Warwickshire Avon - Scaffmasters and Scarifications

Having returned from Devon on the Saturday, I was already contemplating what mischief to get up to on the Sunday. There was a small river tempting me with the prospect of a gentle rove, a bit of wandering about and perhaps the odd fish if the aquatic residents could be persuaded to cooperate. A rather different proposition to the sea fishing we'd just been enjoying, but variety, as they say, is the spice of life. Although, in fishing terms, variety often means finding several different ways of not catching anything.

Then Sam piped up.

It appeared he had some unfinished business. Before our Devon adventure, he'd encountered a rather sizeable pike in the depths of the Warwickshire Avon. A double-figure specimen, no less, which had decided that his large lure looked sufficiently appetising to warrant an attack. Unfortunately, its aim left something to be desired, and it spectacularly missed the offering. 

However, it certainly made up for its lack of accuracy with a dramatic entrance, breaching the surface in a tremendous commotion not far out. The resulting splash was quite something to behold and, judging by Sam's reaction, had very nearly resulted in him requiring a change of underwear. One doesn't expect a fish to launch itself out of the water like an amphibious ballistic missile, particularly when one is simply minding one's own business.

Naturally, this unfinished business needed attending to. Who was I to stand in the way of a man seeking revenge on a fish? Besides, I fancied a bit of lure fishing myself, so packed a lure rod and decided that rather than chucking something the size of a small Labrador into the river, I'd opt for a somewhat more modest offering. After all, I was quite happy to catch a pike, but didn't particularly fancy having to wrestle a crocodile.

We arrived at a deserted stretch of the Warwickshire Avon and made our way up to the scene of Sam's previous encounter. The river looked magnificent, its water remarkably clear but with that dark, moody appearance that makes you wonder what lurks beneath. It was certainly the sort of place where you could imagine a monster pike lying in wait, plotting the downfall of unsuspecting anglers and their expensive tackle.

Out came the lures, and we set about flogging the water. Cast after cast, retrieve after retrieve, we covered the swim from every conceivable angle. I was beginning to wonder whether the pike had all packed up and moved to Devon for a fortnight. We tried different spots, different approaches and generally gave the river a thoroughly good seeing to. But nothing. Not a follow, not a knock, not even the courtesy of a fish showing an interest. The only things being caught were a few passing thoughts about whether we'd have been better off staying in bed.

With a couple of hours of fishing time remaining, I decided enough was enough. There was another option, thankfully, and the syndicate stretch was less than fifteen minutes away. If the Avon wasn't playing ball, perhaps the pike in the other water might be feeling a little more sociable. It was a decision made with the sort of confidence normally reserved for someone who has absolutely no idea what they're doing but is determined to carry on regardless.

We arrived, with Sam performing the honours by opening the gate, and drove along the track towards the first swim. It was a large pool on a bend, carrying a fair bit of depth and, importantly, somewhere we'd previously had some success. The approach here was to allow the lure to sink right down to the bottom before retrieving slowly. Nothing too complicated, although there is always the danger that whilst waiting for the lure to sink, you start thinking about sandwiches, the price of diesel and whether you've actually remembered to put the kettle on at home.

Sam was fishing ahead of me, going through the motions, whilst I positioned myself and began working my smaller lure. I wasn't expecting miracles, particularly after the earlier performance on the Avon, but at least we were giving ourselves a chance.

And then, on literally the fourth or fifth cast, WHACK!

A tremendous bite came on the very first crank of the handle. One minute I was retrieving quite happily, the next I was attached to something with considerably more enthusiasm than I'd anticipated. Fish on!

Now, I was using Sam's baitcaster set-up, which was an interesting experience in itself. The gear ratio wasn't exactly designed for someone in a desperate hurry to recover line, and I found myself winding the handle like a Victorian railway worker trying to get a steam engine moving. 

The fish was making its way towards some nearby cover, and I needed to get a move on. Unfortunately, the reel seemed to be operating on the principle that there was absolutely no rush and that we should all take a moment to appreciate the scenery.

Sam had spotted what was happening and came across with the landing net at the ready. There was no time for a lengthy discussion about tactics, tackle or whether I'd remembered to tighten the drag. This was one of those occasions when action was required, preferably before the pike found a nice branch to wrap itself around.

Thankfully, the fish stayed on and Sam did the honours, slipping the net underneath it at the first attempt. Result!

It wasn't a particularly large pike, and certainly not the double-figure monster that had been occupying Sam's thoughts, but it was a welcome capture all the same. More importantly, it meant that the day was no longer heading towards the dreaded blank. There's something rather satisfying about catching a pike on a lure, especially when you've spent the best part of a couple of hours trying to convince an entire stretch of river that your offerings are worth investigating.

On closer inspection, the poor thing looked as though it had been through the wars. There were some rather pronounced marks down its back, resembling claw marks, and it certainly wasn't winning any beauty competitions. Quite what had been having a go at it was anyone's guess, but whatever it was, we'd arrived to interrupt its recovery. Sorry about that, old chap. Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, along comes an angler with a lure.

I couldn't help thinking that Brian over at Pike Blog couldn't have all the fun, could he? He's been enjoying some rather impressive lure-caught pike of late, including a recent personal best that made my little chap look like it had been brought along as a supporting act. I believe his latest capture was approximately four times the size of mine, give or take a few ounces and a healthy dose of angler's optimism. Still, a pike is a pike, and I'm not one to turn my nose up at a fish simply because it hasn't got the shoulders of a nightclub bouncer.

Besides, it's not always about the size. Although, if Brian from Pike Blog happens to be reading this, I'm sure Brian will be delighted to know that I've caught one too despite being 4 times smaller than his recent 26lb lure caught PB. He can put the kettle on and make room for another trophy photograph.

We carried on fishing, moving to another swim where Sam had enjoyed some success on our previous visit. Surely this would be the place for him to settle his score? The pike had already been given ample opportunity to redeem themselves, and I was quietly hoping Sam would get another chance at the sort of fish that had caused all the excitement in the first place.

But it wasn't to be. Despite further casting, retrieving and general lure-flinging enthusiasm, nothing else materialised. Sam remained fishless, and the elusive double-figure Avon pike was still very much at large, presumably chuckling to itself somewhere in the depths.

So, not quite the grand revenge mission we'd originally envisaged, but certainly a more enjoyable outcome than the alternative. I'd managed a lure-caught pike, Sam had at least had another crack at the water, and we'd enjoyed a couple of hours in good company doing what we enjoy most. You can't ask for much more than that, although I suspect Sam might disagree.

One thing is for certain: Sam's interest in fishing has certainly cranked up a notch recently, and it's great to see. There's nothing quite like seeing someone get the fishing bug, particularly when it involves returning to a water in pursuit of a fish that has already given them the run around. That pike has unfinished business of its own now, whether it knows it or not.

We'll be back, of course. Sam has a score to settle, I have more lures to lose, and somewhere in the Warwickshire Avon there's a double-figure pike that probably thinks it's got away with it.

It hasn't.

Well, not until we've had another go at it anyway. And knowing our luck, it'll probably be caught by Brian from Pike Blog in the meantime!

Warwickshire Avon - Caneys and Carnivores

Now every serious predator angler knows that the eve of a big pike expedition requires rigorous preparation. You must check your trace wire, sharpen your treble hooks, oil your multipliers, and, most importantly, line your stomach with enough heavy-duty carbohydrate to survive a December gale.

Which is precisely why the rabble and I found ourselves at Caney’s Cider in Studley less than twenty-four hours before we were due on the water. A recommendation from blog reader and ex blogger Baz I'd been meaning to give it a go, and boy what a place with 20 ciders on offer. We were made to feel instantly comfortable right from the off which was nice and we'll be back because of that. Even the kids didn't seem to mind it and thankfully well behaved including Ben who can be noisy sometimes. 

Apparently they turn out roughly 7,000 litres of nectar a year from local Warwickshire apples, and stepping into their taproom at Victoria Works is like entering a sanctuary for weary bankside wanderers. 

We pulled up four stools and ordered a couple of pints alongside crusty ham and cheese rolls the kind of robust, jaw-straining bakery art that could double as a decent ledger weight if you ran out of lead.

As I managed a crusty Ham roll, the others chewed our their way through cheddar thick enough to draft a house upon, we discussed tactics for the next morning.

[ Crusty Roll ] + 
[ 2 Pints of Caney's ]
 = [ Complete Tactical Readiness ]

Two pints in, the mood was optimistic. The pike didn't stand a chance. The river was clear, the water temperature was dropping, and our confidence was hovering somewhere near orbit. 

Naturally, we couldn’t leave empty-handed. I left with a container filled with four pints of Redstreak—a 7.4% brew that smells like a sun-drenched autumn orchard and hits you with the torque of a twenty-pound crocodilian predator grabbing a deadbait.

"Just a nightcap to settle the pre-trip nerves," as I stowed the liquid gold by my feet in the passenger footwell of the Wife's car.

Whether we actually manage to haul a specimen pike onto the unhooking mat tomorrow morning remains to be seen. But sitting there in Studley, crusty roll crumbs on my t-shirt and four pints of 7.4% Redstreak resting in the kitchen, I reckon the trip is already a resounding triumph.

Anyway to the fishing, well it was hardly the lightning-fast, crack-of-dawn amphibious assault on the riverbank we had meticulously planned over our crusty ham and cheese rolls the afternoon before. The residual, lingering fumes of Caney’s 7.4% Redstreak cider had dictated a considerably more leisurely start to the morning, leaving us thoroughly pickled in autumn air and apple fuel

Yet, by some unholy miracle of the angling gods, Sam and I stumbled down the slippery mud-bank to find the entire sacred stretch glorious, dead quiet, and utterly devoid of competing souls.

The local grapevine had been positively buzzing with whispers that the native Esox lucius population was making frequent, tackle-busting appearances for matches and pleasure anglers alike. Naturally, steeped as we are in the ancient art of bankside paranoia, we both knew in our water-logged bones that every self-respecting pike within a five-mile radius had likely caught wind of our approach and buggered off three miles upstream to hide in the weeds.

Sam led our tactical vanguard, wielding a newly acquired topwater Ali Express Whopper Plopper—bought, I must proudly and emphatically stress, with his very own hard-earned pocket money rather than my rapidly crumbling wallet. The thing chugged through the murky currents with a hypnotic bloop-bloop-bloop like a frantic, confused water-rat, while I fished a juicy deadbait roach underneath an overdepth float into the dark, slacks just off the main channel.

We were only two swims into the campaign when the tranquil morning quiet was shattered by a sharp, urgent whisper from the peg just above me: "Daddy... an otter!" Sure enough, a whiskered river-demon glided right past the tips of our wellies without a single care in the world, casually going about his aquatic business and totally oblivious to the fact that we were supposed to be the undisputed apex predators of the venue.

Before we could recover from the wild beast's intrusion, we were joined by another brave father-and-son duo who were also out hunting freshwater crocodiles in the chill autumn air. They immediately confirmed our darkest tactical fears: the stretch had been insanely fickle of late, swinging violently between epic, legendary hauling sessions and soul-destroying, bone-chilling blanks where even the minnows went into hiding.

With the clock ticking down and despair creeping in like the river fog, Sam wisely scaled down his rig to drag out a solitary, brave little perch to save the family name from total dishonour. But a three-ounce perch does not satisfy a man who has drunk 7.4% cider, so Sam began frantically swapping out lures like a manic machine, testing soft baits, hard baits, and metal spinners to no avail to try and get a nice fish for a blog post for his Dad.

Then came the moment of supreme tactical madness the deployment of the nuclear option. Sam unclipped his gear and snapped on the single largest artificial bait in human history, an absolute behemoth of a soft-plastic monstrosity measuring well over thirty centimetres long that looked less like a lure and more like a submarine with treble hooks attached.

On the third cast, the river didn't just ripple it positively tore itself open as a terrifying, double-figure monster of a pike with a belly like a beer barrel surged out from the abyss. The creature struck the mammoth lure with the blinding speed and raw fury of a freight train, sending water erupting into the air, but somehow by some tragic twist of fate completely missed the steel hooks by a fraction of an inch before plunging back into the black depths.

Both of our hearts violently slammed against our ribs, and I am fairly certain I jumped three feet into the air as the sheer adrenaline surged through our veins. The final half-hour ticked away in a daze of trembling hands and quiet, reverent awe, with the river suddenly falling dead silent as if the monster had dragged the very atmosphere down into its lair.

We didn't land the leviathan, nor did we go home with wet unhooking mats, but as we packed up our rods in the fading afternoon light, none of it mattered in the slightest. With a wild otter passing at arm’s length, a heart-stopping surface explosion, and proper father-and-son time on the bank, it was a legendary outing and we will be back for revenge the moment the river conditions are a little better.

Warwickshire Avon - Saboteurs and Sagaciousness

Now there was a time when discovering where the barbel were hiding required proper reconnaissance. 

You might walk miles of riverbank, peer through bushes, speak to other anglers in hushed tones and, if you were particularly dedicated, actually go fishing and find out for yourself. Those were simpler times. 

Now, apparently, all you need is an internet connection and the ability to type “Warwickshire Avon barbel” into YouTube.

Within seconds, the picture of the swim, the state of the river, the size of the fish, the weather conditions, what bait was used, what rod was used, which tree was being sat under and, quite possibly, what the angler had for breakfast can be available to anyone with a phone and absolutely no intention of keeping anything secret.

The Americans spent billions developing spy satellites capable of photographing objects from hundreds of miles above the Earth. Meanwhile, the local bait peddlers and the users of the next best barbel bait have discovered that a bloke with a GoPro and a YouTube account is considerably cheaper.

There is no need for orbital reconnaissance, covert surveillance or some highly trained intelligence operative peering through a sophisticated satellite camera. Just sit at home with a cup of tea and watch Dave from Nuneaton catch three barbel from exactly the same tree stump.

TARGET IDENTIFIED.

It rather reminds me of the old fishing tradition of telling somebody where you caught a fish by saying, “Up there somewhere.”

That used to be considered a reasonably good security system.

Now the modern equivalent appears to be standing in the swim, filming yourself catching a succession of barbel, panning slowly across the river to reveal the exact tree opposite, showing the distinctive bush behind you, announcing the nearest car park and then finishing with, “Anyway, hope you enjoyed the video.”

Enjoyed it?

I've practically got the Ordnance Survey map out.

And naturally, once the video is online, the information doesn't exactly remain classified for long. Within a few hours the usual suspects have probably watched it repeatedly, paused it at strategic moments, zoomed in on the opposite bank and identified the swim using nothing more sophisticated than Google Earth and a worrying amount of spare time.

The bait peddlers must be rubbing their hands together.

Forget traditional advertising.

Just get somebody to catch a half decent barbel on camera with your bait and the location conveniently visible in the background especially when opposite the small night fishing syndicate is a club water. Suddenly the entire fishing population knows precisely where they need to be on Saturday morning, preferably arriving at 4.17am with enough bait to feed a small village.



The problem is you see, Dr Uy Hoang a 51-year-old statistician working at the University of Oxford has mapped so many watercourses especially here in the Midlands, you can literally be on the bank with a click of the mouse button.

Of course, there is nothing particularly wrong with sharing a fishing video. We all enjoy seeing someone catch a good fish, and a well-made film can be hugely entertaining. But there is a slight difference between “I caught a nice barbel on the Warwickshire Avon” and “Here is a twelve-minute, 4K, drone-assisted geographical survey of the exact swim, including satellite-style aerial footage and a helpful description of the nearest lay-by.” 

The latter is less fishing report and more National Security Briefing.

Somewhere, presumably, there is a poor satellite operator sitting in a control room wondering why the latest intelligence request isn't for troop movements in Eastern Europe but instead reads:

“Please obtain high-resolution imagery of the Warwickshire Avon between Stratford and Wellesbourne. Suspected concentration of large barbel. Possible involvement of pellets.”

Frankly, they needn't bother.

YouTube has already done it.

And if the Red Hot Garlic Boilie bait boys haven't found your syndicate yet they soon will, so sign them up at you peril.

No satellite required.

Anyway enough waffle, I found their hot peg anyway so it would be rude not to try it out I suppose. Good mate Nic from Avon Angling was with me as well and he was fishing just upstream to also try and winkle out a chub or barbel. For this short session I fancied trying some spam as I've not used it for a while and if the swim has been filled in with the same bait, maybe a change bait is the way to go. 

The evening had started with all the promise of a particularly optimistic fishing catalogue, the sort where everything is golden, the river is sparkling and the angler apparently knows exactly what he is doing. Nic was already hunkered down in a swim, while I was preparing for the serious business of fishing, which in my case mostly involved standing about looking purposeful and wondering where I had put the bait. 

Meanwhile the cows were milling around with absolutely no intention of complying with the Government’s dispersal order, although politically they were clearly aligned with Andy Pandy because there wasn’t an Animal Control Officer in sight.

Thankfully the bovine protestors kept themselves to themselves, although their mooing provided a sort of rural soundtrack that made the whole affair feel considerably more civilised than it actually was.

I wandered down to the poaching peg and immediately began visualising a personal-best barbel lying majestically in my landing net, which was obviously a sensible and entirely proportionate expectation given that I had only just arrived. The swim was ridiculously clear, so clear in fact that I could see the bottom right up to the cover, which is exactly what you want when fishing for barbel because they clearly enjoy being watched.

I trickled a little bait into the swim and slowly baited the hook, taking care to adopt the sort of concentration normally reserved for defusing explosives or assembling IKEA furniture without the instructions. 

A sizeable lump of Spam went onto the long hair because I wasn't there to catch chub and, having caught plenty of good barbel on luncheon meat before, I decided there was absolutely no reason whatsoever to change a winning formula. By this point my chest had taken on the unmistakable appearance of a pigeon and my name was apparently Philip Smythe-Smith, but if you cannot beat them then you might as well join them and hope nobody notices. (Waves to the opposite bank syndicate members ) 

The light faded remarkably quickly and, within about fifteen minutes of the bait going out, the first tentative indications began, consisting mainly of little pulls and plucks that suggested something in the swim had discovered dinner but wasn't prepared to commit to the relationship. 

This continued for around twenty minutes, during which I managed to experience every possible emotional state available to a fisherman without actually catching anything, before dusk finally arrived and the curfew began looming ominously. Then, completely out of the blue, the rod pulled round properly and for one glorious moment I thought the barbel of my dreams had finally decided to make an appearance.

I lifted the rod and could actually feel the bait being stripped from the rather enormous pellet stop, followed almost immediately by that horrible grating sensation transmitted directly through the line and into the pit of my stomach. 

Then everything went slack, leaving me holding a rod connected to absolutely nothing and wearing the facial expression of a man who has just discovered that his lottery ticket expired yesterday. I reeled in to find the hooklink severed cleanly in the middle, which immediately led me to conclude that a pike had grabbed it because blaming a pike is much more satisfying than admitting that a rock might have outsmarted me.

I am fairly convinced it was a pike, mainly because something very similar has happened to me before and because the alternative would mean spending the rest of the evening wondering whether I had somehow managed to lose a fish to geology. 

There was, however, no realistic time to set everything up again, and the barbel gods clearly weren't prepared to extend opening hours merely because I had finally got something interesting happening. So I packed up my wounded dignity and headed over to see Nic, who had sensibly avoided all this nonsense and was actually catching fish.

Nic had managed a chub, followed by a rather splendid bream that briefly impersonated a barbel with such conviction that even I was prepared to believe it for several seconds. It was, in fairness, exactly the sort of performance you want from a bream when there is an audience, although I suspect the fish was merely enjoying the opportunity to make another angler look foolish. I watched the proceedings with the quiet satisfaction of someone whose own session had just ended in a severed hooklink and therefore had absolutely nothing left to lose.

So the grand introduction to the mysterious poaching peg had ended rather differently from the heroic barbel adventure I had visualised on arrival, although in fairness the evening had delivered cows, Spam, a possible pike attack and a bream with theatrical ambitions. 

There is probably a lesson in all this, although I have yet to identify one that doesn't involve carrying more hooklinks, blaming pike and lowering my expectations considerably. Perhaps the real secret of keeping a good peg secret is simply to fish it badly, because after tonight nobody in their right mind would believe there was anything worth catching there anyway, I'll be back !!

Warwickshire Avon - Whale Sharks and Whatchamacallitisms

I wasn't overly bothered about going fishing, but Sam had got his fishing mojo back and fancied a trip to the syndicate stretch in search of a chub or barbel, with the added bonus of perhaps catching a pike or zander. Naturally, this meant we were going fishing, and naturally, all the gear needed sorting out by me because, well, it always bloody is! After dinner, with everything packed and the Jimny fired up, we headed off to the river. 

The jungle drums had been beating for a while, as Neil from the garage and Sean from the syndicate were already fishing a local water, trying for a barbel in the same area where I've had a couple recently. Always nice to know the fish are there, although whether they're actually interested in feeding is another matter entirely.

The skies were clear, which wasn't ideal, but there's no point sitting at home on the sofa moaning about the conditions. You can't catch anything without a bait in the water, after all, although I'm beginning to suspect you can't necessarily catch anything with one in the water either! We arrived around 6.30pm, with dusk at 7.20pm, and there's no need to rush on this stretch as we can fish well into darkness. 

It's a lovely, big, open swim, so even with three rods out, we weren't exactly tripping over each other. Sam took the left-hand side, I set up on the right, and the sleeper rod went to my right with a roach deadbait on a Zandavan roll-over indicator. The swim has some decent depth and has produced my recent carp, along with barbel, chub and some nice bream over the years, so there was every reason to be optimistic. Whether the fish had received the invitation was another matter.

We settled in as dusk arrived, followed fairly quickly by the stars, and it was lovely to have some proper chill-out time with Sam. We chatted about all sorts, from UFOs to how would you catch a whale shark, tuna fishing and wow, another shooting star. 

Basically, everything apart from anything remotely connected to what we were actually there to do! Still, these evenings are what it's all about, and there's something rather nice about sitting beside a river with your lad, putting the world to rights while waiting for a fish to come along and ruin the conversation. Unfortunately, the only things ruining the evening were the complete lack of bites and the growing suspicion that the local fish had all gone out for the night.

As the evening wore on, the chub remained conspicuous by their absence, and the roach deadbait attracted precisely zero interest. Not even a little knock to suggest a passing pike had considered having a look. The indicator sat there looking about as useful as a chocolate teapot, and I began to wonder whether I'd accidentally put the deadbait in the wrong river. 

We persevered until an hour after dusk, but eventually even I was feeling the cold. It had been warm enough for shorts and a T-shirt during the day, but back at the car the temperature was down to eight degrees. Quite a drop, and one that reminded me that autumn doesn't give a toss about whether you've dressed appropriately or not.

It wasn't just us suffering either, as Sean and Neil had also blanked, which was reassuring in a slightly miserable sort of way. Meanwhile, syndicate member and 'Barbel under the Bridge Author' Ade Busby was fishing a match on the Middle Wye among 35 other anglers, and apparently there wasn't much happening there either. He eventually switched to the margins to catch a few perch, presumably just to make sure he'd actually been fishing rather than spending the afternoon practising his staring-at-a-float technique. 

When that many anglers are struggling, you know things aren't quite right. We need water, and plenty of it, because the fish seem to have gone on strike, and judging by the lack of action, they're unlikely to be returning to work without a fairly substantial pay rise.

Still, there's always another plan, and this morning I've rigged up a maggot feeder rod, ready for when the maggot munchers decide not to put in an appearance. 

I've been meaning to try this method properly for ages, so hopefully it'll produce a few chub or barbel when the time comes. Whether it will work remains to be seen, of course, but at least it'll give me something else to blame when nothing happens. 

For now, the rods are sorted, the maggots are on standby, and Sam has had his fishing fix. We didn't catch a chub, a barbel, a pike or a zander, but we had a good evening together, which is the important bit. Although, if I'm honest, a fish or two wouldn't have gone amiss either!

Warwickshire Avon - Row-Royce's and Roentgenography

The padlocked security gate was open, which immediately meant that the other locked security gate would probably be open too, and as it turned out, I was right. There is something deeply satisfying about correctly predicting the behaviour of gates, although sadly this particular skill has yet to prove useful in any other area of my life.

The only slight drawback was that the boat club were also out in force, milling up and down the river with the enthusiasm of people who had absolutely no appreciation of the fact that I had come specifically to catch fish. They even had a little boat with an outboard motor, which produced a racket normally associated with an angry lawnmower being thrown into a washing machine.

It also had the unfortunate habit of disturbing the water, which isn't particularly helpful when you're trying to persuade a suspicious predatory fish that your lure is actually a small, delicious and completely unsuspecting meal. On the other hand, there were a couple of boats full of women in vest tops and Lycra, so frankly, sometimes you have to accept a little turbulence in the pursuit of angling.

There are plenty of things to moan about in this world, after all. Fuel prices, for example, are enough to make you consider taking up pigeon racing instead, but watching a boat full of women glide past while you're lure fishing in a nice environment isn't really one of them.

There were already a couple of other anglers on the stretch, lure fishing in much the same way as Sam and I intended to. The Warwickshire Avon really could do with a decent drop of rain, though, as the level was low and the water was ridiculously clear, the sort of clear where you can see a fish looking at your lure, reading the small print and then deciding it doesn't fancy signing the contract.

A bit of colour would have been very welcome. The Warwickshire Stour, meanwhile, apparently had enough duckweed to start its own gardening centre and desperately needed clearing out, which just goes to show that rivers, like people, are rarely happy with what they've got.

There is plenty of depth on this particular stretch, though, and over the years I've had some lovely Zander and Pike from it, both on deadbaits and lures. So there was every reason to think that one of the resident toothy residents might fancy getting involved.

I left Sam to his own devices in a couple of swims while I retreated to the back of the Jimny to perform the most important part of any fishing trip: breakfast. The air fryer was deployed, bacon and sausages were loaded in, and for once there wasn't a gas stove rattling around in the back of the vehicle. Oh and I  removed a can and a lid dumped there by an another angler, you do wonder. 

Instead, I had a Jackery Lithium Iron Phosphate battery pack capable of supplying 1500 watts without breaking into a sweat. It is remarkable how far modern technology has come, because once upon a time the height of sophistication was being able to boil a kettle without setting fire to your trousers.

As the bacon and sausages were cooking, I wandered back to see how Sam was getting on. This was where things suddenly became interesting, because a small Pike came shooting out of the depths and absolutely nailed the Temu Pike lure.

It splashed about like a fish that had just realised it had made a terrible life choice, and for a few glorious seconds it looked as though breakfast might be accompanied by a photograph of Sam holding a Pike. Sadly, the hooks came free and the Pike disappeared back into the Avon with what I imagine was a fairly comprehensive list of swear words.

Sam was gutted, and I was gutted for him. There is something particularly cruel about seeing a Pike, watching it hit the lure, fighting it, and then watching the entire thing disappear before you can even begin wondering where you're going to put the fish for a photograph.

Still, there was plenty of water to explore, so after breakfast we got mobile. We moved from peg to peg, changing lures from time to time and throwing them into the drink whenever the rowing boats allowed us the privilege.

Unfortunately, there seemed to be a rowing boat passing every five or ten minutes, and eventually the whole thing started to resemble a particularly badly organised game of Frogger. We'd cast out, retrieve, look upstream, see another boat approaching, sigh, and wait for humanity to finish using the river.

 Between us we covered six or seven swims each, giving them a decent amount of attention and trying various lures. The Pike and Zander, however, appeared to have held a meeting beforehand and unanimously agreed that today was going to be a day off.

Eventually we returned to the car, packed things away and headed downstream towards the weir. Thankfully the weir was free of other anglers, so we gave that a good go, working the likely areas and hoping that something with teeth had decided to turn up for the afternoon shift.

Nothing did. Not even the usual tentative tap that makes you think you've hooked a shopping trolley, a branch or possibly the submerged remains of a small Victorian railway.

We then headed towards the deadarm, which is normally one of my default areas for Pike and Zander on the Avon. In higher water it becomes a lovely area of slack water, somewhere predators can sit out of the flow and wait for something unfortunate to drift past.

I'd never seen it as clear as it was today. Honestly, it looked like an aquarium, except this aquarium had absolutely no intention of displaying any fish whatsoever.

We gave the margins, cover and likely ambush points a good twenty minutes or so, putting lures through all the places where I'd normally expect something to happen. Nothing happened.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was pretty much the story of the day. The Pike were apparently on strike, the Zander had booked annual leave, and the Avon had decided to provide us with a lovely scenic walking experience instead.

Interestingly, we weren't the only ones suffering. I got chatting to a couple of Ukrainian lads who were also fishing, and they were blanking too, which was strangely comforting.

There's something reassuring about a blank when you discover that the river isn't personally ignoring you. If several anglers are standing around catching nothing, you can at least blame the river rather than your lure selection, your retrieve, your technique, your breakfast, the phase of the moon or that suspiciously shaped twig you spent twenty minutes casting at.

So, despite the lack of fish, it was still a cracking day out with Sam. Plenty of steps were covered, plenty of water was explored, breakfast was consumed, and we managed to spend some quality Father-and-Son time together, which is considerably more important than whether a Pike decides to eat a bit of plastic.

I'll be heading out again later, probably into the dark after a Sunday roast. This is the last weekend of my month of abstinence, and I have to admit the last few Sundays have been very different.

I've actually missed the usual Sunday routine, wine and a slap up roast. A month has gone considerably quicker than I expected, and before long normal Sunday service will presumably resume, which means fishing, questionable decisions, cold feet, ridiculous amounts of tackle and wondering why I haven't simply stayed at home in front of the television.

But that's fishing, isn't it? You can spend a small fortune on rods, reels, lures, batteries, vehicles and equipment capable of powering an air fryer, drive miles to a beautiful river, walk several thousand steps and spend hours casting into what looks like an enormous swimming pool.

And at the end of it, the only fish you see is a small Pike that escapes.

Still, there was bacon. There were sausages. There were boats full of women in Lycra.

Some days, you have to recognise a successful fishing trip when you see one.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.56

There are certain noises in life that a sensible man learns to recognise, and one of them is the faint, nagging ache coming from the lower back which, when translated from the language of bodily complaints, basically means “pack your gear away, you idiot.” As a previous sufferer of sciatica (6mths of hell), I am normally reasonably good at listening to such warnings, although apparently there is a small but extremely stupid part of my brain that believes pain is merely the body's way of asking whether I fancy doing something considerably more physical. So, after Friday’s trotting exploits had left me with that annoying little ache down the lower back, what did I do the following morning

Well, obviously I went fishing, because common sense is very much like a waterproof jacket in my house: I know where it is, but rarely remember to bring it with me. Having spent the previous day kitting Sam out with some new fishing clothes because the boy appears to have discovered growth hormones and has shot up like a weed over the last couple of years, we headed off to the syndicate water where I planned to do some peg trimming while he christened his new baitcasting set-up. 

Looking back, there was absolutely nothing wrong with this plan apart from the small matter of me being the one who had to wield the cutting tools. The day before donning his new gear he'd been fishing on the local canal with his mate Noah where they dropped in to Martyn's Stratford on Avon Fishing and Outdoors where he gave them to free maggots where they caught 9 fish !!, Sam has certainly got his mojo back which is good. 

The water had cooled off considerably of late and, with a deadbait positioned where I could keep one eye on it, I started trimming away in a few swims while Sam went off chucking his lure around. I was secretly hoping the deadbait might produce something interesting while I was hacking away at the vegetation, because there is nothing quite like pretending you are doing essential fishery maintenance when what you really want is for a float, indicator or alarm to suddenly start doing something exciting. 

Sadly, the deadbait remained as lifeless as my enthusiasm for further peg maintenance and the pike, barbel and anything else with fins collectively decided that today was apparently a good day for a lie-in it was quiet !!.

Sam wasn't having much more luck either, although unlike his dad he had the advantage of possessing a functioning lower back and considerably more enthusiasm. 

With the river gin clear, he'd sensibly been trying more natural-coloured lures, but after a while he turned to me with the sort of expression normally reserved for children who have just decided that Dad clearly knows absolutely nothing about fishing. “Daddy, can we try the biggest lure now, I reckon we need to go OTT instead?”

Now, I would love to claim that I carefully analysed the conditions, considered the behaviour of the quarry and arrived at the conclusion that a larger, more conspicuous lure would be the logical choice. 

In reality, Sam suggested it and I immediately agreed, thereby allowing me to look like an experienced angler while contributing absolutely nothing to the decision-making process. The lure was duly attached, allowed to sink almost to the bottom and, on literally the first cast, something absolutely hammered it.

“I’ve got a fish on, I’ve got a fish on!” came the cry, at a volume normally associated with someone discovering that they'd won the lottery rather than caught a small pike. 

Sure enough, an unsuspecting pike had absolutely nailed the lure, proving once and for all that when confronted with gin-clear water and cautious fish, the correct answer is apparently to throw something resembling a brightly coloured aquatic brick directly at them. It wasn't a huge pike by any stretch of the imagination, but to Sam it might as well have been the biggest fish ever to swim the river, and judging by his grin I suspect he'd have happily carried it home and put it in the bath.

I landed it for him and gave him a close-up lesson in how to unhook a pike safely, explaining that next time it'll be his turn under my guidance. There is something particularly satisfying about watching your lad catch a fish using a rod and reel that he's only just started getting to grips with, especially when you've spent a small fortune on the aforementioned rod, reel, lures and clothing and are now emotionally committed to proving that buying all of it was absolutely necessary. 

Naturally, Sam was already planning the conversation with his mother before we'd even left the swim, and I could practically hear the words “I caught a pike” being rehearsed in his head.

There were no more bites after that, but quite frankly we'd already had what we came for and anything else would merely have been greedy. We packed up and headed home with Sam still buzzing about his fish, while I was beginning to feel that familiar ache in my back and wondering whether my body had perhaps been trying to communicate with me using a language I was deliberately refusing to learn. 

The irony wasn't lost on me that the youngest member of the party had demonstrated excellent lure selection, impeccable timing and considerably more common sense than his father.

Sunday arrived and, after cooking a roast, I had every intention of heading out in pursuit of a barbel because apparently one small pike and an aching back had not yet completely cured me of my stupidity. However, for perhaps the first time in living memory, I decided that sitting on the sofa and watching YouTube might actually be the sensible option, which was a decision so unusual that I half expected someone from the Environment Agency to knock on the door and check whether I was feeling alright. 

With three short sessions planned during the week anyway, I figured the barbel could wait and, judging by how my back felt after an afternoon doing absolutely nothing, I suspect it was quietly thanking me for finally developing some common sense.

And that, really, was the lesson from the weekend: Sam listened to his instincts, chose the ridiculous lure, caught a pike first cast of the big lure and went home looking like he'd just conquered the River Amazon. I ignored mine, tried to turn myself into a one-man groundskeeping department and spent the rest of the weekend negotiating with my lower back like it was an angry union representative. 

There are many things fishing teaches you over the years, but apparently one of them is that sometimes the cleverest thing an angler can do is put his feet up, watch someone else catch fish on YouTube and give his spine a well deserved day off.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.54

I was genuinely surprised the other day when Sam announced that he wanted to go fishing. This is becoming something of a rare event these days, a bit like seeing a kingfisher in a swim you've been baiting for three weeks, because getting a fifteen-year-old out of bed and away from a screen requires planning, negotiation and, on occasion, the sort of psychological warfare normally reserved for hostage situations.

Like his mother, Sam has developed a rather healthy appreciation of his bed, although at his age I suppose I can't really complain. The difference is that when I was fifteen I wasn't particularly interested in sleeping until lunchtime because I was too busy roaming the streets, riding my BMX, building dens and generally doing things which, viewed from the perspective of adulthood, probably involved considerably more opportunities for serious injury than I realised at the time.

Fishing was also a big part of it, and I remember cycling over to Somers in Meriden with my brother, rods strapped to our BMXs, probably looking like a couple of Victorian chimney sweeps who had somehow acquired bicycles. We thought nothing of it, whereas today if I suggested Sam cycled several miles to a stretch of river with a fishing rod attached to his bike, I'd probably have Social Services, the police and holier than thou Chris Packham turning up on the doorstep.

Of course, times change, and gaming is a massive part of young people's lives now. Those lockdowns certainly didn't help, although when you're stuck indoors for weeks on end with your mates available only through a headset, I suppose Call of Duty, Siege and whatever else the kids are playing these days became the equivalent of sitting on the wall outside the chippy and talking complete rubbish for six hours.

Sam's latest enthusiasm for fishing was partly driven by a Temu purchase, which immediately raised my eyebrows because I'm not entirely convinced that the words 'Temu' and 'quality fishing tackle' have ever previously appeared in the same sentence. Still, he'd bought himself a pike lure for about £1.50, a multi-jointed affair which, to be perfectly honest, didn't look half bad when I inspected it.

I'd expected something which would fall apart if a pike so much as looked at it, but it actually appeared reasonably well made. I suppose for £1.50 you can't expect it to come with a certificate from the British Standards Institution, a handwritten note from the lure maker and a small gold-plated plaque commemorating its birth, but it certainly looked capable of catching something.

The other part of the Temu order was rather more difficult to explain. Sam had purchased a balaclava, black ski goggles and a propeller hat, which is a combination that raises rather more questions than it answers and isn't something you generally expect to see assembled together unless you've accidentally wandered onto the set of a low-budget Scandinavian children's television programme.

Apparently this is connected with playing Siege, where he likes to dress in the sort of sweatshop-produced tactical gear that makes him look like a counter-terrorism operative who's been sent to neutralise a particularly dangerous gang of pike. I decided not to ask too many questions, because frankly I'm happier knowing less.

Anyway, the syndicate stretch is ideal for a short session, so there was no need for one of those ridiculous 4.00am starts that I used to consider perfectly normal and now regard as a form of self-inflicted sleep deprivation. These days I'm rather enjoying my bed myself, and by just gone eight o'clock we were ready to go, with Sam actually prepared before me, which was a slightly disturbing indication that something important was happening.

The conditions weren't exactly screaming 'lure fishing bonanza', but we'd come to fish, so fish we would. Sam headed off with his £1.50 Temu pike impersonator while I prepared myself for the more sedate pursuit of perch and chublets with a smaller Salmo Hornet, because apparently I'd reached the stage of life where catching a six-ounce perch had become an entirely acceptable objective.

Then, about five casts in, came the shout every parent who takes their offspring fishing wants to hear.

"I've got one on! I've got one on!"

There was a slight pause before the second declaration, delivered with considerably more certainty and volume.

"It's a pike! It's a pike!"

And, remarkably, he was absolutely right.

I looked over and there it was, a decent pike which I'd estimate at around five or six pounds, and suddenly that £1.50 Temu lure had gone from being an amusing experiment to the most expensive object on the bank because, as we all know, once a lure catches a fish it becomes priceless.

I grabbed the landing net and headed over, and Sam was doing exactly what he needed to do, keeping the fish moving and trying to prevent it from finding the nearest bit of underwater vegetation. Unfortunately, the landing net was at full stretch and the pike had other ideas, heading off to the right with Sam having to apply some serious side strain to stop it disappearing into the snaggy bits.

For a moment it looked as though we'd got it beaten.

The fish was coming towards the net, the Temu lure was hanging out of its mouth, Sam was concentrating like a bomb disposal expert and I was standing there with the net thinking this was all going remarkably well considering we'd spent approximately the price of a packet of crisps on the lure.

And then the pike launched itself out of the water.

Under the tension of the line it somehow managed to throw the hooks, and in the blink of an eye we went from 'that's a lovely fish' to 'Damn it!!!'

There are few sounds in fishing more depressing than the collective groan produced by an angler and his dad when a good fish falls off at the net. Sam was absolutely gutted, and I was gutted for him, because when you've watched your son hook a decent pike within five casts, the fish has already become something much larger in your imagination than it actually was.

It was probably twenty pounds by the time we got home, judging by the way these things normally develop.

Still, that's pike fishing, and there wasn't much Sam could do about it. He carried on fishing the swim and had a couple more follows and one or two snatched attempts, but nothing properly connected, so eventually we decided to have a wander and see if we could find anything else willing to participate in our little Temu-sponsored expedition.

We went on the rove, both of us now fishing lures, although I'd sensibly downsized to the Salmo Hornet in the hope of finding a perch or perhaps one of the Avon chublets. Sam continued with the pike tackle, presumably confident that another aquatic missile was waiting beneath the surface to redeem the previous one.

Sadly, the river had other plans.

It was tough as old boots.

We worked our way along the stretch, casting likely spots and covering different bits of water, but the expected procession of perch, chub and pike failed to materialise. It was one of those sessions where every swim looks as though it should contain something, but the fish have apparently received a memo informing them that today was not the day to cooperate.

Eventually Sam returned to the swim where he'd hooked the pike, which at least gave him another opportunity to torment himself by imagining the fish he'd lost. While fishing there he managed to pick up a dace on the retrieve, which he'd somehow managed to impale with the lure rather than actually catch in the conventional manner.

Fortunately the dace went back absolutely fine, so we could at least claim another species for the morning, although I'm not entirely sure 'accidentally speared by lure' is a technique that will be appearing in the next edition of Improve Your Coarse Fishing.

And that, unfortunately, was about it.

Two and a half hours of fishing produced a missed pike, a few follows, a couple of snatched attempts and one rather unfortunate dace, which isn't exactly the sort of catch report that gets the national press knocking on the door. Still, Sam had enjoyed himself, and for me that is considerably more important than filling the net.

The interesting thing is that the river can change dramatically as the light begins to disappear.

 I've always found this stretch comes alive as the light levels drop, particularly when the Avon is clear, and it can feel like you're fishing an entirely different river once dusk starts creeping in. 

During the brighter part of the day it can look almost devoid of life, but give it a bit of shade and low light and suddenly you start wondering whether every dark shape under the far bank is a chub, a barbel or something considerably more interesting.

Before we packed up, I put some more bait down in one of the swims, as I always like to do. 

There isn't much point in fishing an empty-looking swim and then simply walking away from it, particularly when you know from experience that a bit of regular bait can eventually encourage the better fish to hang around.

I'll have another go during the week, probably into dusk and beyond, and see if I can winkle out a decent chub or perhaps another barbel. The Avon has a habit of keeping a few cards close to its chest, and sometimes the best fishing begins just when the sensible people have gone home for their tea.

So, all in all, not the most productive couple of hours, but definitely one I'll remember.

Sam hooked his first pike of the session within about five casts on a £1.50 Temu lure, lost it dramatically at the net and was then reduced to catching a dace by the wrong end. Meanwhile, his dad stood there with a landing net, a Salmo Hornet and the gradually dawning realisation that perhaps the teenager who'd rather be gaming isn't quite as difficult to tempt out fishing as he'd imagined.

Perhaps the answer isn't banning the Xbox after all.

Perhaps we just need to buy more cheap Chinese fishing tackle.

Although I'm still drawing the line at the propeller hat.