for someone to actually sit on them and catch something.

As luck would have it, I had a small window after work for a quick fishing trip. It wasn't long enough for anything ambitious. It was, however, just enough time to see if I could winkle out a canal Zander. A slight detour on the way home takes me past a stretch that has a habit of producing better fish than most. Why this particular area does so well I've never quite worked out. Perhaps the Zander simply appreciate the scenery.

With two rods assembled, it was time to get moving. The plan was to leapfrog likely pieces of cover and give each one a few casts. Nothing complicated, which is usually where my best plans start. Curfew of two hours, then I'd be off, things to do, people to see, the Wife to annoy...........

..............so anyway to cut a long story short !!!

Errrrr a blank, and I fished quite a few bits of cover too, oh well, the rivers here we come !!