The River Arrow - Gonktastrophication and Gobbledegook

There are people who go to spas, there are people who meditate on mountain tops, and then there are anglers. Personally, I find that two hours sat next to a river that most people would mistake for a drainage ditch does far more for my wellbeing than someone waving scented candles under my nose while whale music plays in the background. The fish are almost secondary; it's the glorious silence between casts where life's endless nonsense packs its bags and wanders off for a bit.

Even thinking about fishing works wonders. Half the therapy comes from sorting tackle the night before, convincing yourself you've finally cracked it, only to spend twenty minutes the following morning wondering where you put the disgorger that was definitely in the side pocket yesterday.

This particular adventure centred around a new club ticket and a tiny section of the River Arrow just down from a weir that I'd never fished before. Tiny really doesn't do it justice either because you could probably stand on one bank, throw an 18mm Robin Red pellet with enough enthusiasm and collect it off the opposite bank before it had chance to sink.

Still, it's a river. Rivers have fish. That's the sort of flawless optimism that keeps anglers buying bait, tackle and memberships despite decades of overwhelming evidence suggesting fish often have other ideas.

The plan was wonderfully simple. A couple of hours after gudgeon with the trusty Cadence Wand and maggots on a size 20, while keeping the light barbel rod assembled with a lump of bread because you never know when a suicidal chub might turn up with absolutely no sense of self-preservation.



One thing that immediately caught my attention was the enormous road bridge looming overhead. Normally that would mean endless traffic noise, but somehow it was remarkably civilised, almost as if the engineers had actually known what they were doing rather than just drawing lines on the back of a Greggs sausage roll bag.

Perhaps it was advanced computer modelling. Perhaps there were acoustic specialists involved. Or perhaps one bloke simply stood underneath during construction, had a finger in the air and declared, "That'll do," before everyone went to the pub. Whatever happened, it worked. 

I found myself perched in an elevated swim peering into water so clear you could probably read a fish's thoughts. That's when the comedy really began because out from beneath some cover drifted a chub with all the caution of a Labrador in a butcher's shop.

Now chub usually possess the survival instincts of someone carrying state secrets. They'll inspect a bait from seventeen different angles, hold committee meetings with other chub and eventually reject it because your float twitched half a millimetre too enthusiastically.

This one, however, had apparently skipped every lesson at Chub Academy. It surfaced and calmly hoovered up four or five enormous pieces of floating bread as though somebody had just announced an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I almost felt sorry for the poor thing. The first cast with a hooked crust landed and before I'd even settled into my best "I've definitely got this all planned out" pose, it absolutely inhaled it without so much as filling in a risk assessment.

The fight itself was less of a battle and more of a polite escort towards the landing net. My barbel rod was complete overkill and the fish seemed fully aware that resistance would merely delay the inevitable and waste everyone's valuable morning.

Still, a chub is a chub and I'll never complain about catching one, particularly when it's volunteered for the experience. If every fish behaved like that, tackle shops would go bankrupt because nobody would ever need to upgrade anything.

Naturally I assumed there must be others. There never are.

The upstream stretch looked equally inviting, with plenty of cover and enough fishy-looking features to make you start inventing imaginary double-figure specimens. Sadly, the only thing hiding there appeared to be disappointment wearing camouflage.

With the bread experiment over, it was time for the real target species. Out came the Cadence Wand fitted with a delicate 0.25oz tip, a setup so enjoyable to use that even catching leaves feels mildly entertaining. I settled beside a darker swim shaded by overhanging branches and a few scruffy reeds. The sort of place that whispers, "There's definitely something decent in here," before immediately proving itself to be full of creatures roughly the size of your little finger.

Minnows. Endless minnows.

I've genuinely seen fewer people queueing outside a garden centre café than the number of minnows attacking my bait. They arrived in such quantities I briefly wondered whether I'd accidentally stumbled into the annual Minnow Olympics.

Every cast resulted in another frantic tap, another microscopic silver flash and another reminder that evolution occasionally produces fish with absolutely no understanding of personal space. It was like lowering a sausage roll into a school playground.

Then, at last, everything changed. Instead of the frantic machine-gun rattles came a proper clonking bite that made the tiny rod nod with genuine purpose.

Ah yes... a gudgeon.

Or as they're affectionately known in certain circles, a proper little gonk. Nothing enormous by any stretch, but chunky enough to put a smile on my face and confirm that I'd accidentally located the deepest hole in the river.

When I say deepest, let's not get carried away. If I'd fallen in I'd probably have bruised my kneecaps and mildly dampened my socks, but on this stretch of the Arrow that's practically offshore fishing.

A few more gudgeon followed and mission accomplished. Sometimes success isn't measured in pounds and ounces but by finding exactly what you came looking for without accidentally ending up in a tree.

Curiosity got the better of me though and I carried on fishing. Predictably the tiny chub turned up to audition for the role of "Future Maybe," while the minnows continued behaving like unpaid extras in a disaster movie. I trickled a few pellets downstream hoping something with shoulders might appear. Instead the river erupted into what can only be described as minnow soup, with hundreds of tiny fish charging around as though somebody had announced free parking.

The water clarity certainly wasn't helping. It was proper gin clear; not just clear, but the sort of crystal clarity where even the kingfisher probably books appointments rather than risking embarrassment.

Any sensible larger fish would wait until darkness before venturing out. Broad daylight in water like that is basically standing in the middle of Tesco wearing a fluorescent vest labelled "Please Chase Me."

Eventually I packed up and wandered over to investigate another section of the Arrow included on the new ticket. Exploring unfamiliar water is always exciting because every bend promises hidden treasures, forgotten swims or, more commonly, fresh opportunities to question your life choices.

This stretch came with a public footpath. Not just any public footpath either, but seemingly the headquarters for every dog walker within a twenty-mile radius.

Honestly, I've seen quieter high streets on Christmas Eve. Labradors, cockapoos, spaniels, terriers, things that looked suspiciously like animated mops and at least one creature that may actually have been half sofa.

One particularly enthusiastic XL Bully wannabe decided another passing dog simply had to become its best friend immediately. Its owner was rapidly disappearing into the distance while loudly inventing entirely new ways of pronouncing the dog's name.

At that point I was reminded of the old saying about only mad dogs and Englishmen going out in the midday sun. The phrase originated from British India, poking fun at the tendency for sensible locals to seek shade while stubborn Brits marched around melting like forgotten candles.

Standing there with several dozen panting dogs, blazing sunshine and dog walkers dressed in enough waterproof clothing to survive the Arctic, I began to suspect the saying remains alarmingly accurate. We really are a peculiar bunch. At least these walkers were walking their dogs early doors before it got proper hot again. 

The fishing itself may never trouble the record books, but mornings like this are exactly why I keep returning. A daft chub, a handful of gudgeon, a million minnows and enough riverside comedy to last until the next outing are worth far more than sitting indoors worrying about things that can wait.

Besides, every tiny river has another mystery waiting around the next bend. Whether it's a hidden shoal of fish, a forgotten swim or another dog called Dave refusing to come back when shouted, I'll happily go and investigate... eventually.

The River Arrow - Detectorism and DiscursiveMeanderingness

I woke with that familiar, half-formed optimism that only an angler can truly appreciate: the belief that today might be the day, despite all evidence to the contrary gathered over decades of personal experience. A bite was required. Not desired, not hoped for required, like tea, oxygen, or a mild complaint about the weather.

The first act of the morning ritual was enacted with the solemnity of a pagan ceremony: checking the local river levels. The Arrow, that most contrary of rivers, looked fishable. Not ideal, mind. Still a little higher than I’d like, a little browner than I’d planned for in my imagination, but close enough to justify lying to myself.

Anyway, it’s only fifteen minutes by car to the stretch I’ve been fishing recently. Fifteen minutes is nothing in angling terms. You can waste fifteen minutes just tying a hooklength you’ll immediately cut off again because it “doesn’t feel right”. So off I went, threading my way along country lanes clearly designed in medieval times to accommodate one horse, a sack of turnips, and the occasional chicken with a death wish. And then, just as I hit the main road into town, there it was: the Line. A vast, unbroken conga of parked cars stretching into the distance like a metallic spawning run.

Now I don’t mind company, but my angling brain instantly did what it always does: Match fishing. I could see them in my mind’s eye already keepnets like submarine pens, stopwatches, men shouting numbers at one another with the intensity of air-traffic controllers. My fishing time, I feared, was about to be curtailed to something resembling a polite paddle.

I parked before the combination-locked gate, checked the club book (as one does, because rules are important and because it allows us to feel morally superior), and… nothing. No match. No warning. No ominous footnote saying “Abandon all hope ye who seek solitude.” Perhaps it was on Facebook. But I don’t use Facebook. I have enough ways of being confused and irritated without adding that particular circus to the repertoire.

Oh well. Get fishing anyway.

I headed straight to the banker swim under the bridge – a spot that has rescued many a blank and restored many a wounded ego. Five minutes in, I missed a couple of bites. Proper bites too. The sort that make your heart do that ridiculous little leap before immediately kicking you in the shins. Third time lucky though, and a fish was on. 

The water was a milky brown, perhaps six inches of visibility at best, but I was fishing visible white bread – a bait so bright it practically files a flight plan. The fish turned out to be a chub of about two pounds. Nothing to write to the record books about, but as every angler knows: a fish is a fish is a fish, and each one counts double if you’ve already begun mentally drafting a blog post about blanking.

As I landed it, an elderly gentleman appeared on the bridge, peering down like a benevolent gargoyle. Conversation followed, as it always does near bridges.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Just to warn you,” he said, in the tone of a man announcing incoming weather or invading armies, “you’re about to be joined by a load of people.”

Ah. So it was a match then.

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Dirt fishermen. Metal detectorists. About sixty of us.”

Sixty.

Now I’m not one to judge. Fishing, after all, is basically just staring at water while holding a stick. Metal detecting is staring at fields while listening to beeps. Cousins, really. Still, the mental image of sixty headphone-wearing relic hunters descending upon my previously empty stretch of river was… unexpected.

He assured me they wouldn’t bother me, and to be fair they didn’t. Soon the banks were populated by an extraordinary parade of attire: full tactical commando outfits, as if expecting enemy fire from the reeds; carp-lifer chic (beanies, muted colours, expressions of permanent mild suffering); and then the outliers blazing red jackets visible from space, presumably to aid satellite navigation or alien contact. Mostly elderly men, but also kids and women, all united by the hopeful beep of buried history and the unshakeable belief that this next signal might be the big one.

I was full expecting to see Jeff Hatt from https://digregardless.blogspot.com/ but he didn't' appear. 

I roved on. The river was still high, but the slacks were doing their thing. A shallow back eddy produced a savage bite, followed by the inevitable snag-finding manoeuvre performed by all self-respecting chub. The next cast, however, resulted in redemption. Another fish on. And another later. And another. By the time the session wound down I’d landed six chub, the best nudging three pounds  not monsters, but honest fish, caught in honest conditions, while surrounded by a mobile museum of people earnestly failing to find anything.

Did they find treasure? From the snippets of conversation I overheard: no. Certainly not another Brownhills Hoard, that legendary £3 million stash discovered by Terry Herbert in a field belonging to Fred Johnson the sort of story that keeps detectorists detecting and anglers angling, both convinced that today might be the day everything changes.

As I packed up, the detectorists drifted away, pockets no heavier, spirits undimmed. I reflected that the river, the fish, and the strange pageant of humanity had combined into one of those sessions you couldn’t plan if you tried. Slightly surreal. Mildly ridiculous. Entirely memorable.

And that, really, is fishing.

The River Arrow - Mosh Pits and Mogigraphia

With the kids now set free from the shackles of school and presumably launching themselves into a six-week campaign of minor destruction and crisps consumption  I’ve discovered that keeping them occupied requires more tactical planning than a Normandy beach landing. Thankfully we've a week in North Devon and 11 days in the canaries to look forward to in August where hopefully I'll get the some sea fishing in. 

The LEGO kingfisher a majestic thing, apparently modelled on the avian equivalent of James Bond  was meant to buy me at least three afternoons of peace. I'd barely got the kettle on before Sam had polished it off with all the calm focus of a neurosurgeon. Impressive? Absolutely. Disappointing? Only if you were banking on an extra hour to do anything else with your Friday. 

What’s more, the box was deceptive one of those “looks manageable” jobs that turns out to be the size of a small Vespa once assembled. Still, he was proud. I was knackered. So with Sam's mate Matthew due over for a weekend stay (I suspect to test the structural integrity of our furniture), I thought: let’s go full old-school Dad mode pork joint from Freemans in Alcester and some classic riverbank frolics. Two birds, one stone. Or two boys, one slow-sinking lump of Warburtons.

Now the River Arrow, bless its babbling soul, is in dire need of a drink. Bone dry in parts, a bit like my wit after too many family BBQs, but ideal for the kids to paddle, splash, and do their best to disturb the peace for any resident barbel within a three-mile radius. 

Our first chosen spot was already occupied by what I can only describe as a group of small humans enthusiastically attempting to relocate the riverbed via splash. I was about to mutter something curmudgeonly and retreat upstream when lo and behold  they all buggered off to do TikToks in a field or whatever kids do these days. Swim cleared, rods ready, bread pinched. Perfect.

It always amazes me how even little rivers like this have features. You think it’s just a wet ditch until you realise there’s a marginal shelf deeper than my overdraft. Years of flooding have carved out channels, hollows, and prime ambush spots for sulky chub who’ve probably seen more loaves than a bakery.

But sure enough, within minutes of casting, there’s that wonderful moment the slow flutter of bread through the gin-clear water, the silence, the anticipation then bam, a chub shoots in like a teenager spotting the last sausage roll at a buffet and nails it without hesitation. Didn’t even need polarised glasses, though I did wear them anyway because it makes me feel like a professional and hides the bags under my eyes. 

Sam, who’d been standing precisely where those other kids had churned up the bottom like paddle-tailed piranhas, decided to fish the very same swim. You’d think it would be ruined, but nope  apparently, the local chub are used to the aquatic equivalent of a Napalm Death mosh pit. 

As soon as his bit of bread sank just a whisker below the surface, it vanished and like a coiled spring (a short, slightly startled one), Sam struck. Fish on! It wasn’t exactly Moby Dick, but on his little 6ft Scope rod it gave a cracking account of itself. I stood back, offered sage advice like “Keep the rod up!” and “Try not to fall in!” while secretly praying the hook held. It did. Result.

A few more fell to floaty bread, lazily plopped in under overhanging branches while I tried to keep Ben from testing the water depth with his knees. All in all, a cracking afternoon. 

Fish caught, pork joint acquired (complete with enough crackling to give your fillings PTSD), and two boys thoroughly knackered by tea time. Which, as any parent will tell you, is the greatest trophy of all.

And the kingfisher? Still perched proudly on the shelf. Glaring at me every time I pass, as if to say: “You thought I’d take all day, didn’t you?” Cheeky plastic show-off.

The River Arrow - Chub Lovers and Chronosynchronicity

Poaching is always a problem. It can take many forms, from the harmless attempt of a child to hook a trout on a worm and a bent pin to murderous high-seas netting that may destroy a complete river system's salmon stocks in a few years or even months. Individual poachers also vary enormously, from the small-time village poacher to the commercial gang bent on wholesale slaughter. Every now and then a poacher of extraordinary eccentricity pops up. 

One such was an elderly woman it was thought that she was a local retired schoolteacher of the greatest apparent respectability but with an inordinate passion for fish. She operated on the falls of a small spate river near her home. Whenever the river was up and the salmon were running she was always to be seen watching intently from a position about two-thirds of the way up the falls and off to the side. She never stood on the bridge higher up, but always on the footpath. 

For years, whenever she was seen in her favourite spot it was assumed that she was out on one of her nature rambles and simply hoped to catch a glimpse of a salmon launching itself into the air to clear the narrow falls and reach the pool above. 

So few people paid much attention to the fact that she always carried a large and curiously heavy-looking umbrella on her walks. True, it was often raining while she stood in apparent contemplation overlooking the river, but it was only much later that people remembered that, curiously, the umbrella never seemed to be open and in use.

Then one fateful morning the real purpose of the old lady's river watching was discovered. For her the discovery was sheer bad luck, for the other villagers it became a local legend that was talked about years afterwards. A newcomer to the village who happened to be a keen fisherman was out a little earlier than usual and decided to walk up the river to see if anything was happening. 

It had rained overnight and there was, he thought, a good chance that the salmon would be moving. The old lady was there before him. 

Having lived in the village all her life she knew pretty much the habits of all the locals. None would be out so early for a walk. 

As he reached the bridge above the falls the newcomer saw out of the corner of his eye an elderly woman he had noticed often around the village. He was about to shout 'Good morning' when what he witnessed left him completely speechless. 

Something silver flashed for an instant in front of the old lady and in that split second her arm, which had been holding a long, unopened umbrella aloft came down in a flash, knocking the silver object, obviously a salmon, out of its path. The newcomer moved quietly into a position that would give him a clearer view of what was going on. 

As he did so he saw the old woman leap like a girl of twenty down the steep bank and, using the handle of her umbrella, she pulled out an apparently dead, but perfectly fresh salmon. 

The newcomer was afraid the old lady would spot him so, rather than go any further on his walk, he retraced his steps back to the village, but resolved to investigate this business further. Over the following three months he saw the old lady several times in her chosen place, apparently innocently watching the falls, but she always happened to be there just after fresh rain and each time he watched her he saw that umbrella put to deadly use.

The thing that he found most astonishing was the old woman's speed and strength. She was quite clearly so experienced that she could time her blow exactly to coincide with the salmon's leap. Admittedly the river was so narrow at the falls that you could virtually jump it, but a leaping salmon is poised in mid-air only for an instant.

For the old woman that was enough no sooner was the salmon in the air than down came her umbrella with a mighty thump. The salmon crashed back into the river and she scooped it out in the calmer waters below. In an average year the old woman probably did little harm, but what she was doing was illegal. Now the newcomer was in a difficult position. He didn't want to make himself extremely unpopular in the village by going to the police, but he thought she ought to stop. 

After much deliberation he decided that the best plan would be to mention to someone, anyone in the village who was known as a gossip, that a group of schoolchildren had been inventing a ridiculous story about people poaching salmon on the local river using a strange new gaff.

Within weeks of setting the rumour going the newcomer noticed that the old lady no longer appeared at the falls and the salmon were left in peace to leap and soar free of the risk of meeting a rolled umbrella halfway to the top.

Anyway no umbrellas to be seen here !! before the season end I fancied trying to catch a nice chub on the Arrow. The Avon is proving hard work at the minute but the Arrow drops faster and obviously being a smaller river those fish are a little easier to locate.

When I arrived though the river was proper brown, a strong tea colour which when you have bread and cheesepaste not exactly ideal. Cheesepaste though I have huge confidence with and that would be the mainstay.

Swim after swim though not a bite however a missed bite in one of the swims I put some liquidised bread in and let it rest and that was the key. You see in half an hour on the way back to the car I managed three chub in less than half an hour and they got bigger with every bite.

A 2lber first, then one knocking on the door of 4lb and the last one a proper warrior of fish that give a cracking fight on light tackle going 4lb and 7 ounces. After those three fish the swim went quiet and sadly curfew came but cheesepaste was king. The bites went from zero to melt down and messing with the bait at all despite the cold temperatures. The glasses well, if they are yours let me know 💗, but they are now sadly armless but I thought rather fetching in the winter sun. I LOVE CHUB !!! 

The River Arrow - Killers and Kilfud-yoking

I didn't really know where to go or what to do for this session because for starters I didn't have that long and looking back at my blog, when the conditions are brass monkey's like it was today, not much bites now does it. Even the dace which I fancied targeting like many other species become somewhat torbid, or perhaps a better description would be refrigerated. 

Dace are no exception and, I believe, when their metabolism slows down through intense cold they move in to water with a little less flow. Anyway I bumped in to an angler on the stretch recently and he said 'there were pike in the weir', so it would be rude to not have a go now wouldn't it. 

This would be a double dipping session however as I'd also try for a chub with bread or cheesepaste where after an hour in the weir trying for a pike I'd get on the rove and get the blood flowing. 

Now to me the joy of angling for pike is that the pike is at his best in winter. I have never caught a proper proper specimen pike my largest came from the canal and weighed 17lb 8oz but winter is the most likely time for the really big ones. 

And winter fishing has its own peculiar attraction. It is cold we know, but we can wrap up to keep warm, and there is a greater sense of quietude beside the water than at any other time. 

Have you ever noticed trees in the mists of late November? The leafless branches look like fairy lace-work. I'm not quite sure that the winter scene isn't more delightful than the summer. But there isn't any season when the waterside isn't delightful.

However, let's get back to the pike. I must confess that I don't like him. An old countryman friend of mine summed him up: 'Yes, 'e's a wicked old devil.' That's just about what he is, too. He is a ferocious killer, and I suspect that he doesn't always kill because he is hungry.

You have probably heard of a big pike near you that no one can catch and that it isn't safe to swim in that water. There are many lakes, ponds and rivers in which a monster pike, capable of nipping off a swimmer's foot is supposed to live. 

Don't take these stories too seriously. However, there is no doubt of the pike's ferocity. I have seen pike grab a swimming water vole, drag a waterhen underwater, and even wild duck have fallen prey to them. I know of one bit of water known as the Tunnel Pool, near a little place called  Wall Grange in the north Midlands, where it was believed lived a monster pike which once killed a terrier dog. I don't think anyone ever produced evidence to prove the matter, yet possibly a monster pike could do so.

There are authenticated stories of the pike's ferocity that are really quite extraordinary. One has always stuck in my mind. It was noticed that a swan was floating around with its head under the water, and as it continued to do so for an hour or more investigation was obviously indicated. 

The mystery was solved. A pike had attacked the swan, which is a formidable bird when angered, there had been a fight and the pike had grabbed the swan's head. The swan was killed, but the swan's head and neck had choked the pike.

Because of all these horrifying yet strangely fascinating tales about the pike, he has grown into a legendary fish who offers a dangerous challenge which no true angler can ignore.

Anyway enough of that better get fishing !!! (2 ish hours)

Well it was rather wintery I must admit with the water temp only 3.5 degrees and like I said in my experience bites can often be at a premium when it's this cold. I've caught chub when the water has been 2 degrees mind you, and 2 swims without even a bobble on the pike float with a smelt under it, it was time to get on the rove and target the chub only.

It took a while to get the first bite where after about the 5th swim eventually after about 15 minutes of the garlic oil tainted bread being out a couple of pulls on the tip it went confidently round and I've hooked in to a nice chub. 

I knew it wasn't massive after the first couple of dives for cover but a fish is a fish and in these conditions I wasn't complaining. Well I was when I handed the fish and took a quick pic because boy it was like a block of ice. You have to love chub though, as they can often give the angler that blank saver.

After that fish I fished another couple of swims without any more bites so I decided to retrace my steps and drop on to a pre-baited swim, which was the second swim I fished.

By now the sun had already set and walking to the swim I must admit despite being wrapped up in my winter gear it was clearly going to a cold night because the sky was clear and already rock hard under foot.

I settled in to the swim and the bite came really quick, within a couple of minutes where after a couple of pulls, the line when slack and then a few seconds later the tip pulls round properly and again I've struck and hooked in to a nice chub.

I had a curfew for this session as the Wife was off to yoga and I had to be back but to be honest I probably wouldn't have had another fish from that swim anyway. So two chub in a short session but rather enjoyable I must admit. There was two kingfishers playing on the stretch and they didn't appear to be feeling the cold, they were as active as ever.

The walk back to the car was only a few hundred yards and yet in that time the landing net had frozen solid. Back out in the morning ? well yeah a stupid question, I've been not be able to get out all week, and it does wonders for ones mind, needs must and all that. 

The River Arrow - Magic Twigs and Maggotoriums

Up and up go the prices of bait and tackle. Perhaps we've been too lucky for too long, but it does come hard when the cost of the working man's simple and innocent pastime starts to verge on the prohibitive.

I mean, it's not as if we were gambling, or boozing, or running around with women, is it?

Is it?

Pausing not for an answer, and looking neither to the left nor the right, he moves on to the next bit. Which is the Patented Piscatorial Quagswagging System of Piscatorial Barter.

The more I think about this idea, the crummier it seems, but that's probably what all the Great Minds of History thought when the still, small voice went Boi-oi-oing!

This system would do away with money and return to the old barter system. We'd just carry fishing baits and gear around to swop. A table of relative currency values would probably go something like:

• 2 pinkies = 1 specials
• 2 specials = 1 gozzer
• 2 gozzers = 1 wasp grub
• 2 wasp grubs = 1 lob
• 3 lobs = 1 hook
• 4 hooks = 1 float
• 2 floats = 1 swingtip
• 2 swingtips = 1 bobbly hat
• 5 bobbly hats = 1 wellie
• 2 wellies = That One More Cast Magic Twig you've never used 😁

• ... and so on. 

The advantages of the system are obvious even to the dimmest. (Get out of that. You can't, can you?) Having, by common consent, agreed to them, let us look at some of the drawbacks.

Things could get awkward at times, having to carry around pocketful of wellies, bobbly hats, pinkies and specials. You could have a back pocket full of small change one minute and should somebody inadvertently bump into you, a horrible squashy mess the next.  

It might be difficult to find a landlord who would accept a handful of specials and lobs in return for a couple of pints of bitter. And if you were to say, 'One for yourself, landlord,' what would you offer him for the round? Eight six-inch lobs and a couple of inches snipped off a ninth? Or would you give him all nine and say, 'Keep the change'?

Flag-day collectors might look askance if you stuffed their tins with bloodworms. They might get their own back, though, by pinning a dead gudgeon to your lapel.

Casters might be classed as floating currency unless you anticipated the swing and stuck a dust shot to each of their little bums. 

And gozzers which survived the hazards of your back pocket might suddenly go downhill. Right down your trouser leg. And thereafter be fit for nowt. Or debased, as we say in the City. So invest in nothing smaller than gilt-edged hooks, chaps, if you want to keep your currency stable.

But even hard currency is not one hundred percent reliable. Top joints can develop a permanent set, even if you stick them down your wellie tops. And nobody wants to handle bent money.

Floats can be a positive hazard. Have you ever seen somebody with a porcupine quill in his trouser pocket forget that it's there and sit down quickly? Have you ever thought how much it costs to mend a bloke-sized hole in the ceiling?

Anyway, to the Arrow forthwith before I get carted off in a straight-jacket, I wasn't going to go but the Avon was so pants 24 hours earlier I wanted to catch something to bend the rod before 2025 arrives. So simple roving tactics (Hello to Tom who has the same idea, hope you caught something) with bread to try and winkle out a fish. 

So not a bad mornings session, 3 chub caught from 3 different swims, the best above >4lb I'd imagine with the other two a 2 lber and a 3lber. The Arrow was clearing and pretty low but there is lots of features on this stretch so ideal for chub and luckily that's what I caught, I really do love chub fishing, Happy Days !!

The River Arrow - Martians and Margaritomancy

The Martian reported back to his leader after a fact- finding mission on Earth.

"The Earthlings have a very strange custom, O Six- Headed One,' he said. "They call it fishing.

'Lots of them work very hard so that they can buy strange wands and sharp hooks. They also buy great quantities of the foods they call bread, cheese, sausages, and also the larvae of a blue flying insect.

"Then they go down to the waterside and, in a mass ritual, throw much of this food upon the water. Some of it, also, they stick on the sharp hooks which are attached by lines to the wands.

'In this manner they capture quantities of water-dwelling creatures called fish, which according to my information are nourishing as food."

'Interesting,' said the leader. 'And what do they do with these fish creatures?'

'When the ceremony is over,' said the Martian, 'they throw them all alive back into the water again." The 18 eyes in the Leader's six heads narrowed to slits and he quivered with rage.

'They told me!' he screamed. 'They told me before you set off for Earth and I should have listened. 

Next time I'll send somebody sober!'

Anyway to the fishing a short trip to the convenient Arrow to try and winkle out a chub went to plan for once. You see after being biteless in the weir I moved up to the next swim where the recent storm was showing its power. That didn't deter the chub though because...

...the bread had only been out for 5 minutes or so when after a couple of tentative pulls on the 1oz tip the rod went into meltdown an a hard fighting chub was on and it taking me all round the swim with me playing it on the drag.

A lovely fish indeed though, short and fat and went 4lb and 6 ounces on the scales. A good start indeed but as the session went on those bites dried up however I did manage another couple of chub and also lost a decent one and also missed a couple of unmissable bites. 

I seem to be getting the odd hook pull of late which rarely happened until recently which has got me questioning my set-up.

 It was mild at around 9 degrees and rather nice when the sun came out but the sun sadly put a kibosh on proceedings. The chub just didn't seem to be interested, even the small fish for that matter because even those didn't seem to be up for nibbling at the bread either, well apart from the odd swim.

Bread the king again though and big pieces too, it does seem to be my default chub bait these days and despite having cheesepaste with me, it was bread that did the business once again. 

Again the banks to myself again, where the heck are the other anglers ?