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 Wye - Barbelification and Bewilderment

Now there are moments in life when you think you've absolutely nailed it. Booking a father-and-son trip to the River Wye seemed like one of those moments, right up until the Wife wandered past, looked over my shoulder and casually reminded me that I'd also managed to book it on our eighteenth wedding anniversary. Eighteen years. That's not one you can pretend slipped your mind because of "river conditions."

Apparently disappearing off fishing while your long-suffering wife celebrates nearly two decades of marriage on her own isn't considered acceptable behaviour. I briefly considered explaining that barbel don't understand calendars, but experience has taught me that wives are remarkably resistant to angling-based excuses. It's almost as if they've heard them all before.

Fortunately, diplomacy prevailed. "We'll go out for a nice meal on Saturday," she said. "Okay," I replied, sensing I'd somehow escaped with only minor injuries. Then came the knockout punch... "You can pay."

Well played.

Now, regular readers will remember Glynn Purnell's old place, The Mount in Henley. Well that's all changed because it's now a Thai restaurant, run by the same people behind The Bulls Head at Wootton Wawen, and if first impressions count then they're onto a winner because the place was absolutely rammed.

We kicked things off with three starters to share because apparently that's what civilised adults do rather than ordering enough food to feed a stag party. They were superb, but the real star of the evening was my main course, a Panang curry proudly displaying a five-chilli warning like some sort of legal disclaimer.

Now I do enjoy my spicy food. I like a curry that makes your forehead glisten slightly and encourages you to question some of your life choices. This thing, however, was operating right on the upper edge of my personal pain threshold and I absolutely loved every fiery mouthful.

The thick coconut sauce somehow managed to calm the inferno whilst simultaneously encouraging it to burst back into life about thirty seconds later. It was like being repeatedly slapped around the face by a very friendly Thai chef. Outstanding.

To make matters even stranger, the Wife volunteered to drive home. I wasn't about to question this miracle and instead concentrated on ensuring most of the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc didn't go to waste. It would've been rude not to.

It was genuinely lovely seeing such a busy restaurant. The pub garden was absolutely packed with people making the most of the warm evening, proving that good food and decent service still draw the crowds. Funny that.

Earlier in the day we'd met friends at The Fish in Wixford where the conversation inevitably drifted towards fishing. It always does. Give anglers five minutes and someone will either produce photographs of fish or directions to somewhere that definitely contains fish.

During a completely unplanned detour into Angling Direct in Redditch for "just a few bits"—those four words responsible for emptying more wallets than inflation—I somehow managed to leave with a £15 book for a club on the River Arrow. I hadn't gone in for a book. I never intended buying a book. But there it was, in my permit wallet whispering sweet nothings about undiscovered swims and mysterious barbel.

As it happened, someone I know had recently spotted a few decent barbel in one particular stretch. That's all it takes with anglers. Mention the word "barbel" and we're halfway out the door before you've even finished the sentence.

Now poor Sam had spent the previous day at school sports day where, according to him, a lad weighing "about 100 kilograms" decided the best way to celebrate athletics was by body-slamming him. Whether the lad actually weighed 100kg or whether he'd simply swallowed another Year 11 remains open to debate, but Sam's wrist certainly wasn't happy about it.

At precisely 5.45am I poked my head around his bedroom door expecting eager excitement. Instead I was greeted by a rather miserable-looking teenager apologising because every now and then shooting pains were racing through his wrist. Fair enough. Fishing can wait, wrists are quite useful.

 So for the first time in a while, my usual partner in crime wasn't making the journey. Shame really because he'd have absolutely loved this place. Then again, perhaps he wouldn't have appreciated what came next.

Getting to the best swim is less of a walk and more of an audition for SAS: Who Dares Wins. First there's a steep hill that reminds you you're no longer twenty-five, followed by two stiles specifically designed to catch landing nets, then a metal bridge, another gate and finally...

...a very large bull.

Now I'm no expert on livestock but when your route to the river involves crossing a field occupied by something that looks capable of towing tractors for fun, you suddenly become remarkably respectful of personal space. 

I perfected a walking pace somewhere between "calm countryside rambler" and "Olympic speed walker pretending not to panic."

Thankfully the bull looked at me, looked at the rod holdall and seemingly concluded that anyone voluntarily carrying that much fishing gear clearly had enough problems already. Crisis averted.

Eventually I reached the river and immediately noticed the water felt deliciously cool. Gone was the warm bathwater we'd endured previously. 

The plan was straightforward: fish hard through the morning, enjoy some lunch, fish a little longer and escape before the afternoon heat started turning anglers into human puddles.

Before leaving home I'd noticed Angling Direct had virtually no method feeders left apart from their own-brand versions. They're cheap enough and, to be fair, on a snaggy little river that's probably a blessing because feeding expensive tackle into submerged branches is a hobby I can live without.

I started with five feeders.

That detail will become important later.

The first cast had barely settled before the tip bounced round like it had been connected to the National Grid. Fish on. Lovely chub.

Second cast.

Another chub.

Third cast.

Believe it or not... another chub.

It became utterly ridiculous. The robin red pellet wasn't even getting chance to introduce itself before another greedy chub inhaled it. I reckon if I'd cast out an old sock soaked in curry sauce I'd probably have caught one on that as well.

Within about an hour I'd landed ten chub. Not bites. Not missed opportunities. Ten actual fish. The smallest looked offended to be there while the better ones were proper lumps that filled the landing net nicely.

Normally when chub are feeding like this you'd expect the barbel to gatecrash the party eventually. Not today.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The river was low and clear, the ranunculus weed was looking magnificent and from my elevated perch I could see all sorts moving below. The trouble was every single shape eventually turned into... another chub.

I messaged Nic from Avon Angling UK for moral support. He suggested the barbel might be lurking in the deeper hole off to my right. Excellent thinking.

So naturally I cast over there.

Chub.

Again.

Some of these fish were proper footballs with fins. Not quite five-pounders but certainly giving it serious consideration, and every single one was carefully unhooked in the water before swimming away looking vaguely annoyed that breakfast had ended so abruptly.

By lunchtime I'd already lost count of how many times I'd said, "Surely the next one will be a barbel."

It never was.

After lunch I fancied a change and wandered downstream to a faster glide for a bit of trotting. Because there wasn't anywhere sensible to stick a bankstick I wedged the rod and landing net into my waders with all the grace of someone attempting advanced yoga while dressed as a scarecrow.

The float travelled beautifully.

Then disappeared.

Chub.

Obviously.

By now I was starting to suspect I'd accidentally wandered onto the River Chub rather than the River Wye. If there had been a competition for catching species that weren't barbel, I'd have been lifting the trophy with both hands.

Eventually I wandered back to the original swim where the chub welcomed me back like old friends. They were still feeding with exactly the same enthusiasm they'd shown first thing that morning, which was both brilliant and faintly ridiculous. Trotting meat again just chub. 

Meanwhile my method feeders were disappearing into underwater snags with alarming regularity. Remember those five feeders I started with?

By home time...

I'd successfully reduced the population to precisely zero.

Somewhere beneath that swim lies an impressive collection of terminal tackle, enough to start a small underwater tackle shop. If fish ever learn to open businesses, they'll be trading by next spring.

As tempting as it was to stay until dusk, there didn't seem much point. The barbel clearly hadn't read the script and either weren't feeding or had already stuffed themselves senseless the previous day. Sometimes rivers simply decide today's not your day.

Did I mind?

Not one bit.

I'd spent the day surrounded by glorious countryside, watched kingfishers flash along the river like tiny feathered missiles, listened to buzzards calling overhead and caught well over a hundred pounds of wonderfully obliging chub. There are definitely worse ways to spend a Sunday.

The climb back up Heart Attack Hill after the over half a mile walk was surprisingly manageable too. Either someone's secretly reduced the gradient overnight or all this river walking is actually improving my fitness. Personally I suspect it's the latter, although I'm keeping an eye on that bull just in case he's been flattening it out between visits.

So no barbel, no fishing partner, no method feeders and an unexpectedly expensive wedding anniversary weekend. Yet somehow it all worked out rather nicely. The Wife got her anniversary meal, I got my curry-induced near-death experience, Sam gets another trip once his wrist behaves itself and somewhere on the River Wye there's a gang of exceptionally well-fed chub wondering when that daft bloke with the robin red pellets is coming back.

Warwickshire Avon - Magniloquence and Marginality (PB Content)

Fishing, I have long suspected, is a sport designed specifically to test the structural integrity of a man’s optimism. It lures you in with pastoral promises and then batters you about the head with wind, rain, rising water and the occasional two-ounce gudgeon that hooks itself in the nostril and looks at you as if to say, “Really? This is what you came for?” And yet we persist. We watch river levels like Victorian astronomers scanning the heavens, convinced that this time this precise alignment of rainfall, temperature and domestic scheduling will produce something magnificent.

The week in question had been one of those dreary, damp sagas where every river within sensible driving distance had decided to impersonate a minor ocean. The Arrow and the Alne were not merely up; they were exploring neighbouring counties. The only sliver of hope lay with the dear old Warwickshire Avon, which was high, yes, but not yet in the sort of mood where it tries to repossess your landing net. It was creeping upward, slow and ominous, like a cat preparing to leap onto a shelf full of heirlooms.

Now, I am not a man prone to gossip, but when Nic of Avon Angling was messaging me 24 hours before and  he'd “bagged up” to the tune of 30lb of chub, including a brace of fives and a four, trotting maggots one listens. One leans in. One abandons all previous life plans and begins reorganising the boot of the car with the urgency of a Formula One pit crew. “Get out there,” he said. “It’s great conditions.” Which, translated from Tackle-Shop Optimism into English, means: “You might catch something memorable, provided you don’t drown.” I tend to fish maggots now rather than bread for chub as it's less messy for starters but it just works when the conditions are right. 

As luck would have it, I finished work at midday on Friday. This is the sort of blessing that should be commemorated in stained glass. However, fishing time was to be rationed like wartime sugar because my wife had yoga at 5:30pm, meaning I needed to be home by 5:15pm to assume control of the household orchestra, conducted entirely in the key of chaos. Thus the window of opportunity was narrow more arrow slit than bay window.

Undeterred, I selected a stretch known for barbel, reasoning that the double-figure temperatures might have stirred them from their winter sulk. It was a 45-minute drive, which in angling mathematics leaves approximately 23 minutes of actual fishing once you factor in faffing, tea-pouring and the ceremonial staring at the river as though it might offer guidance. The upstream gauges were rising at a pace best described as “ambitious,” but hope is a stubborn weed in the angler’s garden.

Upon arrival, the car park resembled a modest trade fair for waterproof clothing. Vans lined up like damp pilgrims. Two of my favoured pegs were already occupied by men who clearly shared my hydrological obsession. I performed the customary wander hands in pockets, nodding sagely at nothing in particular before trudging downstream to a wider, steadier stretch. Here, the river flowed with a lovely, even pace. Upstream looked like it was auditioning for a disaster documentary; down here it was positively civilised.

Trotting it was, and then a go for the barbel at the end.

I fed maggots for a good fifteen minutes, sprinkling them with the reverence of a man sowing the seeds of destiny. A size 20 Guru hook nominally a 20 but in reality something closer to a 16 unless you’re measuring with electron microscopes adorned with two bronze maggots. First trot: nothing. Second trot: the float dipped with purpose and I lifted into a solid, reassuring thump.

A chub of about a pound and a half.

Reader, after a run of blanks that had me contemplating selling my rods and investing in a set of golf clubs (imagine the horror me discussing handicaps rather than hooklinks), this felt like redemption. Next cast: another. Then another. 

The float buried with cheerful regularity, and soon I was in that rare state of angling bliss where you stop thinking about river gauges, domestic curfews and existential dread. In the first hour I landed six or seven chub of similar stamp solid, silvery, obliging creatures with faces that suggest mild disapproval.

And then, just as I was congratulating myself on my tactical brilliance, the float vanished in a manner that suggested something far more serious than another pound-and-a-half specimen had taken an interest. I struck into what can only be described as a moving sandbag. No rattling head shakes, no frantic darting just immense, implacable weight hugging the bottom.

“Barbel,” I whispered to myself, because hope is incurable.

I coaxed it upstream, rod hooped, heart thundering. Inch by inch it came, resisting with the quiet authority of something that has paid its council tax for decades. And then, in the olive-green water beneath the rod tip, it surfaced.

Good grief.

It was a chub. But not the sort one casually swings in while discussing the weather. This was a chub that had clearly made excellent life choices. Long, broad-backed, pale flanks gleaming in the muted light. When it saw me it bolted, as if suddenly remembering an urgent appointment elsewhere. I managed to turn it somewhere between panic and prayer and gradually it conceded. Into the net it slid, vast and magnificent, like a bronzed log with opinions.

On the bank it looked even bigger. The sort of fish that makes you glance around to ensure witnesses are present. Surely this would be a new personal best? The scales were produced with trembling hands. 6lb 1oz.

It didn’t beat my all-tackle PB. But it did nudge past my float-caught best by a 6 ounces. The narrowest of margins it didn't beat my overall PB, but in angling terms that’s the difference between “quite pleased” and “insufferable for at least a fortnight.” I admired it in the rain because of course it had begun raining properly now, the heavens choosing this moment to re-enact the Great Flood before slipping it back to sulk beneath some tree roots.

With the maggots becoming increasingly enthusiastic about escape and the swim beginning to resemble a developing wetland, I switched to the barbel gear. By now the river was rising with alarming enthusiasm. The margin crept closer. The bank grew softer. Each step made a noise like a sponge contemplating its life choices.

I persisted.

A two-pound chub took the barbel bait with surprising gusto, followed by a bream that bit like a steam train and fought like a resigned cushion. 

The water continued its climb. Debris sailed past with increasing frequency twigs, leaves, possibly someone’s garden furniture. 

I fished right up to curfew, glancing at my watch with the anxiety of a man who knows yoga ends promptly and children expect dinner with alarming regularity.

No barbel came to the net.

And yet, as I packed away in the drizzle, boots squelching, net dripping, I felt absurdly content. 

Because fishing is not, in truth, about the relentless pursuit of whiskered leviathans. It is about moments. The float sliding under. The sudden, immovable weight. The sight of a truly exceptional chub materialising from coloured water like a myth made flesh.

The Warwickshire Avon will likely be over its banks tomorrow, strutting about the floodplain like it owns the place. I will no doubt be poring over gauges again, convincing myself that floodwater barbel are not just possible but practically inevitable.

I will probably get soaked. I may blank. I may once again threaten to take up golf.

But somewhere beneath that rising water swims a 6lb 1oz chub that, for one glorious Friday afternoon, made all the damp socks, frantic dashes home and hydrological obsessing entirely worthwhile. 

And that, dear readers, is quite enough to keep a man gloriously, hopelessly hooked.

The River Leam - Quivertipping and Quasi-philosophising

I fancied a change of scenery for this short morning session, which is angler-speak for “I was bored of the usual places and deluded myself into thinking novelty alone might improve my catch rate.” Thus, I found myself once again standing beside the River Leam, a river I’ve not fished for ages, mainly because of a change of job and the inconvenient reality that I no longer finish work, leap into the car like an escapee from a low-security prison, and arrive at the river fifteen minutes later just as the light begins to fade and the fish presumably alerted by some ancient piscine WhatsApp group decide to feed for precisely fifty-eight minutes before going on strike again. 

Back then, nothing of particular note was caught: a few chub with expressions of mild irritation, the occasional roach that looked as if it had been interrupted mid-thought, and a general sense that I was participating in something deeply traditional and profoundly pointless, which of course is the very essence of river fishing.

The plan, if it could be dignified with such a term, was to fish two of the WBAS stretches and stretch my ageing legs, which much like my tackle still function but occasionally make worrying noises. Last year I averaged 10,000 steps a day over the entire year, which isn’t bad at all for someone who spends a significant portion of life welded to a chair, staring at a computer screen and wondering if this is really what evolution had in mind. 

Roving tactics were therefore employed, partly for fish-finding purposes and partly because standing still for too long now results in joints seizing up like forgotten bait tins. A small feeder filled with liquidised bread was deployed, along with a modest piece of bread on the hook a bait that has fooled fish for centuries and continues to fool anglers into thinking it will solve everything.

The river itself was fining down nicely after having recently been in the fields, which is the riverine equivalent of saying it had been out drinking heavily but was now pulling itself together. The Leam, to its credit, drops fast, and on this occasion it was perfectly fishable a phrase that always sounds optimistic but usually just means “not actively impossible.” The slack by the bridge swim, however, was utterly devoid of interest, life, or any indication that fish had ever existed as a concept, so I roved onwards, performing the familiar angling march of quiet hope interspersed with exaggerated care not to fall in.

In the next swim, something interesting almost happened. A chub or possibly a figment of my imagination appeared to grab the bread on the drop, because the feeder refused to settle properly. I struck heroically into absolutely nothing, which is a skill I have perfected over many years, but the very next cast produced a bite in under a minute and suddenly a fish was on. 

Not the biggest fish, not a river-defining leviathan, but a chub nonetheless, and as all anglers know, scores on the doors. There is something deeply reassuring about actually catching a fish, if only to confirm that one has not completely misunderstood the basic premise of angling.

What followed was a sequence of swims that could best be described as extremely quiet indeed. The sun, however, was rather nice, and this is how rivers get away with things. You forgive them everything when the light hits the water just right and the world briefly looks like a brochure. I settled into the big, deep bay swim the very same swim where I once won a syndicate match, an event that now exists mainly as a personal legend trotted out whenever morale is low. 

After twenty minutes without so much as a twitch, I decided that destiny was clearly elsewhere and headed to the other stretch, only five minutes away, because nothing says optimism like repeatedly uprooting oneself.

That’s the thing with the River Leam: it’s a lovely river, moody and understated, but it’s a 25-minute drive for me, and I’m spoiled by the Arrow and the Alne being less than fifteen minutes away and generally more inclined to provide bites rather than philosophical reflection. Still, variety is the spice of life, or at least the mild seasoning of angling disappointment. 

On the next stretch, I managed a nice chub first cast, following a series of tentative nibbles and quivertip tremors that suggest a fish deeply conflicted about its life choices. I struck more in hope than expectation and discovered a chub was indeed on, leading to a spirited battle in which it attempted to bury itself under my feet amongst some dead reeds, presumably in an effort to end the whole affair quickly. Eventually, it was persuaded otherwise, and that, sadly, was my lot.

I fished several more swims, introduced cheesepaste at one point the olfactory equivalent of shouting into the river but the remaining fish were resolutely uninterested. 

Eventually, I packed up, legs stretched, soul mildly soothed, and expectations once again recalibrated to a sensible level. The Leam hadn’t produced miracles, but it had delivered sunshine, movement, and the comforting reminder that fishing isn’t always about catching although it does help. And besides, there’s always tomorrow… or at least somewhere closer.

The River Arrow - Thermoregulation and Theatrics

Sam the Lucky One was on a teacher training day, which in real-world terms means he was “off” while I was “working,” though my version of working on a Friday involves finishing at midday-ish and making solemn promises to myself that I’ll “crack on in the afternoon maybe next week,” promises which have the structural integrity of a Rich Tea biscuit dunked twice. 

Fate, clearly an angler, had decided that this was not a day for CAD bashing but for piscatorial enlightenment, and so Sam and I found ourselves aligned like planets, or at least like two blokes with a rucksack full of bait and wildly unrealistic expectations.

Totally unlike Sam, he was keen to go fishing. This alone should have been logged with the Met Office or at least written down for future disbelief. Sam, you see, does not do cold. He doesn’t tolerate it. He doesn’t negotiate with it. 

Sam 9 years ago when he was 5 we left shortly after 😂!! 

He simply shuts down, like a mobile phone at 2% battery, and wanders off to find central heating, soup, or the overly large bosom of his mother. 

Yet here he was, voluntarily suggesting fishing in winter, which is normally about as appealing to him as licking a frozen gatepost. 

I, on the other hand, am quite lucky. I don’t feel the cold that often, possibly because I am generously insulated, possibly because I am too stupid to notice discomfort, or possibly because my internal thermostat is set permanently to “boil.” Sam, however, has inherited his mother’s genes, and she feels the cold ALL the time. 

This is despite the central heating being cranked up to a level normally reserved for incubating fertile eggs or encouraging tropical amphibians to breed. One can stand in her living room and watch the curtains wilt, and boy I have the bill to show for it.  

This raises important scientific questions. Is it the hypothalamus, the body’s thermostat? Or is it simply subcutaneous fat? Do they both have less of it than me? Sam certainly does. 

He has less meat on him than a butcher’s pencil, which means when the wind blows it goes straight through him like a badly sealed bivvy. 

His mother definitely not though I’ll add here, purely for my own safety, that she doesn’t read my blog. Who knows. Science is a mysterious thing, best left to men in white coats who don’t fish the Warwickshire Avon.

During the colder months, despite my repeated encouragement, pleading, bribery, and occasional emotional blackmail, Sam usually loses interest big time. 

He knows he won’t enjoy it. He knows his fingers will go numb, his feet will turn into ornamental ice blocks, and his enthusiasm will leak away faster than maggots through a split bait box. And yet here’s the thing he’s been noticing I’ve been winkling out a few chub on the Arrow of late.

Every time I get home he asks, casually, as if he doesn’t care, “How’d you do?” This is the fishing equivalent of someone saying they’re “not hungry” while staring intensely at your chips. 

The Arrow has been kind, and the chub have been cooperative enough to fuel dreams. And dreams, as we all know, are far warmer than reality.

So yes. To the Arrow forthwith. The mission: get Sam a chub of his own. Get him a proper bend in the rod the sort he loves, the sort that briefly makes you forget that your nose is numb and your fingers feel like borrowed items from someone else’s hands. I’d recharged the hand warmers just in case, ready to offer some temporary relief. It’s always his extremities that suffer the most, as if the cold targets him personally, like a sniper.

The air temperature definitely felt colder than where the mercury settled at 8 degrees, it was a chilly wind. That’s winter for you: the thermometer says one thing, your face says another. Even I, on my lunchtime fast walk, had increased the pace to try and warm the cockles. This is never a good sign. When you, a man built for thermal efficiency, start walking like you’re late for a train, you know it’s Baltic.

So anyway, enough analysis, enough physiology, enough excuses. We’d better get fishing, hadn’t we!!!

The Arrow greeted us with that familiar winter indifference, sliding past quietly, pretending it hadn’t seen us. The sort of river that makes you whisper, not because you’ll spook the fish, but because it feels like a church where chub are the congregation and you’re very late. Sam, blew on his hands, and looked at me with the expression of a man who has made a terrible but educational mistake.

It didn’t take long to catch the first chub, which was mildly annoying because I’d barely settled into my role as Supreme Commander of Excuses. A couple of missed pull rounds in the opening swim didn’t help matters, nor did the swim feeder, which shot past the chub’s noses like a low-flying missile and almost certainly sent them off for counselling. 

Still, optimism lingered like the smell of damp canvas and crushed hemp, so we did what all sensible anglers do when things go slightly wrong: we legged it up the river pretending it was all part of a cunning master plan.

Roving upstream, we fished every swim that looked remotely chubby—under overhanging branches, near slack water, beside mysterious bubbles that were definitely fish and not, as history suggests, something decomposing. 

It didn’t take long to find them. The first fish nudged the scales at a pound, which is the angling equivalent of a polite handshake. But as we pushed further up the Arrow and onto the Alne, the fish improved, as did Sam’s smugness, which grew with each bend of the rod and each theatrical sigh. At this point, Sam more or less annexed the rod. He manned it. He captained it. I was demoted to net boy, commentator, and occasional provider of tea. 

Five chub came to hand, all his, bar one for me, plus one that came off mid-battle after giving him a proper runaround, darting about like it had an urgent appointment elsewhere. I offered words of wisdom throughout, mostly beginning with “What you should have done is…”, which were ignored with commendable discipline.

They weren’t monsters, these chub, but they were proper river fish, and the afternoon slipped by in that agreeable way that only happens when the light softens, the bites keep coming, and your fishing buddy is having a genuinely cracking time.

Sam certainly was, which was good though I couldn’t help noticing that his best mate and angler Matthew is arriving Saturday lunchtime and they’re off magnet fishing on the local canals. Staying over, too. Apparently, I’m now second best to rusty shopping trolleys and Victorian padlocks.

Still, all things considered, it was a fine afternoon. Good company, obliging fish, and the comforting knowledge that while I may have lost the rod, the glory, and possibly my standing in the friendship hierarchy, I retained the most important thing of all: the blog post. And as every angler knows, that’s where the real trophies live, shame those other bloggers that have fallen off the radar don't think the same way 🎣