Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.35

There’s something rather poetic about watching a documentary on Netflix about a man who skinned people, (shame Ed wasn't played by a young George Burton) and then heading straight out to the river to try and catch something that doesn’t want to be caught. Both, in their own ways, are exercises in obsession. Ed Gein wanted to become his mother

I just want to catch a chub. He made lampshades out of human faces; I’ve made a collection of unfulfilled dreams and used luncheon meat wrappers. Both stories end with someone staring into the darkness, muttering to themselves.

The wife rolled her eyes when I mentioned I was heading out again. “You’re mad,” she said, though not with malice. More with the resigned sigh of someone who’s come to terms with the fact that their spouse would rather sit in a hedge with a rod than engage in normal human evening activities like watching telly, eating dinner, or maintaining relationships. 

“I’m going to the syndicate stretch after work,” I replied, as if announcing I was off to a diplomatic summit. “It’s been slim pickings lately, but you never know.” She didn’t even look up from her phone. “You said that last time.”

 The problem with fishing after work is that by the time you get there, it’s already nearly over. You spend more time faffing about with gear, untangling line, and trying to remember where you put your headtorch batteries than you do actually fishing. But I can’t not go. It’s not about catching anymore it’s about the ritual. If I didn’t do this, I’d never get out at all. And besides, it’s cheaper than therapy.

The weather was proper “October fishing weather” that strange, dull, damp chill that seeps into your bones and makes you question your life choices. Overcast but not dramatic, cold but not cold enough to make you commit to thermals. That sort of evening where the world seems muted, like it’s holding its breath. Perfect, in other words, for blanking.

 I arrived, parked up, and did the usual ritualistic shuffle down the bank. A little krill groundbait went in to liven things up a sort of aquatic amuse-bouche for anything lurking below. I’ve got a dedicated rod in the car now, permanently set up for these fleeting after-work missions. I call it “the panic rod.” She’s always ready, bless her, even if the fish never are.

The plan was simple: spam on the hook, a gentle lob into a prepped swim, and the faint hope that something with gills would take pity on me.

I gave it half an hour to rest while I stood back and surveyed the water, the way you do when you want to look like you know what you’re doing. Not that anyone else was around to see. This stretch has been quieter than a morgue lately — fitting, considering I’d just been watching the story of Wisconsin’s most infamous grave robber.

Speaking of which what was that series all about? The mind boggles. A bloke cutting up corpses, wearing bits of people, and collecting faces in bags yet somehow I can’t get a single chub to nibble a piece of spam. Life isn’t fair. The man was an artist, in his own grotesque way, while I can’t even get nature to acknowledge my existence. He inspired Psycho, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, and The Silence of the Lambs. I can’t even inspire a barbel to turn up on a Thursday evening.

Still, as the light faded, I found myself doing what I always do overanalysing every ripple, every twitch of the tip, every suspicious movement that turns out to be a leaf. The small fish moved in first, of course, pecking away at the spam like tiny aquatic pigeons. “Go on, lads,” I muttered, “ring the dinner bell for your bigger mates.” The tip nodded and twitched, teasing me. I was already imagining the surge of a proper bite — that unmistakable tug that makes your pulse jump and the rod bend in a way that momentarily justifies everything.

And then… nothing.

Dead stillness. Like someone had switched the river off. The tip froze, the noises died, and I sat there illuminated by my torchlight, staring at nothing. It was as if the river had lost interest and gone to bed. I waited ten minutes. Fifteen. Eventually, I gave in and reeled in, half expecting to see my spam looking a bit sorry for itself.

Nothing. Gone. Completely stripped. The hook gleaming naked in the beam of my headtorch like it was mocking me. “You muppet,” I said aloud to no one. “You’ve been sitting here watching an empty hook.”

That was the moment, I think, when the laughter came. Not the normal kind, either that weird, slightly hysterical laugh that bursts out when you’ve had too many blanks and not enough bites. I must have looked unhinged. Somewhere, if there’s a CCTV camera trained on that stretch, there’s footage of a grown man sitting in the dark, laughing maniacally at a hook.

Rebaited. Cast again. Another twenty minutes of hope that dissolved into nothing. No chub, no barbel, not even a cheeky eel. The river was silent, smug, and completely uninterested.

But here’s the thing even in the midst of failure, there’s something soothing about it. The absurdity becomes comforting. The spam smells oddly nostalgic, the torchlight makes the mist look cinematic, and the silence — that deep, swallowing silence — does something to the brain. You start thinking about life, work, mortality, Ed Gein’s home décor choices, and the fact that your best mate hasn’t texted you back since July. The river becomes a therapist. A very quiet one, with poor communication skills and a habit of eating your bait.

By the time curfew rolled around, I’d accepted my fate. Packed up slowly, methodically, like a soldier withdrawing from a lost battle. I’ve blanked enough times to be philosophical about it now. It’s just the universe’s way of keeping you humble. After all, if we caught every time, we’d get bored  or at least that’s what I tell myself to stop crying in the car on the drive home.

Still, the plan’s already forming for the next session. I’m going to make a new swim next time, closer to the snag where I suspect they’re lurking. 

Somewhere they feel safe. Somewhere I can ambush them before they realise it’s just me again. Because that’s the thing about fishing it’s not hope that keeps you going, it’s stubbornness. Stubbornness wrapped in delusion, seasoned with optimism, and served cold with a side of disappointment.

So yes, I’ll be back tomorrow, after work, armed with another tin of spam and the misplaced confidence of a man who’s clearly forgotten how rivers work. Maybe I’ll get a bite. Maybe I’ll lose another bait. Maybe I’ll sit there again, torch on, watching the tip glow faintly against the black water, waiting for something that never comes.

And maybe just maybe that’s the whole point.

Because while Ed Gein was busy trying to crawl into his mother’s skin, I’m just trying to crawl back into the rhythm of the river the silence, the slowness, the sweet insanity of it all.

And if nothing else, at least I’ve still got my skin.

For now.

Warwickshire Avon - Squits and Squarsonocracy

I woke up feeling like I’d gone ten rounds with a hangover I didn’t earn. That dull headache that pulses behind your eyes, a stomach that couldn’t decide whether to stage a protest or a coup, and the kind of lethargy that makes even putting the kettle on feel like a triathlon event. Still, as any self-respecting angler will tell you, the thought of a session on the river somehow overrides basic human biology. You could be half-dead and still think, “Yeah, but the chub might be on the feed.”

So, off I went against my better judgement to the Warwickshire Wye. Not the grand, postcard-famous Wye of Herefordshire glory, mind you, but the more modest, slightly moody cousin that snakes its way through hedgerows, farm gates, and the occasional abandoned shopping trolley. A river that doesn’t so much sparkle as it does quietly gurgle in disapproval.

It’s far too early in the season, of course. The water’s low, clear as gin, and the fish as cautious as a vicar in a strip club. But I’d had that itch for weeks, the kind of angling urge that only a proper session can scratch. So I plonked myself on the bank, armed with a loaf of bread, a flask of questionable tea, and a misplaced sense of optimism.

Now, anyone who’s ever float-fished bread on a clear river knows it’s less “fishing” and more “flirting with rejection.” You feed in some sloppy mash or “head-turning bread slop” as I like to call it and then waft down a piece on the hook, hoping a chub somewhere down there is feeling particularly reckless. For nearly two hours, I might as well have been fishing in a swimming pool. The float drifted beautifully, the sun broke through the trees, and I started to feel that rare sort of calm that only comes from being outdoors, alone, and miles from the nearest human voice.

And then it happened.

The float, a large domed drake that looked like it had seen more seasons than the BBC weather team, buried faster than Labour’s reputation for fiscal prudence. I struck, the rod hooped, and for about 5 glorious seconds, all was right with the world. Then the chub and it was a proper lump, no doubt about it decided it wasn’t playing by my rules. It bolted left like a greyhound late for dinner, straight toward a bed of reeds.

I applied side strain that would make a carp angler proud, whispered a few encouraging words that can’t be printed here, and for a fleeting moment thought I might just turn it. Then came that sickening jolt  the unmistakable feeling of a hook pulling free. Silence followed, the kind that only a fisherman knows. The kind that hangs heavy in the air as you stare at your float, rod tip quivering in defeat, and mutter, “Well… that’s that then.”

One bite. One lost beast. One session that’ll be filed under character building in the ever-expanding cabinet of near misses.

Still, there were positives. The float went down straight and true. The presentation was lovely. I didn’t fall in, which, given the wobbly state of my insides, felt like an achievement. And when I finally trudged back to the car tired, empty, but oddly content I realised something important. Fishing isn’t really about catching fish at all. It’s about standing on a riverbank convincing yourself that next time, when the conditions are right, when the planets align, when your stomach isn’t staging a mutiny… you’ll finally get your revenge on that chub.

Of course, I’ll be back. Probably still feeling under the weather, armed with more bread, less hope, and exactly the same daft grin when the float disappears again.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.34

The fishing time seems to be as limited as ever at the moment a cruel trick of modern life, really. We spend all week grafting, dreaming of float tips dipping and rod tops nodding, only to find that when we finally get a sniff of free time, it’s dark, cold, and our enthusiasm is balanced precariously on the promise of one half-hearted bite. Still, I’ve found that the best chance of success or at least the illusion of it is to sneak out straight after work, grab the rods from the boot, and fish that hallowed window known as the witching hour. You know the one: an hour before dusk when, if you’re lucky, something with fins might actually be awake and mildly peckish.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I find it difficult to sit behind a motionless rod. I’m not one of those stoics who can stare at a static quiver tip and call it “meditative.” To me, that’s just boredom with tackle. But this after-work quickie an hour or so before dark that’s just about dooable. It’s the angling equivalent of a cheeky pint: short, sharp, and slightly disappointing, but you feel better for it.

A couple of days previously, I’d winkled out a rather nice chub on a ludicrously large piece of spam. Not your polite cube either more a full English breakfast serving. The kind of bait that would make a vegetarian faint and a chub drool in admiration. Naturally, the plan was to repeat the tactic. Why change a winning formula when you’ve got processed pork and sodium on your side?

So, with a bit of crushed hemp and a whiff of halibut groundbait mixed into something that resembled grey porridge, I lobbed in a few freebies the baiting equivalent of “help yourself, lads.” Then I left it to rest, figuring the chub would need a few minutes to overcome the trauma of finding an entire meal dropped on their doorstep. While that settled, I went for a bit of a wander part roving, part bailiffing, mostly nosing about pretending to look important.

There’s another swim further downstream I’ve been eyeing up, the kind that just looks fishy. But like most anglers, I’m a creature of habit and superstition, so I slunk back to the same peg where I’d caught that decent chevin before. Predictability, after all, is a comfort when your fishing time is as rare as a unicorn with a club card.

Of course, true to Sod’s law, the conditions changed the moment I got comfy. There’d been cloud cover all day, and I’d been thinking, “Perfect just what chub like.” Then, as if on cue, the heavens parted like Moses at the Red Sea, and I was bathed in brilliant sunlight just as I cast out. The temperature started to drop, the air went still, and my confidence sank faster than a feeder full of lead shot. 

Still, it was hard to be cross. The sunset behind me was ridiculous vibrant pinks and oranges glowing through the last tatters of cloud, the kind of view that makes you forget your toes are cold and your bait smells like regret. The sky was glowing like Alex Ferguson’s nose after a night on the Rioja and apparently, he owns 5,000 bottles of the stuff, which would have been double if he didn’t drink like a fish himself.

Anyway, I settled in for the final act. The lump of meat sat there in the swim, radiating the kind of greasy confidence only tinned meat can. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then, just as the light began to fade, a single pull. Then another. And suddenly, a proper bite the kind that jolts the heart and sends the brain into full reflex mode. I struck like a man possessed.

Nothing.

Not a sausage (ironically).

You’d think I’d have learned by now. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t strike unless all hell broke loose something biblical, like Charlotte Church in a vest top belting out a hymn. But no, old habits die hard, and I went for it. The rod whizzed back through the air, and the line went slack, and I was left staring at the tip as if it had personally betrayed me.

I sat there a while longer, nursing my wounded pride and wondering whether chub are actually just small comedians wearing scales. I imagine it down there, belly full of my bait, chuckling to its mates, “You should’ve seen him, lads fell for it again!”

Still, that’s fishing, isn’t it? The quiet optimism, the false hope, the tragic comedy of it all. I packed up in the dark, the smell of spam still on my hands and the faint sense that I’d been outsmarted once again.

Next time, I’ll take my own advice. I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. I’ll only strike when it’s chaos incarnate.

Well that’s the plan anyway.