Warwickshire Avon - Trumps and Triskaidekaphobia

Ah, the eternal struggle of the angler’s soul a tale as old as time, or at least as old as my battered old tackle box. It’s a lament that echoes through the quiet waters and the silent forests, a cry for mojo, a plea for a little divine intervention to remind us why we willingly subject ourselves to the whims of weather, the fickle gods of fish, and the ever-present threat of bailiffs with a penchant for confiscating our hard-earned bait. 

Come on, fishing mojo, you need a kick up the backside, at least three times a week, was the norm last year. Three times! That’s right, three. 

Now, it’s more like a biannual pilgrimage, and even then, I’m dragging myself out of the door with the enthusiasm of a man heading for a root canal. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been a short-session disciple, a believer that less is more, but even I have to admit that even a short 3-4 hours on the bank beats the hell out of sitting at home wishing I was fishing.

Those trips to the Wye, now they’re a different kettle of roach. For some reason, those days seem to fly by faster than my patience on a cold winter’s morning.

Maybe it’s the solitude, that sweet, sweet solitude that every angler craves the kind where the only sounds are the gentle plop of a baited hook hitting the water, the distant call of a kingfisher passing wind like some high-pitched fart, and the occasional rustle of a leaf in the breeze. 

You could hear a pin drop, or in this case, a passing kingfisher’s wind, which is probably more audible than the background road noise that’s non-existent on these stretches. It’s like stepping into a different universe, one where the only law is that of the fish and the tranquil rhythm of the water.

Thankfully, the weather’s starting to improve, which is a blessed relief. The temperature’s dropping, rain’s falling at just the right intervals, adding a splash of colour to the water and a bit of life to the scene. The Warwickshire Avon, on the other hand, remains stubbornly clear. Clear water, clear mind 

I’m in no rush to dive in there just yet. No, I’ve got some maggots to drown, some hooks to bait, and a sneaky plan to sneak off to a weir that looks like it’s been waiting for me. 

That place is a magnet for bites last time I fished it, I managed to tempt a rather large bream and some nice roach as well, so what could I pick with a stickfloat and maggots ? only one way to find out (I plan to go the weekened !! ) But before that a quick smash and grab session for a barbel in the newly serviced and MOT'd Jimny that now 6 years old passed its 4th MOT with flying colours !!! Well ok an advisory on brake pads and discs, but then there is disk judder on occasion and it's done just shy of 50k miles. 

Anyway I arrived about an hour before dusk and had a nose at a couple of the swims and to be honest nothing really jumped out at me. There is definitely a bit of extra water on but boy it was still gin clear the problem is that the Warwickshire Avon doesn't fish that well when it's like this, well for the bigger fish anyway. So I set my stall out in a swim that has some depth. A pellet approach with some freebies I was fully expecting it to kick off at dusk...

...how wrong was I though, to cut a long story short, not even a pull from a chub which is amazing really as this swim is often a hotspot. Oh well !! I left with my tail between my legs and no trophy shot of a PB breaking barbel. On the positive though, there is that lovely autumnal nip in the air, the best fishing time is on the way my fishing friends. Tight Lines.

Warwickshire Avon - Squelches and Stopwatches

If Roland ever knew what they’d unleashed with the TB-303 Bass Line, I reckon fishing might sound very different today. Imagine it gin-clear Warwickshire water vibrating to a squelching acid riff as I sneak into a swim, a breadflake in one hand and a drum machine in the other. The neighbours would complain, the otters would dance, and the chub, those greedy silver-bellied opportunists, would probably still oblige because, let’s face it, their appetite is as reliable as a 4/4 beat.

Now, I’ve always had a soft spot for the quirky and the under-appreciated. The TB-303, a commercial flop turned acid-house godfather, reminds me rather of the humble chub. They’re never top billing no carp magazines with their sultry poses on padded mats, no barbel fanatics worshipping them like golden idols. But like the 303, in the right hands (or with the right lump of Warburtons), they transform. A swirl, a knock, a quiver of the tip, and suddenly the river is alive with that unmistakable chubby squelch.

This particular evening was meant to be nothing more than a smash and grab 45 minutes, tops. Convenience fishing. That glorious term which translates to: “I’ll be back before anyone notices I’ve gone.” Eight minutes from the front door to the water’s edge. You can’t argue with that unless, of course, you’re married, in which case the stopwatch really is ticking.

Two swims primed with bread, left to settle like a good acid track warming up its filters. I’d barely sat down before the first bite came—a proper thump. Missed it. Typical. The breadflake came back like a soggy ghost of its former self, but rebait, recast, and there it was a chublet, no bigger than a Mars bar. Not what I came for, but better than blanking, and besides, every rave needs a warm-up act.

Then dusk hit. Oh yes, the witching hour. Rod tip nodding like Bez with maracas. Three chub in quick succession, each one slightly more respectable, the biggest nudging three pounds stocky, bronze, not quite the monsters of my imagination but enough to get the pulse up. 

That’s the magic of this stretch: the light dips, the fish switch on, and for twenty glorious minutes it’s like you’re headlining your own private rave. Of course, the curfew looms. Strict rules, no arguments. The bailiff here has the expression of a man who hasn’t smiled since Thatcher left office. 

Rods away, bread bag zipped, and me trudging back to the car past the green pool of doom humming an acid bassline and wondering if the big lads were only just getting started. Still, a bend in the rod, a few bites, and a soundtrack in my head fishing doesn’t get much better.

And so the session ends, not with a monster chub or an encore, but with me, grinning in the twilight, still thinking the TB-303 and the chub have more in common than anyone realises. Both misunderstood, both repurposed, both capable of a proper squelch when the conditions are right.

Warwickshire Avon - Prototypes and Prothalamia

The return to the grind has hit me harder than I’d have cared to admit, even though I’ve slipped into the rhythm of the new job without much fuss. There’s something about the abrupt shift from unhurried mornings and rod-in-hand dawdlings back to the rigid clock and screen glare that grates, and this week it bit particularly deep. But I need to pay the tax to those chuck it in a ever increasing blackhole. 

Still, there are consolations, and one of them was a rare treat just before I wrapped up work on the Polestar and the 5 the day before jetting off to Lanzarote. A test drive, no less, in one of the prototypes. Nearly 900 horses ready to stampede at the slightest squeeze, a dizzying sprint to sixty in less than three seconds, and the rear seats offering all the indulgence of a chauffeured saloon. Nothing else out there quite compares, and for a brief blast down the road I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand proud, the way they only do when something mechanical and outrageous is doing its best to bend the laws of physics. 

The Jimny sporting its new Grille

Will it sell? Well, there’s the rub. I’ve my doubts (That's why I took VR Polestar is haemorrhaging cash). The market’s jammed to the rafters with choices, endless badges and batteries vying for wallets that seem thinner by the month. A crying shame in a way, but that’s the business, and dwelling on it only makes the working day stretch longer than it needs to. There is a press embargo till Monday I believe for its official launch but initial feedback from the press is encouraging. 

If it were only me to think about, I’d have packed it all in by now, feet up, rods out, retired to a simpler life of rivers and rambles. But life’s rarely that simple. A wife, two teenagers, and the bills that never stop sliding through the letterbox ensure that fantasy remains just that. So the weekend beckons me not to early retirement but to the Warwickshire Avon, where the river promises its own sort of escape. Bread crusts bagged up, I set out to see if I could tempt a chub or two off the top.

The first spot I decided on is good for a bite until I clocked three cars lined up in the layby, anglers already staked out along the bank. My roving plan was scuppered before it began, so I shuffled down the lanes to a quieter stretch I’ve often kept in my back pocket. The Avon there was running gin clear, though with just a feather of extra water riding her back. Beautiful to look at, but when the water’s that clear, the chub know every trick you’re trying to pull. 

Seven or eight swims worked methodically, crusts dropped, ripples watched, patience tested. Only three of them showed any real signs of life. Twice I saw great bow waves roll up from the depths, the broad backs of hefty fish rising to investigate my bread. Heart in mouth, rod poised, I watched as they hovered within a whisker of temptation, then turned with the disdain of a diner refusing a dish they hadn’t ordered. Beyond cautious they were, suspicious to the point of comedy, and in all my years I can’t remember another session where they’ve been quite so dismissive.

It left me wandering the banks in that peculiar mixture of frustration and fascination that only fishing delivers. Every failed rise is another puzzle to chew over, another reason to return, and as the light began to soften I found myself plotting a dusk sortie. 

The witching hour, when the shadows lengthen and the water carries less glare, has a way of coaxing even the wariest fish into a mistake. Perhaps this evening will be that evening. For now, though, I trudged back with bread bag lighter, boots muddied, and mind half-set on giving it another go when the day gives way to evening and the river sheds its caution. The fish might not have played ball, but the river always whispers its secrets to those patient enough to listen, and I’ll happily lend an ear a little while longer.