The River Severn - Moles and Melee's

Saturday was one of those days where my twin brother Chris was living his best life somewhere down in Westward Ho! attending an all-day rave. Apparently the bass was so loud he could hear it while walking to the venue, which is more than can be said for the fish hearing him on his last three fishing trips. Three blanks on the bounce now, Chris, and even the rave had more bites than you've had recently.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind a bit of Morris dancing either. They just don't seem to wallop the pavement like they used to, probably because someone complained that clattering sticks together was offensive to nearby pigeons. William Kempe danced all the way from London to Norwich in Shakespeare's day, whereas nowadays they'd probably stop him after half a mile for not filling out the correct risk assessment.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining. Chris may have spent Saturday bouncing around to music loud enough to frighten submarines, but I could at least remind him that I occasionally catch fish. Brothers are there to support each other, obviously, although reminding him he's blanked three trips running is what I'd call emotional support.

My holidays have finally started 'again' !!, which as a self-employed jobber is a bigger event than Christmas. Holidays without holiday pay make every day off feel like someone is quietly removing twenty-pound notes from your wallet while smiling politely. Still, the plane doesn't leave until the early hours of Wednesday morning, so Monday was far too valuable to waste on sensible behaviour.

Instead, I had a guest ticket with Nic from Avon Angling for a crack at a completely unknown stretch of the River Severn. Forty-five minutes of winding country lanes later we rolled into the car park at six in the morning looking suspiciously optimistic. You know you're getting old when a sunrise over a muddy river feels more exciting than Ibiza.

The weather had finally cooled down as well. Standing in the river with my open shoes actually felt refreshing instead of like slowly boiling in your own trousers. Even the cows looked jealous that we'd found air conditioning.

The weir itself was absolutely enormous. It looked less like a fishing venue and more like somewhere Bond villains dump expensive sports cars. Standing there listening to thousands of gallons of water crashing over concrete makes you realise shouting "I've got one!" is largely an exercise in mime.

Neither of us had fished it before, which meant we were making it up as we went along. I had a float rod, a ledger rod, enough terminal tackle to supply a small tackle shop and absolutely no clue where the fish were. Standard operating procedure really. A lead about suggested three or four feet of water in places. Everywhere else seemed either ankle deep or capable of swallowing a family hatchback whole. River fishing does like to keep you humble.

We'd barely settled in before Nic's rod tried to leave for Birmingham. The first fish promptly charged into a snag, proving that even barbel know where the dangerous neighbourhoods are. It escaped with all the confidence of someone who'd done this before.

Nic wasn't having any of that nonsense though. He shifted his cast a few metres to the right, the rod slammed round again and this time everything stayed attached. Moments later a cracking Severn barbel of around seven pounds slid into the net, and judging by Nic's grin you'd have thought he'd just won the lottery and inherited a tackle shop.

The culprit was a humble 10mm banded halibut pellet. I had turned up with all sorts of fancy robin red concoctions because anglers love making life difficult for themselves. The fish looked at my expensive pellets, laughed quietly and queued up for Nic's bargain buffet instead.

Within minutes I shamelessly raided Nic's pellet stash. Friends share bait, especially when your own bait is being treated with the same enthusiasm as Brussels sprouts at a children's birthday party. I even helped myself to his Scaled pellets while pretending it was all part of the tactical discussion.

Things then descended into complete chaos. Every time one of us settled down for a chill, a rod would wrench round like it had been connected to a passing tractor. We spent more time standing up than sitting down. 

By lunchtime we'd somehow managed two barbel apiece. My second fish tipped the scales at exactly ten pounds, which naturally meant it instantly became even bigger once I'd told the story three times. By Christmas it'll probably need its own postcode.

The chub fancied joining the party as well. Every cast seemed capable of producing another solid fish. It was one of those magical sessions where you almost expect the ducks to start asking for pellets.

Then Nic hooked an absolutely colossal roach on a 10mm pellet. It looked immaculate, gleaming in the sunshine like someone had polished it overnight. Somewhere nearby every match angler simultaneously developed an unexplained twitch.

Just when we thought we'd seen everything I wandered off for five minutes to ring the wife. I came back to find Nic quietly holding what looked suspiciously like a wardrobe with fins. It turned out to be a bream over six pounds, because apparently the river had completely abandoned any sense of normality.

I genuinely looked around expecting Jeremy Beadle to leap out from behind a bush. Unknown venue, fishing blind and we'd landed barbel, chub, a monster roach and now a giant bream. If someone had then caught a salmon wearing a wristwatch I wouldn't have questioned it.

Just when we thought the day couldn't get any stranger, the River Severn decided to introduce us to one of its less celebrated residents. Out of absolutely nowhere a mole appeared, busily tunnelling around behind us as if he'd heard there were free halibut pellets on offer. It was the first time I'd ever seen one properly up close, and they're far bigger than I'd imagined, looking like a furry potato fitted with a shovel.



The little chap seemed completely obsessed with the pellets we'd scattered on the bank. We reckoned he could smell the fishmeal because he kept burrowing in and around them like a tiny black truffle hunter that had taken a wrong turn somewhere near Worcester. Trust anglers to spend a fortune attracting fish only to end up feeding the local wildlife instead.

The funniest moment came when I knelt down to rebait my hook. I suddenly felt something pushing up underneath my knee and nearly launched myself into the Severn thinking I'd discovered some previously unknown species of river monster. It was only our furry excavator tunnelling directly beneath me, and I swear the mole looked more startled than I did before disappearing underground, probably wondering why idiots with fishing rods kept dropping perfectly good pellets everywhere.

Nic kept swapping between a conventional feeder and the method feeder. When the swim slowed down the method feeder seemed to keep nicking bites while everything else went suspiciously quiet. Fish clearly enjoy making us spend hundreds of pounds on tackle only to decide one method works today because reasons.

The bites themselves were utterly ridiculous. Some of them nearly pulled the rod into Gloucestershire before somehow failing to hook themselves. Others looked like someone had simply sneezed near the rod tip before developing into absolute mayhem.

Nic was filming the whole lot for his YouTube channel. This naturally meant every fish behaved perfectly while the camera was rolling and every one I lost happened just after he'd pointed the lens somewhere else. Fish are experts at television production.

At one point I was convinced the next bite would probably be a passing seal. Given the way the day had gone I wouldn't have been remotely surprised if Nessie had popped up asking whether we had any spare halibut pellets. It was that sort of session.

Eventually we looked at one another and agreed we'd had enough. Not because the fishing had gone quiet, but because we'd reached that happy stage where your arms ache, your face hurts from smiling and you've run out of believable excuses for why you need another cast. Sometimes it's better to walk away while the river is still applauding you.

Driving home I couldn't wipe the grin off my face. Every angler dreams about those sessions where everything somehow falls into place despite having absolutely no plan whatsoever. They don't happen often, which is precisely why we spend so many hours sitting behind motionless rod tips convincing ourselves the next cast will be different.

Meanwhile, somewhere down in Devon, my twin brother Chris was probably staring mournfully at another motionless rod wondering what crime he'd committed against fish. Don't worry, Chris, your luck has to change eventually because statistically even shopping trolleys occasionally catch carp. Until then, if you start hearing loud bass music while you're fishing, don't follow it because the rave has caught more than you have this week.

Anyway, I've got packing to do before we head off on holiday. The suitcase is currently empty apart from enough fishing gear to invade a small country, and my wife keeps reminding me that flip-flops apparently deserve luggage space as well. Catch up soon, tight lines everyone, and if you happen to bump into my brother Chris, please be kind and point him gently in the direction of the nearest fish because at this stage even the Morris dancers are starting to outfish him.

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.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.

Anyway 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.