Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.52

You know how it goes. You can spend what feels like 5 or 6 weeks watching the garden slowly turn into the Gobi Desert, the rivers dropping an inch every day and every weather forecast promising "just one more day of sunshine." Then, the one time you actually have to walk somewhere, the heavens decide to recreate the Great Flood.

Yesterday was Chris's last day before taking early retirement at the tender age of fifty-seven. Some people retire because they've won the lottery, others because they've inherited a Caribbean island. Chris, meanwhile, has simply looked at another week of work and thought, "No... I think I've had enough of this circus."

To be fair to him, there was more behind the decision than simply escaping the daily grind. His father-in-law has dementia and in care and Chris wants to spend more time helping out, which is a far better use of his time than listening to another motivational speech from management about "embracing change." If ever there was a worthwhile reason to leave work, that's probably it.

Of course, there was also the small matter of spending years watching your tax money disappear into government-shaped black holes regardless of which colour tie happens to be in charge. After enough decades you begin to realise politicians come and go, but the ability to waste staggering sums of money is apparently written into the job description. Chris has simply decided he's had his fill.

Naturally, the occasion deserved a lunchtime pint. The pub is literally five minutes from work, which in normal weather is hardly an expedition worthy of Sir Ranulph Fiennes. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other plans.

As we stepped into the works car park the sky went from pleasant summer afternoon to biblical apocalypse in approximately six seconds. Rain hammered down so hard that fish were probably considering moving to higher ground. It wasn't rain so much as being pressure washed.

The scramble for umbrellas resembled a supermarket dash during a toilet roll shortage. People appeared from every direction clutching whatever vaguely waterproof object they could find. One umbrella looked like it had survived the Battle of the Somme and another appeared to have been borrowed from a toddler.

Despite our best efforts we were soaked before we'd even reached the gate. By the time we got to the pub we looked less like a group celebrating retirement and more like survivors of a lifeboat exercise. At least the pint tasted well earned.

Once home later that evening I noticed something rather unusual. The temperature had actually become pleasant instead of resembling the inside of a fan oven. That could only mean one thing.

Fishing.

The syndicate stretch of the Warwickshire Avon has been kind to me this season. It has also been about as predictable as a cat after six espressos. One evening it'll produce lovely chub and barbel, the next it'll look as though somebody forgot to tell the fish the river is open.

Low, clear rivers have their own timetable. During daylight the bigger fish tuck themselves away in every snag, undercut and shadow they can find, behaving like celebrities avoiding photographers. Then dusk arrives and suddenly they remember they're hungry.

I rolled into the field around half past seven feeling quietly optimistic. Not wildly optimistic, because that's asking for trouble, but optimistic enough to carry more bait than sandwiches. Experience has taught me that confidence usually lasts until the first cast.

The first job was visiting one swim where the stinging nettles had clearly enjoyed recent rainfall. They've grown to a size where I'm convinced they'll soon qualify for planning permission. 

Having negotiated the botanical assault course, I introduced a few handfuls of bait into several swims. It's always nice to imagine the fish gathering together discussing tonight's free buffet. Reality usually involves crayfish laughing themselves silly.

The river still carried a pleasing amount of flow despite being low. One particular pool had decent depth, so out came the lead to search for a nice clean patch. Nothing glamorous, just the sort of detective work anglers convince themselves is highly scientific.

About the fourth cast produced that glorious solid "donk" every angler loves. Roughly six feet deep, nice firm bottom and exactly the sort of place you'd expect a decent fish to patrol. Things were looking encouraging.

Then absolute chaos broke loose.

As I slowly retrieved the pale lead through the swim, a pike erupted from nowhere like an angry crocodile launched from a submarine. It wasn't interested in me, the rod or my fishing ability. It had apparently decided that my lead was tonight's evening meal.

In what can only be described as a spectacular lapse in judgement, the pike somehow managed to hook itself. I didn't strike. I didn't outwit it. I merely became an unwilling participant in what can only be called natural selection.

The fight was surprisingly lively considering it had attached itself in the pectoral fin. It charged about the swim throwing water everywhere while I stood there wondering how on earth I'd explain this one. Sometimes fishing makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Eventually the pike found itself safely in the net looking thoroughly unimpressed with life. It had clearly been feeding well because it was carrying far more weight than the average lean summer pike. Judging by its condition, this wasn't its first poor decision.

After sending it back to continue terrorising everything smaller than itself, I turned my attention towards the chub. Last time out they'd been happy enough taking bread off the surface. Naturally this meant they had now completely changed their minds.

Two promising swims produced absolutely nothing. Not even a curious swirl. It was like fishing in somebody's ornamental pond after they'd removed the fish.

What was impossible to ignore, however, was the incredible amount of small fish activity. Every inch of water seemed alive with tiny fish darting around in panic. Presumably they'd all received a memo informing them there was an overexcited pike somewhere nearby attempting to eat fishing leads.

With around forty-five minutes until dusk I settled into what I considered the banker swim. More bait went in, the rods were sorted and confidence made a brief comeback. Surely now something would happen.

It didn't.

Usually the fading light brings signs of life. Chub begin topping, odd swirls appear and eventually you reach for the isotope because watching a quivertip in the dark becomes an eyesight test. Last night the river resembled a painting.

Nothing moved.

Nothing twitched.

Nothing even looked remotely interested.

I sat there long enough to question every decision I'd made since leaving school. Had I chosen the wrong swim? The wrong bait? The wrong phase of the moon? Was the pike telling everyone to avoid the strange bloke with the rod?

Eventually I admitted defeat and tried a couple more swims on the drive back up the field. 

They were every bit as lively as the previous ones. If there had been any less activity I'd have started checking for a concrete riverbed.

The only creatures enjoying themselves were the bats.

Several decent-sized examples spent the evening performing aerobatics around my line with the precision of fighter pilots. 

One came so close I briefly wondered whether it fancied my hooklength as nesting material. Thankfully none of them connected.

The insect life was absolutely astonishing. Every flying creature in Warwickshire had apparently received an invitation to the riverside buffet. Clouds of them hovered over the water in numbers usually reserved for biblical plagues.

Then I remembered one of my latest bright idea.

I'd replaced the candles in the Jimny with those cheap Temu LED interior lights. Brilliant little things they are too. Bright enough to illuminate half the county.

Unfortunately they're also bright enough to attract every insect within a five-mile radius.

By the time I reached the car it looked less like a Suzuki Jimny and more like the grand opening of Warwickshire International Moth Services. Every gnat, midge, caddis, mayfly and unidentified flying annoyance had taken up residence around the LEDs.

Opening the door simply invited them all inside.

I reckon I drove home with enough insects to start my own nature reserve. Somewhere on the dashboard there was probably a dragonfly filling in a change-of-address form while several moths argued over parking spaces.

So, the evening produced one completely accidental pike, no chub, no barbel, enough bats to keep Gotham City safe and sufficient insect life to explain why spiders always look so well fed.

Would I change any of it?

Absolutely not.

Although next time the forecast says "dry with sunny spells," I'm taking a coat, three umbrellas... and I'm switching those blooming Temu lights off.

Anyone a bit of a plug for Gale Light's latest podcast, very interesting indeed.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.51

Sunday mornings and I have a bit of an understanding. The family don't really get going until lunchtime, so rather than pretending I was some sort of hardcore dawn raider, I decided to embrace the laziness and head for the syndicate stretch where I could park right behind my peg.

Why carry half a tackle shop across fields when you can practically fish from the boot of the car? Naturally, I still managed to bring everything apart from the kitchen sink, although looking back that probably wouldn't have looked out of place either.

The weather clearly hadn't read the forecast. We've had weeks of dry weather, yet somehow I found myself diving back into the car to dodge a couple of proper heavy showers. With a pint and a half of maggots to get through, I fancied a nice few hours trotting. The river, however, had other ideas.

Every run through produced the same result. Minnows, tiny dace and bleak had formed some sort of underwater feeding frenzy and were demolishing the maggots before anything worthwhile even had a sniff.

I tried fishing deeper thinking perhaps the better fish were holding near the bottom. Sadly, all I'd achieved was feeding exactly the same tiny fish at a slightly different depth. After about an hour I'd had enough. There's only so long you can convince yourself that catching fish the size of your little finger is exciting before admitting defeat.

So it was time for Plan B... bread and chub.

I've caught chub off the surface in this pool before, so I started introducing bits of bread. The tiny fish absolutely mullered every flake, but all that commotion often attracts bigger fish into the swim.

For a good half an hour absolutely nothing happened. Then, right over on the far side of the pool, I spotted that unmistakable bow wave that only a feeding chub seems capable of making. A lump of bread went straight onto the hook and landed close to where I'd seen the fish. It disappeared almost instantly, but I struck into absolutely nothing.

Thankfully I don't think the fish felt the hook. Another piece of bread went straight back out while I muttered a few choice words about my timing. The current started dragging the line out of position, but it didn't matter. About ten seconds later the bread vanished again and this time everything connected beautifully.

The rod hooped over and a proper summer chub thumped away with those lovely heavy head shakes. A few moments later a cracking fish slipped over the rim of the landing net, showing off those beautiful bronze summer colours. As often happens with chub, the swim immediately went quiet. Not a swirl, not a shadow and certainly not another chance.

I wandered downstream to another favourite swim armed with a fresh loaf and plenty of optimism. 

Several slices later I'd successfully fed every small fish in Warwickshire while the chub were clearly attending a meeting elsewhere. With nothing happening, I headed back to the original swim. I sat in the car for half an hour, watched the water, flicked the odd bit of bread in and simply enjoyed doing absolutely nothing.

Sure enough, another bow wave appeared. It was almost like watching a replay of the first fish.

Bread on. Cast out. Wait... slurp... fish on.

This one wasn't quite as big as the first, but it fought just as honestly and rounded off the morning perfectly. Two lovely surface-caught chub from a session that looked like it was heading for disaster.

Watching those chub suddenly appear reminded me of Luke Littler playing Gerwyn Price. 

Price can be firing in huge averages and looking in complete control, but Littler has this incredible habit of waiting for the right moment before clinically taking his chance with a 167 check out, just like those chub that appeared from nowhere after half an hour of patience. 

That was the end of the session. No huge haul and no personal best, just a couple of lovely fish and a thoroughly enjoyable few hours beside the river.

The maggots almost certainly ended up feeding several thousand minnows, bleak and dace. Somewhere on that stretch there's probably a tiny fish telling his mates about the best Sunday buffet he's ever attended. 

The older I get, the more I realise fishing isn't always about catching loads of fish. Sometimes it's simply about switching the world off for a few hours and concentrating on nothing more than where the next piece of bread should land.

It's amazing what fishing can do for the mind. Not mindfulness... just mind blank, and sometimes that's exactly what the doctor ordered.

Warwickshire Avon - Gingers Growlers and Gourmandizers

The rumours had been swirling around Westminster for weeks, but now it was official. Andy Burnham had somehow ended up as Prime Minister, and quids in Angela Rayner was installed alongside him and others in his cabinet, and before anyone had even found the tea bags in Number 10 they'd already discovered a fresh collection of ways to relieve the taxpayer of his hard-earned cash. 

As I stood beside the Warwickshire Avon, I couldn't help wondering whether the Chancellor had somehow managed to put VAT on optimism.

Being someone who tried to do the right thing over the years these days feels remarkably similar to fishing a snag-filled weir pool. Every time you think you've made a bit of progress, something unseen grabs hold and strips another few yards off the spool before you've even realised what's happened. You don't actually see where the money goes either, much like my favourite packets of pellets, they simply disappear and you're expected to smile politely while thanking everyone for the privilege.

Still, politics can do one !!. I'd arrived at one of my favourite weir pools on the Warwickshire Avon, a stretch that has the remarkable ability to make grown men forget mortgages, inflation and whichever minister has just announced another "necessary adjustment" to the nation's finances. Water thundered over the concrete lip, throwing oxygen into the pool below like someone had emptied a truckload of fizzy water into the river.

Everywhere else the Avon looked like someone had forgotten to refill it. The river was low and as clear as a freshly cleaned pint glass, hardly ideal conditions for pursuing a barbel that possess the paranoia levels of international spies. Thankfully, the turbulence below the weir transformed the swim into an oxygen-rich sanctuary where the fish could pretend August wasn't trying its hardest to boil them alive.

I've always had unfinished business here. The last visit still wakes me up occasionally, usually around three in the morning, when my subconscious enjoys replaying the exact moment disaster unfolded in glorious high definition.

I'd barely settled into the session when the rod absolutely hooped over. Not twitched. Not nodded. It tried to make a break for Stratford-Upon-Avon before I even got my hand on the cork handle. For a split second I genuinely believed the rod was about to launch itself into the river in search of a more competent owner.

I eventually managed to intercept it, mostly through panic rather than skill. The fish powered downstream with the confidence of a government minister explaining why your taxes definitely aren't going up while simultaneously introducing six brand-new ones.

Whatever was attached to the other end felt absolutely like a big barbel. It hugged the bottom, ignored side strain, ignored persuasion and generally behaved like it owned the river. Then, just as I'd convinced myself this was going to be the barbel that would dominate every future fishing conversation, the line suddenly sprang back towards me.

Gone.

The silence afterwards was deafening. Even the gulls looked disappointed. Somewhere down in that emerald-green pool swam a barbel that had almost stolen my rod before casually stealing a little piece of my soul instead.

Fortunately, the Avon occasionally throws you a sympathy card. 

A succession of decent chub arrived to cheer me up, each one putting up the sort of spirited scrap that reminds you why they remain one of Britain's most underrated fish. They weren't the monsters I'd hoped for, but they certainly stopped me feeling completely robbed. Then, just before packing up past curfew, redemption arrived wearing bronze scales.

 A lovely Warwickshire Avon barbel eventually found the net, and although it wasn't the mythical river monster from earlier, it somehow stitched together enough of the emotional damage to make the drive home bearable. That's fishing in a nutshell. It kicks you in the shins before offering you a biscuit.

Returning now, I couldn't help wondering whether the giant was still lurking beneath the frothing white water, probably several pounds heavier and infinitely wiser. Fish have an annoying habit of learning from our mistakes while anglers continue making exactly the same ones every single season.

The weir itself remained wonderfully theatrical. White water crashed relentlessly into the pool below, creating seams, eddies and mysterious dark holes where anything with whiskers could be hiding. If barbel designed luxury apartments, this would surely be the penthouse suite.

As I recast for what felt like the fiftieth time, my thoughts drifted back to Westminster. Andy Burnham was no doubt unveiling another bold vision for Britain which will be headlines and bluster. Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating how many bags of pellets, pints of maggots and tanks of petrol quietly vanished every time another percentage point disappeared from my payslip.

Those like me do occupy a fascinating position. Apparently we're wealthy enough to keep contributing ever larger chunks, but not wealthy enough to notice that the bank account resembles a neglected keepnet after a difficult match. Every announcement seems to conclude with the comforting phrase that "working people will be protected," moments before my wallet receives another enthusiastic uppercut.

Perhaps they should spend an evening barbel fishing instead. It teaches patience, humility, resilience and the uncomfortable reality that sometimes you can do absolutely everything right and still lose the biggest opportunity of the day. Admittedly, it also teaches colourful language, but Parliament already seems to have mastered that one.

Despite all the grumbling, there are moments beside a river that effortlessly reset your perspective. Kingfishers flash like electric darts across the surface. Swallows skim inches above the water. The constant roar of the weir drowns out rolling news channels, political debates and economists predicting precisely how much poorer everyone will feel by Christmas.

That's probably why I keep returning. Rivers don't care who's sitting in Downing Street, what tax band you're in they simply carry on flowing, rewarding persistence just often enough to keep us hopelessly addicted.

One day that barbel which nearly emptied my rod rest will make one mistake too many. Hopefully it'll happen before my next tax bill arrives, because I'd quite like to experience the feeling of actually winning something for a change. Until then I'll continue feeding the swim, feeding the Treasury and wondering which one is currently taking the biggest bites.

So anyway enough waffle, Mick get fishing !!!

Now some swims require a two-mile hike, three gates, a bramble assault worthy of Gladiators and a sat-nav. This one, however, is so convenient that passing dog walkers, cyclists and random members of the public can all enjoy the spectacle of me talking to fish that clearly aren't listening. Such is life at the weir pool.

The constant roar of the weir is one of those things that either drives you quietly insane or somehow becomes nature's own white noise machine. On this short evening session I found myself firmly in the latter camp, happy to let the sound drown out both the traffic and the little voice in my head reminding me I'd forgotten the flask.

Joining me were Nic and Tess from Avon Angling, who quickly discovered that watching someone fish can be surprisingly entertaining when there's a reasonable chance they'll accidentally launch a rod into orbit. They'd barely settled in before the action started, and thankfully it wasn't me falling over the boulders for once.

The chub had clearly missed the memo about being cautious. Robin Red hookbaits, sometimes with a delightfully antisocial paste wrap, were disappearing faster than my wages after payday, with six fish gracing the net between two pounds and comfortably over four.

Every cast was accompanied by a little PVA bag of 6mm Robin Red pellets, and almost every cast was rewarded with a bite. Not polite little plucks either... proper barbel-esque whacks that nearly resulted in me removing Nic's head with what can only be described as an enthusiastic strike. He survived, although I suspect he'll stand slightly further back next time.

As daylight packed its bags, Nic and Tess headed home, leaving me alone with the roar of the weir, a rapidly darkening sky and that dangerous thought every angler has: just one more cast. Fishing history has been written on worse decisions.

Then, around half an hour after dusk, it happened. The rod tip lunged forward, the clutch protested loudly and all subtlety disappeared as something on the other end decided it had absolutely no intention of meeting me. This wasn't a chub throwing its toys out of the pram; this was a fish with attitude.

There were no trademark head shakes, just heavy, determined lunges hugging the riverbed like it owned the place. After the third or fourth run, the fish finally accepted that perhaps this wasn't its evening either and slid into the landing net with all the grace of a nightclub bouncer finishing his shift.

Curfew was looming, so there was no time for a photoshoot worthy of Angling Times. The fish enjoyed a well-earned breather in the net while I packed away the tackle I'd somehow managed to spread across a swim barely bigger than my garden shed.

A quick trophy shot later and the barbel powered back into its watery lair without so much as a backwards glance. It wasn't a monster, it won't trouble the record books, but after an evening packed with hard-fighting chub, near-decapitations and a proper weir-pool scrap under fading light, it felt like exactly the sort of session that reminds you why we keep coming back.

Because let's be honest, Piscatorial Quagswagging has never really been about chasing records. It's about enjoying ridiculous evenings by the river, laughing at yourself, terrifying your fishing mates with over-enthusiastic strikes, and occasionally being rewarded with a cracking Warwickshire Avon barbel before sensible people are tucked up in bed.

Warwickshire Avon - Benevolence and Benification

Seventeen. How? Honestly, if you'd asked me yesterday I'd have sworn Ben was still an emerging teenager leaving socks in impossible places. Yet here we are. Seventeen years old. Time flies when you're repeatedly asking, "Whose plate is this then?"

Ben still in his own delightful little universe, orbiting somewhere between his reality and the next slice of pizza. But if there's one thing that can cut through the cosmic fog, it's the promise of molten cheese on dough.

So the family descended at the restauran . Every last one of the rabble. It looked less like a birthday meal and more like a UN summit for people who shout over each other. There was enough pizza to feed a Roman legion, or at least Sam after "just one more slice."

Now, I'm not exactly chairman of the Pizza Appreciation Society. Left to my own devices I'd probably be happier with a decent pie that once had feathers. But lashings of chilli and garlic oil transformed the whole affair into something rather agreeable. Amazing what happens when you aggressively season mediocrity.

Ben was happy, the pizzas vanished at an alarming rate, nobody came to blows over the last slice, and the washing-up fairy made an appearance this time, the wallet quite a bit lighter !!

All in all, a successful seventeenth. God only knows how he got there so quickly. Mind you, judging by the speed that pizza disappeared, I suspect he's been growing purely on mozzarella and pepperoni. There are certain moments in angling where common sense quietly packs its suitcase, waves politely from the gate and leaves you entirely to your own devices. This latest trip to the Warwickshire Avon was one of those occasions. 

After my recent success trotting a banded 6mm pellet—an approach that looked about as subtle as eating soup with a garden spade I found myself wondering whether lightning could strike twice or whether I'd simply been granted a temporary fishing licence by the gods of daft ideas.

You see, the smaller roach absolutely loved it. Every run through the swim was like the last helicopter out of Saigon, with silver fish piling over one another to grab yet another freebie before their mates could get there first. They had all the caution of Labrador puppies in a butcher's shop, which suited me just fine.

The bigger roach, however, are a completely different kettle of fish. They're not daft. They sit somewhere beneath a raft of streamer weed with their fins crossed, watching the youngsters charge around like teenagers at an all-you-can-eat buffet, muttering, "Go on then, Derek... you eat it first."

Those old warriors have seen absolutely everything. They've survived pike that look like crocodiles with anger management issues, perch built like nightclub bouncers, zander with eyes like they've been on a three-day stag do, along with otters, cormorants, goosanders and enough anglers to fill Wembley Stadium twice over. By the time a roach reaches two pounds it's probably got a pension plan and a list of things it no longer trusts, which includes suspicious pellets drifting naturally downstream.

Talking of suspicious pellets, blog reader Jon Pinfold and his lad have had some absolute clonkers while targeting barbel. It's always the way, isn't it? You spend half a season chasing a specimen roach and catch dace with delusions of grandeur, then somebody fishing two 12mm drilled pellets for a barbel suddenly rings you to say, "You won't believe what's just turned up!"

It's enough to make a grown man chew through his landing net. One minute they're waiting for a three-foot twitch from a barbel, the next the rod tip merely nods politely, almost apologetically, before a magnificent roach waddles off with the bait. The barbel rods suddenly become precision specimen roach gear, entirely by accident of course, which is generally how the best captures happen.

Now, being incapable of leaving well alone, I naturally convinced myself I'd cracked the code. Somewhere deep inside my brain lives a tiny engineer who constantly whispers, "You know what this needs? More components." Before long I was rummaging through boxes of terminal tackle like a pensioner searching for a receipt from 1987.

Out came a scaled-down ledger rig. Nothing outrageous, mind. Just a neat little inline lead, a short hooklength and a pair of delightfully squishy 8mm Robin Red pellets mounted on a quickstop, positioned at the tail of the swim like some undercover operative waiting patiently for the proper villains to arrive.

It was, in effect, a sleeper rod. Yes... I know. There, I've admitted it. Somewhere, several float purists have just dropped their centrepins into the river in disgust and are currently writing strongly worded letters using fountain pens.

Still, every scientist needs a control experiment. That's what I kept telling myself anyway. It sounded far more respectable than saying, "I've got another daft idea and fancy seeing if it works."

Meanwhile, the float rod received a complete makeover. The Avon was running as clear as bottled spring water, meaning every fish could probably count the freckles on my nose. So everything came down a size a slimmer float, a lighter olivette, finer fluorocarbon hooklength and enough delicacy to make a Swiss watchmaker nod approvingly.

Of course, tying fluorocarbon of that diameter in a stiff breeze is one of life's lesser discussed challenges. At one point I genuinely couldn't tell whether I'd tied a knot or accidentally knitted myself a tiny hammock. I spent five minutes talking encouragingly to the hooklength before finally convincing it to behave.

The swim itself looked absolutely perfect. The sort of place where you instinctively lower your voice despite nobody being within half a mile. Even the wagtails seemed to tiptoe around, as if aware that somewhere beneath the ranunculus lurked a roach capable of making grown anglers weak at the knees.

I began feeding steadily with the pellets. Not loads. Just enough to keep the conveyor belt ticking over without creating an underwater version of an all-inclusive holiday buffet. Before long the familiar procession started roach, dace, another roach, a chublet with more confidence than talent and one perch that looked permanently offended by everything.

The float travelled beautifully. Every run through looked exactly how angling books say it should, which immediately made me suspicious because fishing rarely follows the script. The smaller fish queued up with admirable enthusiasm, each one convinced it had discovered buried treasure.

Meanwhile the ledger rod remained motionless. Completely still. The tip was so lifeless that spiders began considering it suitable real estate. I found myself staring at it with the intensity of a man trying to boil a kettle through positive thinking alone.

Then came the tiniest movement imaginable. Not a pull. Not a wrench. More of a thoughtful nod, rather like somebody agreeing that yes, perhaps another biscuit wouldn't hurt. I picked the rod up almost absent-mindedly, expecting a nuisance chub.

Instead the rod hooped over beautifully.

For a glorious few seconds my imagination completely lost the plot. Perhaps it was the mythical Avon roach of three pounds. Perhaps I'd discovered the greatest specimen fish since Richard Walker frightened the nation with Clarissa. Perhaps the Angling Times photographer was already warming the camera up somewhere behind the hedge.

It was, naturally, a chub.

Not a monster. Not even a particularly impressive one. Just large enough to remind me that fish have a wonderful sense of humour and mine is apparently very expensive to maintain. It charged about the swim scattering every roach into neighbouring postcodes before eventually sliding into the net looking immensely pleased with itself.

As I released it, I couldn't help laughing. There I was trying to outwit elderly specimen roach with a cunning tactical masterplan and instead I'd managed to catch exactly what I wasn't really aiming for. Typical fishing, really.

The float fishing continued to produce fish but nothing big, all crimson fins and polished silver flanks that positively glowed in the morning sunshine. Magnificent creatures that remind you why the humble roach still deserves far more admiration than it often receives.

Did the adjustments work? I honestly didn't think they did. The lighter tackle certainly brought more confident bites in the crystal-clear water but oddly I got more bites last time, my suspicion was an angler might have filled it in overnight. I remain convinced that little ledger rig has plenty more chapters left to write. Whether it eventually tempts one of those old red-eyed ghosts lurking beneath the weed is another matter entirely.

Because that's the thing about specimen roach. They're like retired bank robbers. They don't make mistakes very often, they trust nobody and they always seem to know something you don't. Every blank session simply convinces you they're still there, quietly laughing into their gills while you invent another ingenious contraption.

Will I be back? Of course I will. Anglers possess the remarkable ability to mistake stubbornness for optimism, and nowhere is that more obvious than on the banks of the Warwickshire Avon. Besides, I've already got another ridiculous idea brewing, which almost certainly means the fish are one step ahead already.

Warwickshire Avon - Argentocracy and Argy-Bargy

Now some itches can be ignored. A mosquito bite, perhaps. The urge to reorganise the tackle shed, if you've finally admitted you're never going to use that bent bankstick again. 

But the itch to spend an evening chasing a mythical Warwickshire Avon weir-pool barbel? That's the sort of thing that keeps you staring out of the window every ten minutes while convincing yourself the weather forecast has probably changed since you last checked it.

Unfortunately, England had a World Cup semi-final to play. Or, as it turned out, ninety minutes proving that football managers can overthink things even faster than anglers choosing between three perfectly good hooklengths. 

I should have known better. Hope has caught out more fishermen than badly tied knots ever have. There was, however, one bright spot. I'd treated myself to a couple of bottles of McEwan's Champion, which, in my entirely unbiased opinion, remains one of the finest beer ever brewed. 

Rich, well-being boosting and full of character, it did everything asked of it. Sadly, it couldn't inspire eleven blokes in white shirts to remember the opposition's goal was still at the other end.

If anything, the beer showed more ambition than England did after taking the lead with Anthony Gordon's 55th-minute cracker. Every sip promised excitement, while every backwards pass suggested someone had mistaken a semi-final for a pre-season friendly. 

Even the Wife looked as though she wanted someone to have a shot. By the final whistle the bottle was empty, England were out and I was left wondering whether I'd enjoyed the beer more than the football because at least one of them had gone forward all evening. 

McEwan's Champion finished strongly. England finished like a bloke arriving at the pub to discover the lights are on, the chairs are upside down and the landlord's already counting the till.

The first hour wasn't bad. England looked lively despite the scrapy argy-bargy nature, and moved the ball well and almost gave the impression they fancied winning the thing. 

As every angler knows, that's usually the moment you reach for the landing net before the float's actually gone under. Then someone clearly shouted, "Right lads... that'll do." Not behind the bus. Not near the bus. Properly parked it, switched the engine off, folded the mirrors in and settled down with a flask while Argentina wandered round the outside looking only mildly inconvenienced.

Watching it unfold was like spotting the biggest barbel you've ever seen feeding confidently under your rod tip, only to reel in because you didn't want to disturb it. Football calls it game management. Anglers tend to use slightly stronger language. As if that wasn't cautious enough, Tuchel then decided the answer was to send on three defenders. That's rather like hooking the fish of your dreams before swapping your size 8 hook for a paperclip because it looks less intimidating. You half expected the fourth official to hold up a sign reading, "No more attacking."

By this point England looked less interested in scoring another goal than preserving one they hadn't quite finished scoring in the first place. You half expected them to ask the referee if they could just keep possession until penalties became available.

It reminded me of every helpful soul who's ever appeared behind you on the riverbank. "You won't catch one from there." Curiously, they're normally carrying an empty landing net and wondering why they haven't had a bite since breakfast. Advice, like cheap groundbait, is usually available in generous quantities.

Meanwhile the itch to fish was becoming unbearable. Every sideways pass was another nudge from my conscience saying, "You could be sitting beside that weir pool with a flask, a barbel rod and absolutely no idea what's about to happen." Which, when you think about it, still sounded like a better tactical plan than passing backwards until everyone forgot where the goal was.

The mythical Warwickshire Avon barbel has one enormous advantage over England. It doesn't spend half an hour protecting a lead it hasn't actually got yet. Mind you, if barbel employed football managers they'd probably insist on shoaling in the slack water until dusk before deciding feeding was too risky.

By now I'd mentally packed the car twice. The rods were assembled in my imagination, the bait was prepared in my head and I'd almost convinced myself I'd remembered everything. The only thing actually happening in the living room was another backwards pass and a commentator explaining why it was all very sensible. At least barbel are honest. They either make a fool of you or they don't. They don't spend thirty minutes passing the pellet backwards before disappearing into the reeds while someone tells you it's all part of the plan.

Next time the itch arrives, I'm going fishing. If I blank, I'll still have spent the evening watching flowing water instead of watching a manager turn England into the footballing equivalent of a bivvy with the zip firmly done up. Blanking somehow feels less disappointing when nobody interviews the chub afterwards. Now some places have a habit of getting under your skin. This weir pool is one of them, quietly nagging away until eventually you stop pretending you're going somewhere else and simply give in. Rivers can be remarkably persuasive without saying a word.

For all the years I've wandered this stretch, I've probably fished this swim no more than a handful of times for a Barbel. Strange really, because every visit convinces me there's a proper fish living there. Every visit also convinces the fish that today would be an excellent day to remain somewhere completely different.

The river slipped over the weir with that steady, reassuring murmur that persuades anglers to believe all sorts of unlikely things. It looked every inch a barbel swim. Mind you, so have plenty of others where I've carefully introduced two pounds of bait to a family of very grateful minnows.

There was enough pace, enough depth and enough mystery to keep the imagination busy. If confidence alone caught fish, I'd have needed a bigger landing net years ago. Sadly, rivers insist on introducing reality into the conversation. So, were there any barbel willing to sample my offerings? There was only one way to answer that question, and it certainly wasn't by standing on the bank looking thoughtful. Anglers call that watercraft. Everyone else calls it standing about.

Sadly there are evenings when the angling gods smile upon you... and there are evenings when they point, laugh, and nick your rig. I rocked up at 20:45 to find a couple of anglers cars at the stretch, but the weir was gloriously vacant, as if Neptune himself had reserved it under my name.

The place had changed since my last visit too. A tree had spectacularly folded itself in half, kindly dropping a leafy penthouse over the crease that positively screamed, "Big barbel live here!" Naturally, the first cast into paradise found a snag so committed it was probably paying council tax, and I was soon waving goodbye to lead, hooklink and a small chunk of confidence.

Plan B, a cast just to the right, landed with that beautiful donk every river angler dreams about. Within half an hour the tip gave the unmistakable chub clang, enough to get the pulse up before reality politely tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me I wasn't the guest of honour tonight.Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening than sitting beside a weir with its endless hiss washing the nonsense of the day downstream. Ten minutes from my front door, a cracking little hideaway, and exactly the sort of place built for cheeky smash-and-grab in to dusk sessions.

Mrs Barbel avoided the rendezvous this time, no doubt claiming she'd already washed her hair. Never mind, my dear... I'll be back, and next time you might not be quite so camera shy.

Warwickshire Avon - Bombast and Balderdash

There are two things the Midlands does exceptionally well. One is roundabouts that lead to more roundabouts, and the other is Indian restaurants. Every village, town and trading estate seems to have one these days, which is marvellous really because it gives me an endless list to work through before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Now last week's victim... sorry, destination... was the recently opened Nura Indian Restaurant in 'literally' the Heart of England. According to the website it's "award-winning," although it wasn't immediately obvious whether that was for the food, the décor or surviving without air-conditioning during the hottest week since Noah started looking at boat plans.

My old mate Phippo came along for the ride. He'll eat absolutely anything providing somebody else recommends it first, then spends the next hour telling you why he should've ordered something different.

The menu landed with a thud that nearly bent the table. I reckon there were close to sixty different main courses which is wonderful if you enjoy choice but slightly terrifying when you've already spent twenty minutes deciding whether to have a lime and soda, or as it's bring your own, nipping to the local shop for a Cobra. 

Eventually I homed in on the "Home Style Curries" section. The Khasia Lamb caught my eye immediately; melt-in-the-mouth lamb, fresh diced bullet chillies, green peppers and Madras hot... exactly the sort of sentence that makes me ignore all common sense and any concerns my digestive system may have lodged.

Naturally, I couldn't stop there. The Nura Special Kebab also found its way onto the order because, let's face it, if you're going to make questionable decisions you may as well commit properly.

Across the table, Phippo chose the Garlic Butter Shrimp followed by the Aloo Gosht Bhuna. The menu described it as a cherished homestyle classic packed with flavour in every bite, which sounded lovely until reality wandered in wearing muddy boots.

Before the food even arrived we'd noticed one slight issue. 

It was thirty degrees outside and approximately the surface temperature of Mercury inside, with a couple of industrial fans valiantly attempting to cool the place in the same way you'd tackle a forest fire with a Super Soaker. 

Was there aircon in the other bit of the restaurant ? well all I know is no cold air reached us just the pleasant waft of another sizzling dish being brought to the table. To be fair, the restaurant itself looked smart. Nice décor, pleasant atmosphere and friendly staff especially one called Elvis, but after half an hour my polo-shirt had become so attached to my back that we were practically in a civil partnership.

Then the food arrived.

My kebab was perfectly acceptable without being anything I'd be boring the grandchildren about in years to come. Pleasant enough, nicely cooked, but hardly the culinary equivalent of discovering buried treasure. The Khasia Lamb, however, was rather enjoyable. The lamb was beautifully tender, the chillies gave it a proper kick and it delivered exactly the level of heat I'd been hoping for.

There was just one observation and it's hard to unsee once you've seen it.

You see there appeared to be enough ghee and oil floating on top of my curry to keep a struggling third-world country's electricity grid ticking over until Christmas. If someone had dropped a wick into the bowl we'd probably still be able to see the restaurant glowing from space.

Phippo wasn't quite so fortunate. His Bhuna apparently lacked the rich depth and comforting punch promised by the menu and instead arrived somewhere between "quite pleasant" and "is that it?"

That's the funny thing about Indian restaurants. Two people can sit opposite each other eating supposedly similar dishes and leave with completely different opinions, rather like supporting England at football.

Would I go back?

Actually... yes.

Not because it was perfect, but because that menu is simply ridiculous in size and curiosity usually gets the better of me. There are still another fifty-odd dishes waiting to either delight me or separate another few quid from my wallet.

Phippo, on the other hand, won't be returning. That's fair enough because if we all liked the same restaurants there'd be queues longer than the NHS waiting list. No matter. My brother is due up from Devon before too long and I suspect he'll happily volunteer as my next accomplice. Besides, it's always easier blaming someone else when you've ordered enough food for six people.

Whilst all this culinary excitement was unfolding, the wife pinged me a photograph.

There she was dangling her feet in the swimming pool with the accompanying message, "We should have done this sooner."

Easy for her to say.

She's not the one who winces every time the water meter spins faster than a fruit machine, knowing full well the turd slingers at Severn Trent's finest accountants are already calculating how much they'll be relieving me of next month. Judging by recent bills, I'm fairly sure they're filling Rutland Water from my back garden.

Still, when I got home there was only one sensible course of action.

Pool.

"Fancy a gin and tonic, dear?" she asked.

Now there's a question with only one correct answer. Saying no would've been like refusing free bacon or turning down a winning lottery ticket. Before long we were sat beside the pool watching the sun disappear with condensation dripping down oversized sunglasses and not a care in the world. Sometimes the simple evenings end up being the best ones.

As I floated about trying not to think about the next water bill, my mind wandered somewhere infinitely more dangerous.

Fishing !!

It always does, and with the evening temperatures so much cooler as I type this, in-fact 10 degrees less at 9.00pm than the same time last week post curry I fancied a quick smash and grab session. 

The other week you see I'd wandered over to a local weir pool for a nose about. No rods, no bait, no net... just a quiet mooch while pretending I wasn't already planning another session. Standing above the water, I was peering down hoping to spot a decent chub or two. They were there all right, swaggering about the place like the local school bullies who've never been told no.

Then I saw them.

Two glorious barbel.

Those unmistakable deep bronze flanks and bright crimson fins gliding effortlessly through the oxygenated water. They moved together so closely they could've been joined by an invisible piece of elastic. 

Every now and then a chub would muscle in as though it owned the place before the pair casually drifted aside, completely unbothered by the aquatic hooligans.

I stood there for ages simply watching.

It's amazing how quickly a ten-minute stroll turns into forty-five minutes when fish are involved. 

Dog walkers probably assumed I was conducting important environmental research rather than staring into a river muttering, "Go on... just one more lap."

Unfortunately I'd brought absolutely no tackle with me.

Not a rod.

Not a landing net.

Not even a crust of bread.

Just me, my stupidity and two magnificent barbel swimming around completely unaware they'd just been promoted to the top of my hit list. They'd escaped this time purely because I'd arrived hopelessly under-equipped.

But don't you worry, lads.

Your cards have most definitely been marked.

Or have they?

Because if fishing has taught me anything over the years, it's that the moment you become convinced you've got a fish's number, (Barbara the Barbel epic fail anyone ?) it promptly reminds you who's really in charge. But you have to try don't you !!

Now France and Spain had been knocking it about for the best part of half an hour by the time I wandered down to the weir. The roar of the water was drowning out the commentary, so the trusty little JBL speaker earned its place in the rucksack once again. Priorities and all that.

There was already someone in residence, a young lad called Mikey, fishing the tail end of the weir. I'd recognised him from a YouTube video catching some proper barbel, but thought it best not to start with, "Aren't you off the internet?" Instead, I quietly slipped into the main pool where I'd seen a couple of barbel mooching about on an earlier visit.

Mikey told me this was his third crack at the swim and so far it'd only surrendered chub, although they weren't exactly tiddlers. He wasn't filming this time and was more than happy for me to fish a little way upstream. Always nice when common sense wins over elbows.

Nothing fancy on the business end. Homemade paste wrapped around Robin Red pellets, a little PVA bag of freebies and a cast into the steadier water away from the main boil. There's another swim that just screams rolling meat, but getting to it without an acrobatic qualification is another matter altogether.

About fifteen minutes later the rod tip gave a proper whack before springing back. Then it nodded again and this time stayed bent. Straight away it had all the hallmarks of a decent chub, plenty of head shaking and just enough attitude to remind me why they can still be good fun on a Harrison 1.75lb rod.

As I slipped it back, Mikey wandered over for a look. "Barbel next," he said with a grin. I liked his optimism, even if the fish hadn't read the script yet.

Ten minutes later all hell broke loose. The rod went from standing politely to looking like it'd been attached to a passing tugboat. It felt every inch a barbel... for about four glorious seconds... before everything went slack. That's not something Mr Rubber Lips does very often, so I stood there muttering a few words that definitely wouldn't make the editor's cut.

Mikey packed up shortly afterwards, leaving me to fish into dusk. Before he disappeared he said, "At least you know they're there. It'll come good." I hoped he wasn't just being polite.

The chub, meanwhile, were doing their level best to keep me occupied, with another couple deciding that homemade paste was simply too good to refuse. Fine fish, but they do have an uncanny knack of turning up exactly when you're waiting for something with whiskers.

Then, a good half hour after darkness settled in, it finally happened. That slow, deliberate three-foot pull after one big thump that every barbel angler dreams about. No violence, no theatrics, just pure confidence. I lifted into it and this time everything stayed firmly attached.

What followed was a cracking fight under the beam of the head torch, with the fish using every bit of flow it could find. Eventually the net slipped underneath a lovely barbel that looked remarkably like the size of the fish I'd watched cruising the pool before. Target achieved, I'd say.

After a quick trophy shot and a good ten minutes resting in the margins in the oxygenated weir pool now guarded by bats, it powered back into the darkness as though nothing had happened. Funny old things, barbel. They can make you question every decision you've ever made one minute, then have you planning the next trip before you've even packed the landing net away.

That's why I enjoy these short sessions so much. A few hours by the river, a couple of greedy chub, one proper barbel and a head full of fresh air does far more good than sitting indoors watching the mad mad world 🤯 tie itself in knots. I still can't sit behind motionless rods for long, but when they finally pull round like that, it's worth every minute.