Warwickshire Avon - Thermometrographs and Thanatophilia

Well, a week off the booze thus far after August's excesses and I must admit, I'm already sleeping better. Which is probably a good thing, although I'm beginning to wonder whether sleep itself is the problem, because my subconscious appears to have developed a taste for the frankly disturbing.

There's an old rumour that eating cheese before bed gives you wild dreams, and as somebody who occasionally likes to experiment with lucid dreaming, I thought I'd put this ancient dairy folklore to the test yet another time. Cheese contains tryptophan, which the brain uses in all sorts of clever ways involving serotonin, sleep and dreaming, although quite why my brain decided to interpret this as an invitation to produce something involving necrophilia (yes really 💤🙈) is a question I'll leave to considerably more qualified people.

The culprit, on this occasion, was a rather innocent-looking chunk of Bleu d'Auvergne. I went to bed expecting perhaps a vivid dream involving a tropical island, a large barbel and possibly Scarlett Johansson if the subconscious was feeling generous, but instead it served up something so profoundly wrong that even I woke up thinking, "Blimey, steady on."

I'm not easily shocked, as you may have gathered, but even I felt that Bleu d'Auvergne had crossed a line. So it's back to Stilton for me, because clearly the French cannot be trusted with the delicate workings of the English subconscious.

Perhaps I've simply trained my brain over the years, courtesy of Albert Hofmann and his rather more adventurous contribution to human consciousness. Whatever the explanation, I thought the sensible thing was to give the whole bizarre psychological experiment a rest and find myself a distraction.

And what better distraction is there than fishing? Fishing has the enormous advantage that, once you're beside the river, your brain has very little opportunity to worry about anything other than where the fish might be and whether you've got enough bait, which in my case is particularly useful because I can barely think about two things simultaneously without something going catastrophically wrong.

I had an hour to spare after work before the demands of domestic diary-making called me back to civilisation, so I decided on a quick visit to one of my local smash-and-grab spots. I'm lucky in that it's virtually on the way home from work, meaning I can get my fishing fix without requiring the logistical planning normally associated with an Arctic expedition.

When I say minimal gear, I really do mean minimal gear. Rod, reel, size 6 hook and that's about it; if I need anything else, I've clearly misunderstood the assignment. This little stretch is one I know reasonably well, particularly at the beginning of the season when the chub have a habit of hanging around. I'd visited before my holiday, though, and the chub had apparently decided that my company was beneath them and relocated themselves into the pool upstream.

Unfortunately, that particular pool is about as accessible as the vault at Fort Knox. 

You could probably reach it in waders up to your armpits ,but getting a decent chub out once hooked would involve the sort of aquatic gymnastics for which I'm neither sufficiently young nor sufficiently enthusiastic. Still, there was a bit more water in the river now, and that can make all the difference. So I thought I'd have another go and see whether the chub had returned or whether they'd taken permanent residence somewhere with better security.

I started with surface bread, which is always a pleasing way to fish because it makes you feel slightly like a Victorian gentleman feeding ducks, only with considerably more concentration and a hook concealed somewhere in the bakery department. The trouble with chub is that they know exactly what bread is, and they also know exactly what a hook is, which makes them rather less cooperative than the pigeons.

Those pieces of bread were going down completely unhindered, which suggested one of two things: either the chub weren’t in residence, or they were there but had collectively decided to observe a strict carbohydrate-free diet. Then, right at the very tail end of the swim, there was a swirl  not exactly a biblical revelation, but certainly enough of a fish showing to make me wonder whether I’d been prematurely writing the swim off.

The problem was that getting a fish out of there would have been difficult, to put it mildly, with enough snags lurking about to make the swim look less like a fishing opportunity and more like an obstacle course designed by someone who genuinely disliked anglers. Still, I bookmarked it mentally, because if there is one thing fishing teaches you, it is that the places you convince yourself are impossible are invariably the places you spend the next six months thinking about.

So I made my way downstream to a few swims that normally produce fish, although with the extra water on, the river had a bit more flow and those little areas where the chub usually hang about were conspicuously devoid of chub. I peered into likely spots, stared into dark corners, and generally behaved like a man who had misplaced something expensive, despite the fact that I was actually looking for a fish that had absolutely no obligation whatsoever to be there.

Then, just to add a touch of rural theatre to proceedings, a horse decided to follow me down towards the bridge swim. I was half expecting it to ask whether I’d seen any chub, but instead it got knee-deep into the water and began enthusiastically harvesting the rich pickings from the reeds and bullrushes downstream, apparently having worked out the fishing wasn’t going particularly well and deciding to get on with something productive.

I did manage a chublet, which after four or five tentative nudges at the bread finally decided that one more go was going to be its downfall. Unfortunately for it, this time it found a hook rather than the usual free lunch, although it was hardly the stamp of fish I had travelled through the countryside expecting to meet.

It was, however, perfectly respectable, and after a brief encounter I returned it to its watery abode, where I assume it immediately went back to telling its mates about the terrifying near-death experience involving a suspiciously fluffy piece of bread. I meanwhile stood there wondering whether this was genuinely how the session was going to end, with my fishing ambitions reduced from “proper chub” to “something that could probably fit through a letterbox”.

With my tail firmly between my legs, I decided on one final attempt in the first swim, because apparently disappointment makes you more determined rather than more sensible. This time I concentrated on the snag pit away from the main river, where there was a much slower piece of water, which was encouraging, although the word “snags” was doing an awful lot of heavy lifting in that description.

I flicked a few pieces of crust onto the surface and, wearing the polarised sunglasses that make every angler feel briefly like Jacques Cousteau, I could see the silhouettes of several chub milling around below. 

They were definitely there, which was encouraging, although their attitude towards my carefully presented floating bread was roughly equivalent to mine when someone offers me a spotted dick with gloopy cold custard.

They simply weren’t interested in taking it off the surface, so I decided to change tactics. 

Now, I assume chub are rather like us although hopefully with fewer problems concerning council tax and the price of petrol in that they possess both animal instinct and a more rational side capable of assessing whether something looks suspicious.

On one side are our animal instincts, developed over millions of years of evolution and designed to keep us alive, while on the other sits the rational brain, constantly calculating, cogitating and occasionally wondering why on earth we thought buying another fishing rod was a sensible financial decision. The chub, presumably, had arrived at the conclusion that floating bread was suspicious, but perhaps had yet to develop the ability to question its own existence, mortgage rates or whether it had chosen the correct swim in life.

So a piece of bread went onto the hook, dipped into the water and was squeezed, and squeezed again, until it became something resembling a small soggy dumpling with a criminal record. This time it was slow sinking, and after a strategic and, I thought, rather magnificent underarm flick, I watched it disappear underneath the raft while using my forefinger to feel the line.

About ten seconds passed, during which I became increasingly convinced that absolutely nothing was happening and that I had once again managed to turn a straightforward fishing exercise into an unnecessarily complicated experiment in disappointment. Then I felt the line tighten, struck, and immediately discovered that the fish at the other end had considerably more enthusiasm for the proceedings than I did.

Now, you only had to look at the swim to realise that this wasn’t going to be a polite little fight conducted in open water with the fish eventually swimming obligingly into the net. This was going to be carnage, and with a tippy barbel rod in my hands I was going to have to bully the fish away from every branch, root, twig and other item of aquatic furniture it had thoughtfully positioned itself beside.

“YOU HEATHEN, MICK,” I could almost hear the traditionalists shouting from the bankside hedges, horrified that someone had dared use a tippy barbel rod for a chub. But at this point I wasn’t particularly interested in conforming to angling etiquette, because etiquette is generally of limited use when a decent chub is attempting to introduce itself to a snag at high speed.

The ensuing battle would probably have earned an audition for Best Fighting Chub on Britain’s Got Talent, assuming there is a category for fish that spend several minutes trying to make an angler question every decision that led them to that particular stretch of river. Eventually, however, it gave up, rolled over and seemed to say, “Please net me, I’ve had enough of this,” which was an offer I was more than happy to accept.

So I did exactly that, because there are some things you simply don’t argue with when fishing decent fish, snag-infested swims and the sudden appearance of a net in front of a chub that has just spent several minutes trying to dismantle your tackle. Things you do to catch fish, eh?

And there it was, a proper chub, and suddenly the earlier chublet seemed less like a disappointing consolation prize and more like an important piece of narrative development. From a little chublet nibbling at bread to a proper chub trying to rearrange the underwater architecture, the session had somehow managed to redeem itself.

It had taken little more than an hour, but that was all the fishing fix required, really. No epic twelve-hour campaign, no bivvy, no alarms screaming through the night and certainly no need to explain to anyone why you have spent half a day sitting beside a river staring at a piece of bread.

Just a river, a few pieces of crust, a horse, a handful of suspicious chub and one fish that eventually decided to cooperate after being subjected to what was, frankly, an unnecessarily stressful audition for Britain's Got Talent. Sometimes that’s all you need, well maybe a tussle with Sofía Vergara might be nice, a memorable fish, a ridiculous little adventure and enough material to convince yourself that the next session will obviously be even better.

Warwickshire Avon - Madhouses and Mega Dinghies

After returning from our holiday in North Devon, I must admit I'm on a bit of a downer. There is something particularly cruel about coming home after a holiday where the weather has been glorious, the scenery has been stunning and life has somehow managed to slow down, only to discover that normality has been sitting on the doorstep waiting for you. 

I've spent most of the week wondering whether I could quietly move into the car and drive back without anyone noticing, especially when there was a day rave in Westward Ho! Saturday with none other than Billy 'Daniel' Bunter a veteran of the rave scene I fully emersed myself in back in the 90's. (anyone got a time machine ?)

To make matters worse, this would have been a cracking week to still be down there because of the eclipse. North Devon would have been one of those places where you could sit by the coast, watch the sky put on its little celestial performance and enjoy the sea breeze taking the edge off the midday sunshine. Instead I'm back here, looking at the garden and wondering whether putting factor 50 on my fishing chair counts as preparation for a session.

The weather has been absolutely superb, but for fishing it has been almost too good. You see there's barely been a breath of wind and the rivers are clear enough to see what the fish had for breakfast, which isn't particularly helpful when you're trying to persuade something with fins that it hasn't actually seen you standing there. Still, I suppose we shouldn't complain because there are worse things in life than sitting in the garden with a cold cider knowing that winter will no doubt be a washout again. 

Mind you, the lack of wind hasn't stopped some rather extraordinary things happening elsewhere. Apparently a Mega Dinghy managed to cross the English Channel carrying around 230 people, which is supposedly the largest number to make the journey in a single vessel. When I read that, I suddenly felt rather less adventurous about my own decision not to go fishing in this heat and dangle my legs in the paddling pool instead. 

The inflatable was apparently so packed that passengers were having to dangle their legs in the water as it entered the busy shipping route. Two hundred and thirty people on one inflatable boat crossing the Channel is the sort of thing that makes you wonder whether somebody misunderstood the instructions when they were told to "make sure everyone has a seat." 

Now some weeks you can feel the fishing gods looking down, having a right old chuckle to themselves. Every weather app looked like it had been sponsored by Satan, the rivers resembled warm Horlicks, and the fish had clearly booked annual leave without consulting me. Every time I looked out of the window it was either blisteringly hot or blowing a hoolie. About as inspiring for fishing as a wet Sunday in a caravan showroom.

Luckily, food stepped into the breach with all the reliability of a Labrador spotting a dropped sausage. Tuesday's spicy Pad Kra Pao with the wife at Yoga was magnificent, crowned by two duck eggs so obscenely rich they deserved separate billing on the menu and probably their own Instagram account. Honestly, those eggs had more yolk than a stand-up comedian. They nearly outshone the meal itself, which takes some doing.

Monday wasn't exactly a hardship either. A curry with my old mate Phippo always guarantees plenty of nonsense gets talked, most of it impossible to repeat in polite company and the rest best forgotten before breakfast. The food was spot on and the company even better. It's amazing how solving the world's problems over a vindaloo never actually solves any of them.

On the way home I pulled into a dried-up corn field to watch the eclipse. Typical really the entire sky was crystal clear apart from one stubborn cloud glued to the sun like a toddler clinging to a Farley's Rusk, determined to ruin everyone's day. 

You honestly couldn't script it if you tried. Mother Nature clearly enjoys winding anglers up just as much as the fish do.

In fairness, the sky did go strangely gloomy despite the sunshine trying its hardest to burn your retinas out. The shadows became ridiculously sharp and stretched for miles, which was probably the most impressive bit. 

The eclipse itself, though, felt a touch underwhelming after all the build-up. Rather like driving three hours to catch a gudgeon when someone promised you a thirty-pound carp.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining, unless it's the one parked in front of the eclipse. The heat has at least encouraged the wife and me to retreat into the garden once the kids are finally asleep. 

We've spent several evenings with a drink in hand watching the Perseids put on a display far better than anything on terrestrial television. Sometimes doing absolutely nothing turns out to be the highlight of the week.

The night sky has been absolutely littered with shooting stars, meteors and satellites gliding silently overhead. Every few minutes another streak flashed across the darkness while satellites wandered by pretending they owned the place. It certainly puts life into perspective for a few moments. Then someone inevitably asks if you've remembered to lock the shed.

As I write this, I've got two glorious weeks off work and they're packed tighter than a match angler's keepnet. First comes the mighty River Severn where, fingers crossed, the fish are in a better mood than they have been lately. Then it's off to the Atlantic courtesy of the Canary Islands in search of something that actually pulls back properly. I could certainly do with a bent rod restoring a bit of enthusiasm.

If that wasn't enough, the holiday concludes the day after we get back with a whistle stop trip to Glasgow to watch knob-twiddling maestro Anthony Pappa alongside a collection of fellow Australian progressive house DJs. 

It's difficult explaining progressive house to anyone who's never experienced it. To the untrained eye it just looks like blokes fiddling with expensive mixers for three hours. To the rest of us enjoying the scene from the 90's, it's absolute magic.

Hopefully the next two weeks will recharge the batteries enough for work not to feel like a life sentence. A decent holiday has a funny way of resetting the head. Catching a few fish would help enormously too. Stranger things have happened, although admittedly not many.

September sees the annual liver and body amnesty. After ten days of enthusiastic research at an all-inclusive in the Canaries and Devon in the mix as well, I think the poor thing deserves thirty days of peace and quiet. It has been a loyal servant over the years and deserves a month on the substitutes' bench. Consider it a well-earned sabbatical and hopefully some timber lost.

With any luck the weather will have calmed down by then and the rivers will resemble rivers again instead of oversized warm baths. I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to get after the barbel because that's where my head really is. Despite all the moaning, hope remains an angler's favourite bait. Anyway, enough waffling better get fishing before another cloud decides to have the last laugh.

You see with work finished early after banking my hours, I had a tiny window to flick a lump of bread about in search of a chub. It wasn't exactly overflowing with optimism, more a case of turning up because hope can be remarkably thick-headed. 

There are days when an angler glides to the river brimful of confidence, convinced the fish have been holding a committee meeting solely to discuss how best to throw themselves upon his hook. Then there are the days when the river greets you with the sort of grin usually reserved for tax inspectors and dentists. Mine, dear reader, fell squarely into the latter category.

The first chub was exactly where I expected it to be, tucked into a snag fortress that would have made medieval castle builders nod with approval. It gave my floating crust all the attention of a duke ignoring a chimney sweep before slowly wafting back into its woody sanctuary. I, meanwhile, was left trying to persuade myself that staring contests with fish counted as productive angling.

 Determined to seize the moment, I launched what I believed to be a "Luke the Nuke" cast of breathtaking precision. 

The river, however, had nominated a rather large overhanging tree as the true recipient of my masterpiece. 

Seconds later half the county's forestry programme came crashing into the swim with a splash that sent my solitary audience of one chub fleeing downstream in search of quieter company.

Off I trudged to the famed pool swim where, naturally, every respectable chub in the parish had gathered for what looked suspiciously like a social occasion. 

Reaching them would have required wading until the river lapped somewhere beneath my armpits, and even optimism has its limits. I decided drowning for a fish was perhaps an unnecessary flourish to the day's entertainment.

The next stretch was alive with fish, although unfortunately they all appeared to have been assembled from the junior section of the species handbook. 

Tiny dace, miniature roach and chublets no heavier than a decent sandwich darted at everything. Amongst the aquatic nursery lurked three proper chub, each treating my bread offerings with the sort of polite indifference normally shown to unsolicited salesmen.

Eventually a tiny chub took pity on me and saved the blank, which was rather like receiving a consolation prize after losing the village fete tug-of-war. Then, at last, salvation appeared in the shape of a decent fish homing in on my crust like a heat-seeking missile. 

I missed the first strike with admirable incompetence, only to hook it perfectly on the second attempt before it buried itself in the reeds and shed the hook with infuriating ease.

So ended another chapter in the grand book of Piscatorial Quagswagging, where triumph remained tantalisingly out of reach and calamity always seemed one cast ahead. 

The chub won on points, the trees claimed the best catch of the afternoon, and I returned home with little more than wet footwear and another tale to bore the neighbours with. Still, that's fishing—because if every trip ended in glory, we'd have nothing nearly as entertaining to laugh about afterwards.

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 - Breadonomics and Buffoonery

There are few things in angling quite as satisfying or quite as nerve-racking as watching a great slab of floating crust drift lazily towards a summer chub that has already spotted you before you've even spotted it. Clear water has a habit of making an angler feel like he's wearing a fluorescent jacket and tap shoes, while the chub sits beneath an overhanging bush looking as suspicious as a home office inspector at a cash-only car wash in Coventry.

Chub have earned their reputation for caution over generations of surviving everything that rivers, predators and anglers can throw at them. Every shadow, every misplaced footstep and every badly aimed cast is carefully logged in that thick skull of theirs before they make the unanimous committee decision to disappear in a puff of silt.

Yet for all their apparent paranoia, chub possess one wonderfully exploitable weakness: greed. They can spend five minutes inspecting a crust with the concentration of an art critic before suddenly deciding that if they don't eat it immediately, another chub surely will.

That's precisely why floating bread is such a deadly summer tactic when the water resembles polished glass. Instead of trying to convince a wary fish to grub about on the bottom, you're simply offering what looks like an easy, natural meal drifting straight into its dining room. No Heath Robinson tactics here, a hook and a piece of bread. 

The beauty of surface fishing is that you become part angler and part theatre audience. Every drift carries the possibility of a fish rising with all the stealth of a submarine or all the subtlety of an overeager Staffy chasing a sausage.

Of course, presenting the bread is only half the battle. The other half involves resisting the overwhelming urge to strike the instant you see a pair of white lips appear beneath the crust, because chub have an uncanny talent for making you look ridiculous while they calmly mouth your bait and spit it back out.

Summer chub are often at their most relaxed during warm, settled conditions when insects, seeds and all manner of edible morsels are constantly dropping into the river. In those moments their guard, though never completely lowered, slips just enough for confidence to overcome caution, and that's exactly the opportunity the patient floater angler waits for.

Stealth is everything, mind you. Crawl if you must, wear dull clothing and avoid skylining yourself on the bank, because the average clear-water chub seems capable of detecting a badly tied shoelace from twenty yards away.

When it all comes together, though, surface fishing for chub is one of angling's purest spectacles. There is no quivertip to stare at, no electronic gadget to beep, just a drifting crust, a widening bow wave and the sort of heart-thumping anticipation that reminds you why people become hopelessly addicted to rivers in the first place.

And when that great bronze flank finally rolls beneath the bread before engulfing it with glorious confidence, you'll almost convince yourself you've outwitted the cleverest fish in the river. The truth, of course, is that the chub simply forgot to be suspicious for five glorious seconds which, thankfully for us, is usually about four seconds longer than we actually need.

People often tell me how lucky I am because I finish at lunchtime on a Friday. What they conveniently forget is that by then I've already ticked off forty-three of my forty-five hours, so it's hardly an early finish. It's more like being let out for good behaviour after serving a full sentence.

The good news is there is finally some light at the end of a very long tunnel. In another four and a bit years I'll be hanging my work boots up for good after forty years of graft. I suppose you could call it early retirement, although after four decades of work I think I've earned the right to swap deadlines for dawns on the river.

To be fair, work hasn't been all doom and gloom over the years. I've had some cracking jobs, met some brilliant people and built up such a good network in angling that I'm forever turning work down these days. I never imagined I'd reach a point where I'd rather spend an afternoon watching a piece of bread drift downstream than earning another few quid, but that's exactly where I've ended up.

Anyway, enough about work because fishing is far more interesting. I headed over to the Warwickshire Avon where Nic from Avon Angling was guiding Patron and blog reader Richard Clapp not too far away. Before long they wandered over looking suspiciously pleased with themselves, which is never a good sign when you're still waiting for your first proper chance.

They had managed around eighteen fish in just three hours for something like sixty pounds of fish trotting maggots. Sixty pounds is an incredible catch by anyone's standards and the aerial footage made it look like somebody had tipped a giant pan of chub soup into the river but you will have to wait for the video. Everywhere you looked there seemed to be fish, and they were certainly making the most of the bread going in.

My own session wasn't quite so hectic, but I wasn't complaining. I managed three lovely chub from around the weir, the best going four and a half pounds with the smallest around the three-pound mark. They're such spooky fish that once you've caught one from a particular spot, the rest disappear as though somebody has sounded the underwater fire alarm.

One fish came from the slack water after I'd watched the smaller fish demolish every floating crust I threw at them. 

I changed to a slow-sinking piece of bread and that proved too much for one decent chub to ignore. It drifted down naturally and the fish confidently took it without a second thought, which unfortunately turned out to be a very expensive mistake.

Later on I wandered beyond the weir and stumbled across a group of big chub in what could only be described as a suicidal swim, yes I took a video, but didn't bother trying to catch one. 

They happily shared almost an entire loaf of bread between them without showing the slightest bit of caution. Greedy doesn't even begin to describe them, and if bread had feelings it would probably have reported them for bullying.

Not far away several big bream were cruising lazily around some lily pads. They looked settled and catchable until a narrowboat came chugging through with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. 

Within seconds every single bream had vanished, leaving me wondering whether they'd swum off or simply evaporated.

We eventually wandered back towards the weir, chatting away about fishing, rivers and all the usual nonsense that anglers somehow find endlessly entertaining. 

Sometimes the company is every bit as enjoyable as the fishing itself, especially when everyone is catching fish and taking the mickey out of each other. It certainly beats talking about work.

Back at the weir the smaller fish were still attacking every floating piece of bread that landed on the surface. I flicked a slow-sinking piece right over the top of them and watched it drift gently beneath the commotion. A decent chub calmly peeled away from the cover and inhaled it without hesitation, proving once again that simple fishing often works best.

All in all it was only a couple of hours on the bank, but it was time well spent. Good company, a handful of lovely chub and plenty of laughs are more than enough to keep me smiling. Roll on the next trip because if retirement is going to look anything like this, those remaining four years might just fly by.

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.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.19

Working from home does have its perks. Whilst some people spend their lunch breaks discussing quarterly projections and key performance indicators, I find myself pondering far more important matters, such as whether the charcoal snake on the Weber kettle is progressing nicely and if the pork shoulder is receiving sufficient hickory encouragement. The kids, despite looking like they have seen less meat in their lives than you’d find on a butcher's pencil, appear to have adopted the dietary habits of escaped velociraptors, and are currently consuming protein at a rate usually associated with industrial rendering facilities.

Fortunately, pork remains one of the few things in modern Britain that doesn't require a second mortgage or the signing away of an unneeded kidney. By half past ten, the snake method was lit, the kettle had settled into a contented 120-130 degrees of pure smokey optimism, and my personal confidence levels were considerably higher than they normally are whilst fishing.

The beauty of the snake method is its utter simplicity. Lay it out correctly, avoid the temptation to poke it like a bored child with a stick, and the kettle just gets on with things. Four or five hours in, once the bark had formed and was looking suitably magnificent resembling a meteor that had plummeted from orbit and landed directly in a hickory plantation the foil went on. 

By dinner time, the shoulder was pulling apart like warm butter and disappearing almost as quickly as I could shred it. The domestic carnivores descended with forks drawn, making noises that would have alarmed a seasoned zoologist. Within fifteen minutes, the 2.5kg joint looked like it had been picked clean by piranhas with an attitude problem. Job's a good'un.

With the family pack temporarily subdued and entering a profound, meat-induced coma on the sofa, it was time for a dusk sortie to Tramp Alley on the South Stratford Canal. Regular readers of this parish will know this particular stretch has produced some respectable roach and hybrids over the years, although whether the fish themselves are respectable is another matter entirely. 

Most of them look like they’ve survived a few rounds in a blender or have spent their lives dodging shopping trolleys and discarded lager cans. This evening, however, I fancied a complete change of scenery and a holiday from the usual maggot-drowning routine.

The pint of reds was left securely in the garage to contemplate their life choices, in favour of an all-out bread offensive. I had bread on the hook, liquidised bread as feed, and enough assorted bakery products packed into my car to cause serious alarm to a qualified nutritionist. 

Alongside the traditional lift float, which usually offers a masterclass in watching plastic paint dry, I also decided to deploy the sleeper rod. It featured what can best be described as a scaled-down zander rig designed by an individual with unrestricted access to a tackle box, a surplus of free time, and highly questionable judgement.

The centerpiece of this contraption was a crude but very effective Guru foam pellet waggler. For the uninitiated, this thing sits entirely flat on the surface like a fluorescent orange kayak, anchored down by a substantial SSG shot that looks like a small cannonball. It looks crude, and if we're being completely honest with each other, it is remarkably crude. It possesses all the aerodynamic finesse of a flying house brick, but it works surprisingly well. 

The beauty of the arrangement is that it can sit quietly in the margins doing its own thing, while my primary attention is focused entirely elsewhere. Bites are not exactly subtle; they are blindingly easy to spot, usually involving the yellow kayak vanishing violently into the abyss. Fishing tight to the far-bank brambles often reveals decent fish lurking exactly where sensible anglers, or those who value their expensive carbon tips, would expect them to be.

The plan was straightforward enough, formulated with the kind of tactical precision usually reserved for failed military coups. Fish the main canal track with the lift float, plaster the far cover with the sleeper rod, and hope that somewhere between the two, the local fish population had received the invitation and fancied a carbohydrate blow-out. 

Furthermore, rather than dragging my weary carcass over half a mile down the towpath to my usual, well-trodden peg, I made the executive decision to fish an entirely untried area situated halfway between the hybrid hotspot and the roach spot. 

It’s a stretch running along the back of a sprawling industrial estate. The romance of the British countryside was entirely absent, but out of hours, it possesses one magnificent feature: I can literally park the car directly behind my peg. I’d spotted some fish showing here one morning at dawn whilst pretending to look busy, so the seed of hope had been planted. Were the fish forthcoming?

I squeezed myself between a rusted palisade fence and a particularly aggressive clump of stinging nettles, dropped the sleeper rod right under the overhanging brambles of the far bank, and gently lowered the lift float into the track. 

The industrial estate fell silent, save for the distant hum of an extractor fan and the occasional rustle of a rat navigating a discarded crisp packet. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The bread mash was introduced, forming a ghostly white cloud in the murky canal water that screamed 'free tea' to anything with scales.

Suddenly, the sleeper rod’s pellet waggler after the second swim didn't just twitch; it bobbed twice and then positively bolted sideways, tearing out towards the middle of the cut like a tiny, orange torpedo. I lunged forward, nearly embedding my knee into a discarded spark plug, and struck into something that immediately felt like a wet sack of cement with fins.

It wasn't a world-breaker, but in the tight confines of the South Stratford, a small angry carp trying to wedge itself under a submerged supermarket basket feels like a marlin. The little rod doubled over, the drag gave some protest, reluctant protest, and after a rather epic battle on 4.5lb line and having to steer it away from the nearside metal piling, a wonderfully thick-set, common carp slid over the drawstring of the net. It was fat, completely unbothered by the proximity of a sheet-metal factory, and had completely inhaled the chunk of bread.

Before I could even unhook the brute, the lift float on the match rod gave a classic, heart-stopping wobble, rose entirely out of the water, and lay flat on the surface. 

I dropped the net, grabbed the other handle, and lifted into a solid, thumping resistance. 

This wasn't a hybrid; it was the steady, dignified wet lettuce fight of a small skimmer. 

It came to the top, flashing those lovely silvery flanks in the fading twilight a pristine fish, that looked like it belonged in a Victorian angling print rather than a ditch behind a logistics warehouse. 

Then it went proper dead and no matter what I did I just couldn't get the fish feeding again.

I moved swims, nada, there was fish activity heading in to dusk and the odd nudge on both floats, but the dregs of the liquidised bread floating on the surface showed the culprits, yeap small fry with eyes bigger than their bellies.  When I couldn't see my floats it was time for the off. Still the positives I survived fishing tramp alley in to dusk and a nice carp that gave a great fight on light gear. 3 hours though