Warwickshire Avon - Barbel and Barodynamics

With Sam and his mate Matthew turning the house into something resembling a low-budget episode of Gladiators (complete with makeshift swords, questionable logic, and an ambient soundtrack of thudding limbs), I did what any peace-starved angler with a pulse would do I legged it. The Warwickshire Avon beckoned like a siren with scales, and I answered the call quicker than you can say "Two Tier Keir"

The plan, as ever, was as simple as it was effective: plonk in a few freebies, let the swim marinate like a Sunday joint, and then lob in a PVA bag stuffed tighter than my tackle shed drawers. I wasn’t expecting much until the light faded and the bats started performing aerial acrobatics worthy of a Cirque du Soleil understudy.

After a couple of hours with more inactivity than a teenager on a Sunday morning, the first sign of life came in the form of a pint-sized chub, which managed to inhale the gobstopper-like bait with all the grace of a dustbin raccoon. Re-baited, re-armed, and re-focused (with just a smidge of misplaced optimism), I chucked the rig out again and resumed my riverside loitering.

Soon enough, the other three anglers on the stretch had buggered off perhaps unnerved by my choice of bank snacks (spicy Mini Cheddars and a can of dandelion & burdock, naturally) or my habit of talking to the river like it's an old drinking buddy. The last to leave stopped for a quick chinwag, and as we were lamenting the state of modern pellets (not what they used to be, I tell thee), bang the rod tip did a full-on homage to The Exorcist, and I was in.

A barbel. I knew it. Not just by the power of the bite, but by the way it powered off downstream like it had a dentist appointment in Evesham and was already late. A couple of drag-singing runs later and I had it under control, my arms doing their best impression of a badly wired puppet.

Into the net she slid bronzed, whiskered, and full of attitude. A quick weigh-in confirmed what I’d already suspected: 9lb 14oz two measly ounces off the hallowed double. Typical. Still, a cracking fish, a cracking scrap, and proof that patience, timing, and knowing when to escape the domestic mayhem can all conspire to deliver the goods.

Back she went, a gentle flick of the tail, and off into the now inky depths leaving me with that smug, quietly contented glow only a barbel angler will understand.

Until next time, tight lines and tight lids on the Mini Cheddars.

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.

Warwickshire Avon - Bad Knots and Baculiforms

The little Jimny stood there, lonely as a wet spaniel in a thunderstorm, parked dutifully on the desolate third floor of the multistorey staff car park. No other cars in sight. Not even the chirpy red Fiat 500 with the missing hubcap or that dubious Skoda that smelled like old ham and regret. Just the Jimny. Just me. Just corporate decay.

You see, when you’ve had three rounds of redundancies in six years, it doesn't take a spreadsheet wizard to realise the writing is probably not just on the wall it's been etched in with a Dremel and underlined in red marker by the lovely Katie from HR with no soul and a collection of novelty mugs. The "Fun Committee" stopped funning years ago, and even Julien from operations, usually an eternal optimist with a drawer full of biscuits, had recently started referring to life as "a long wait for cake and disappointment."  

So, yes, working from home seemed a more appealing option, especially when your office resembles a library post-apocalypse and the vending machine only stocks stale crisps and those monster energy drinks. But I’m not bitter. Not me. I’m off soon  to pastures new! A new job! A design studio again! People who actually want you around. I might even have a chair and my OWN desk that doesn’t slowly descend of its own accord during Team's meetings.

9lb 11oz River Wye 

But until then, a couple of days a week in the office suits me just fine. Gives me a chance to say goodbye to the survivors, exchange awkward half-hugs and “we must stay in touch” lies, and spend a few last moments with the Jimny, who, like me, enjoys solitude and making unwise choices in mud.

Now, last weekend's salvation arrived in the form of the River Wye, which for me is like a warm bubble bath for the soul, albeit one full of silt, chub, and the occasional crisp packet. 

Honestly though, if heaven had a postcode, it’d be somewhere near Hereford with a tackle shop just down the road and a tea van that did bacon rolls so strong you could re-attach scaffolding with the grease. That said, the fishing's not just a hobby anymore. 

It's a necessary form of mental therapy cheaper than a psychologist and sometimes comes with a slug of tea. Retirement dreams may be a little way off, but I’ve been chipping away at the pensions, like a squirrel stashing nuts and occasionally checking the value with all the wide-eyed optimism of someone opening their electricity bill.

The property’s 'almost' paid for, and if it weren’t for the fact I’ve got mouths to feed and a lawn that still needs mowing, I’d probably sack it all off now, buy a battered old campervan do a Phil Smith, and follow the barbel runs like some sort of leathery-skinned fish-obsessed roadie ready to swim jump at every available opportunity. 

But alas, here I remain. At least for now.

The plan was simple after raiding the freezer and getting a Crosta & Mollica Stromboli Pizza at the parking place of convenience, scalded pellet and method feeder the same method that had done the business down the Wye. 

Light gear, subtle approach, and the tactical deployment of a chair that had seen better days. Down on the Avon, the water was low, slow, still, I was hopeful for a bite, there seems to be some good fish here. 

It's only 20 minutes away this stretch which is about the same as the WBAS syndicate stretch where those barbel are few and far between and ok I've caught them on the stretch before, but not for a while. It's nice to have one's string pulled once or twice now isn't it. Anyway those other anglers on this stretch, you know who you are, ta for the info, it's always appreciated. 

Now there’s something about a quiet river at dusk that whispers of promise, especially when you’ve spent the best part of two hours sat behind rods that might as well have been in the garage, for all the interest they’d had. Not a tremble. Not a twitch. Nothing. I’d have had more action watching paint dry in a wind tunnel. But optimism is a dangerous thing in angling, and mine was beginning to feel like a bad investment.

Now, it’s one thing to fish poorly quite another to start lobbing gear into trees like some overzealous chimp at a casting competition. One enthusiastic swing too many and off goes one of my prized method feeders, soaring majestically into the nearest sycamore like a Newtonian experiment gone wrong. If there was a robin nesting in there, it’s now got a new garden ornament.

Grumbling like a pensioner in a bus queue, I re-rigged with my barbel standby an open-ended feeder setup I could tie in my sleep, assuming I hadn’t already nodded off due to the sheer inactivity. Light was fading, stomach rumbling, and just as I was mentally weighing up whether a man could survive the night on half a packet of smoky bacon crisps, BANG! A bite. A real one.

Cue the chaos. Rod hooped, line zipping an honest-to-goodness barbel with steam in its fins. We battled. I imagined victory. And then... slack. The kind of slack that makes your heart fall into your boots and your vocabulary turn blue. One minute I’m connected to a brute, the next I’m reeling in line like a man pulling up a kite with no string. Rig gone. Hook, feeder — the whole lot. I sat back in stunned silence, reviewing the crime scene. Knot failure? Fish too clever? Cosmic punishment for that feeder-flinging incident earlier?

Still, as I stared into the now-barbel-less gloom, trying to resist the urge to launch my entire tackle box into the 'Von, I had to concede at least the fish are turning up. That’s progress, isn’t it? Small mercies and all that. I re-rigged in a sulk and saw out the last half hour under a sky now as empty as my landing net.

They say you learn something every session. Tonight, I learned that sycamores don’t like feeders, dusk is the most treacherous time for dreams, and barbel have a wicked sense of humour.