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.

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 - Salt-Guns and Salamandroids

Well, if the Met Office are to be believed, Stratford-upon-Avon could be nudging 40 degrees this week. Forty! That's not weather for Warwickshire; that's weather for lizards, tourists with regrettable sunburn, and blokes who insist on wearing socks with sandals. I spent most of the morning wondering whether to fill the bird bath or simply climb into it myself.

The talk everywhere seems to be air-conditioning. A few years ago, buying an air-conditioning unit in Britain felt about as necessary as owning a snowplough in the Sahara. Now I'm finding myself browsing appliance websites with the same urgency normally reserved for bait orders and discounted fishing tackle. The nation's gone from discussing drizzle to comparing BTU ratings in the space of a fortnight.

As for the fishing, common sense may have to prevail. When the river feels more like the warm shallow seas of Ayia Napa than a flowing watercourse, it's hard to justify chasing barbel around. They fight like demons at the best of times, and in these conditions with lower oxygen levels you can't help but wonder who's really enjoying the experience. Probably not the fish. Probably not the angler either once he's melted into a puddle on the riverbank.

So, for now, the rods may remain in the garage after this session while I seek refuge in the shade, clutching a cold drink and keeping one eye on the thermometer. If this carries on much longer, Shakespeare's birthplace will need palm trees, and I'll need that air-conditioning unit after all.

Now ordinarily, I’m a man of absolute peace. Give me a lukewarm flask of tea, a pack of maggots that are crawling suspiciously faster than they should, and a quiet swim on the Warwickshire Avon, and I am content. But during a recent heatwave session on a sneaky stretch of the canal, I wasn’t just doing battle with the local zander. I was the primary target for a merciless, bloodthirsty squadron of Warwickshire mosquitoes. 

I’m talking about the kind of airborne pests that laugh at insect repellent. After stopping counting at about 35 bites, I sat on my chair, scratching like a dog with fleas, and thought: there has to be a mechanical solution to this biological warfare. Enter an engineer mate of mine. Engineers don’t look at bugs the way normal people do. They don’t see an annoyance; they see a ballistics deficit.

“Mick,” he said, eyes gleaming with the manic energy of a man who spends his lunch breaks analysing stress-strain curves. “You need a laser guided Bug-A-Salt 3.0. It leverages compressed spring kinetics to atomise standard sodium chloride crystals. It’s pure mechanical genius.” Naturally, I was sceptical. As an angler, I’m used to precision mechanics the buttery click of a high-end centrepin reel, the perfect taper of a carbon Avon rod.

But watching an engineer examine this plastic fly-swatter alternative is a different sort of entertainment altogether. 

When it turned up a few days later I was practically drooling over the tolerances of the pump-action mechanism and the fluid dynamics of the salt hopper.

“Look at the safety cross-bolt engagement,! Look at the elevation on the Patridge sight!”

Then a massive horsefly landed squarely on my bait box, eyeing up my red maggots like a hungry Brummie at a kebab van. 

I racked the pump a satisfying clack-clack that felt like closing the breech on an expensive piece of kit sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

Pfft!

No toxic spray. No chemical stink to ruin my hookbaits. Just a tiny puff of table salt and one very neutralised horsefly dropped onto the towpath without a single splatter.

Clean execution.

If I can’t bait-boat my way out of a mosquito frenzy, at least I can anti-air weapon my way through it. It leaves a pinch of salt on the grass, but frankly, if a few grains land in the water, I’ll just call it pre-baiting for the next incoming shoal. I might even try loading it with fine garlic salt next time give the canal roach a bit of seasoning before they even see the hook.

Tight lines, and keep your hopper dry.

Anyway over a week now into the river season and, as is traditional, I found myself undertaking what sounded far grander than it actually was: a reconnaissance mission. In reality this involved driving around Warwickshire in a Suzuki Jimny looking for somewhere nice to sit and occasionally throw bits of fish food into a river.

This new venue (to me)  in question came recommended by a blog reader whom I've bumped into on a couple of occasions. Hi Baz !!

This is hardly surprising as we both seem to suffer from the same affliction: an overwhelming desire to avoid other anglers. 

If there were a syndicate called "The Society for the Preservation of Peace, Quiet and Not Being Bothered" we'd probably both be committee members.

The stretch itself ticked all the important boxes. It was less than nine miles away, fifteen minutes from home and involved a route consisting mainly of country lanes narrow enough to make you question whether modern vehicles were a mistake and be thankful the Jimny is unconventional . 

Most importantly, it offered that rare combination of solitude, wildlife and the realistic possibility of not hearing somebody else's bite alarm rendition of a submarine emergency.

What had really piqued my interest though was the untapped zander potential. The thought of improving my personal best had lodged itself firmly in my mind. This is dangerous because anglers are remarkably skilled at convincing themselves that fish they've never seen definitely exist and are probably enormous.

Google Maps only tells you so much, but what I could see looked promising. Better still, the entire 600-metre stretch was accessible by vehicle. The little Jimny would be in its natural habitat. Some people buy four-wheel drives to conquer mountain ranges. Mine spends most of its time transporting pellets, flasks and unrealistic expectations, but unlike many 4x4 users these days, it often does what it is designed to do.

Being able to park virtually on top of the swim is a massive advantage for short sessions. The older I get, the more I appreciate a fishing venue where the walk from car to river doesn't require expedition supplies, sherpas and a farewell letter to loved ones.

There was no rush. Dusk wasn't until after 10.00pm and with the heat wave kicking in soon about the best opportunity I had all week for a dangle, leaving plenty of time for a proper look around. I checked the water temperature which was 23 degrees 😯 I wandered from swim to swim, peering into the water with all the confidence of a man who was largely making things up as he went along. Every crease looked fishy. Every glide looked fishy. Every snag looked fishy. In fact everything looked fishy, which was fortunate considering it was a river.

I scanned the deeper in a few areas and it's a fairy uniform depth with lots of character, lily pads and weed in lots of area but clean gravel also which was nice to see.

Eventually I settled on a swim that looked suitably fishy. I can't adequately define what "fish" means but experienced anglers will understand. It's a bit like house hunting. You walk in, look around and immediately decide whether you'd live there despite having absolutely no logical basis for the conclusion. Well, ok I confess I had a few swims to try from Baz. 

Tactics were kept pleasingly simple. A concentrated patch of bait delivered via a PVA bag, some homemade paste making its appearance again and, on the hair, an ever-reliable Robin Red pellet. It had served me faithfully last season and I see no reason to abandon a successful partnership. Unlike several football managers, the pellet has never let me down.

To get things started I introduced a bait dropper full of hemp and small pellets before allowing the swim to rest. This sounds wonderfully tactical and scientific. In truth it mainly gave me an excuse to sit down, drink cold water and stare at the river whilst pretending important things were happening beneath the surface.

The jungle drums on the WBAS WhatsApp group had been beating loudly since the start of the season. Rumours suggested the barbel were preoccupied with spawning activities when the drawbridge came up on the 16th and therefore maybe less interested in my carefully prepared offerings. They may well have more pressing matters on their minds than helping me improve my catch reports, but to be honest with the water temp as it is, they can wait for a while. 

It's difficult to compete with romance.

Still, I remained optimistic. If sure the barbel still could well be engaged in their annual bout of bukkake despite waiting over a week since they had been spotted on various rivers, that or chilling in the weirs because of the heat, perhaps a bream might wander past or a nice bream, Chub are wonderfully accommodating creatures. While barbel often behave like celebrities surrounded by security staff, chub are more akin to that bloke in the pub who'll happily stop for a chat with anyone.

Anyway as the evening settled and the shadows lengthened, I sat quietly beside a stretch of river I'd never fished before. Not that much traffic noise. No crowds. No distractions. Just birdsong, flowing water and the comforting knowledge that somewhere beneath the surface there might be a specimen fish, absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Which, when you think about it, is one of the many reasons fishing remains such a splendidly ridiculous pastime.

With the heat of the day finally ebbing away, it was surprising just how quickly the water temperature dropped. Over a couple of hours it shed more than two degrees, helped no doubt by the steady rain that accompanied the first part of the session. Despite looking promising, very little happened early on and the river remained stubbornly quiet.

Things livened up when the bats emerged. For the best part of half an hour they seemed intent on colliding with the line, rattling the rod tip often enough to keep me guessing. More than once the tip flicked round in a way that would have convinced anyone a fish was attached. Eventually dusk deepened and the bats moved elsewhere, leaving the river to settle once more.

Not long after came a proper whack on the rod. The tip sprang into life with a series of sharp knocks, though nothing really committed itself. A strike connected with something, but the culprit proved to be a tiny chublet whose ambition far outweighed its size. It was quickly swung to hand and admired before being returned.

Another fifteen minutes passed without further action, so that was that. Even so, the stretch looks full of promise, particularly for predators, and I'm keen to spend more time exploring it when conditions improve. For now, with the heatwave set to tighten its grip again, it's a case of sitting it out and looking ahead to a cooler weekend.