The River Wye - Mirth and Misadventure

The Bat Phone at the Avon Angling headquarters (he does guiding sessions don't you know) flashed like a disco ball at a 90s wedding. My message was simple, succinct, and laced with urgency “River Wye. Forthwith. Let’s go!!” and before he could even butter his toast, he was already mentally packing the barbel rods, a flask of extra-strong coffee, and a large helping of misplaced optimism after I'd booked the tickets quicker than a lie from Lammy in parliament. 

You see, Nic and I or as I affectionately call him, the Barbel Botherer had been watching the weather like a pair of anxious meerkats. The Plynlimon mountains in mid-Wales had been coughing up rainwater like a cheap lager drinker at last orders, and that, blog readers, can only mean one thing the Wye was on the rise. Now, most sensible people would take that as a warning. Nic and I ? we both took it as divine invitation. After all, mild weather, a bit of flow, and a day away from work what could possibly go wrong?

Now, I should probably mention that taking a day off costs me roughly the same as a small family holiday in Skegness. Being back on the contract grind means that any absence from the job equals money out the window or worse, into Rachel Reeves’ bottomless fiscal black hole. I'm enjoying it though especially when my pension pot via salary sacrifice is being topped up like never before. Retirement is still a away off but looking at ones finances there seems light at the end of the rather long but gradually reducing tunnel. 

But there comes a point, doesn’t there, when a man’s wellbeing must take priority over the Treasury’s spreadsheets. And frankly, if catching a barbel doesn’t count as a mental-health intervention, I don’t know what does.

The plan was simple. Nic, ever the early bird (when fishing is involved), would arrive first, pre-bait a few swims, and report back via WhatsApp with a full operational update. Except the message that pinged through as I was halfway up the A46 wasn’t exactly reassuring: “We might be flooded off, mate.”

Now, that’s the sort of text that can really test one’s commitment. I was already thirty minutes into a seventy-five-minute drive, halfway through my travel mug of coffee, and fully emotionally invested in a day of piscatorial enlightenment. Turning back simply wasn’t an option. After all, I’d fished it at 4.2 metres and it was fishable despite the flow. If it we were forced off then we'd ironically came up with the same piscatorial answer to out predicament and would fish the Warwickshire Avon stretch where the barbel the barbel go big, the neds even bigger. 

Nic’s dog, Tess, a retriever of Olympic pedigree, was apparently on standby should we need an emergency rescue. That’s the sort of foresight you need when your fishing partner starts referring to “escape routes” and “higher ground.”

When I finally arrived, heart rate slightly elevated after descending what I lovingly refer to as Heart Attack Hill, I was greeted by the sight of the Wye in full, untamed glory. The river was charging through like a runaway freight train, churning with so much debris I half expected to see a wardrobe from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe float by, closely followed by the White Witch herself. It was less “idyllic rural river” and more “Amazon Delta during a monsoon.”

Still, never let common sense get in the way of a good session. I dropped into the first field, where Nic had already baited a swim with his usual meticulous attention to detail (and probably half a bucket of scallded pellets). A few casts later, and lo and behold, the tip wrapped round and I was into my first barbel.

Now, let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like that first fish of the session. The bite came so quickly I nearly spilt my tea, and the ensuing battle had me grinning like a loon. A feisty little scrapper, powered by two spicy sausage pellets and enough krill groundbait to start a marine ecosystem of its own. By the time it was in the net, I was convinced the day was already a success even if the rest of it went downhill faster than the price of bitcoin.

As the hours wore on, the river kept rising, and the debris situation escalated from “mild inconvenience” to “floating forest.” where throughout the day it seemed all those thousands of trees from Brazil they cut down to build the four lane eight mile road for Cop30 were coming our way. 

Every cast became a race against time before a small branch, a log, or an entire hedge came sailing down to pluck my line from the current like a magician’s trick. 

But you know what? There’s something exhilarating about fishing in those conditions. You’re not just angling you’re battling the elements, defying logic, and possibly risking hypothermia for the love of a whiskered creature with fins. After a blank hour, I wandered over to Nic’s peg to see how he was faring. 

True to form, he’d winkled out a chunky chub from a tight swim and was just finishing his celebratory polish garlic sausage when the rod hooped over again. “You watching this?” he shouted, as if I could miss it. His rod was bent double, cork creaking, and Tess stood there, tail wagging, looking every bit the proud assistant. Another barbel glistening, golden, and full of fight.

At this point, I started to think Nic was whispering some kind of druidic spell into the water when I wasn’t looking. 

The man just has that touch. Meanwhile, I was out roving, missing bites left, right, and centre, each one a masterclass in how not to strike at the right time. Probably chub. Probably my own fault. Probably karma.

Eventually, I found myself back in the swim where I’d started, the water now lapping at the grass like an eager Labrador. I hooked into something solid really solid only for it to bury itself under a hidden snag. I might have muttered a few words unfit for print, but let’s just say it wasn’t a hymn of gratitude.

Nic, of course, carried on serenely, adding another three barbel to his tally like it was nothing. None of them huge, but all immaculate, bronze perfection. By this point, the sun was dipping, the air cooling, and we were treated to the sort of cinematic finale only the Wye can provide  a low fly-past from two Typhoon jets and fireworks cracking in the distance. It felt like the river itself was giving us a standing ovation for sheer stubbornness and was still rising when we left. 

Looking back, I probably should have jumped into the next swim along from Nic’s, but hindsight, as they say, is 20/20 unless you’re me, in which case it’s usually 20/200 and slightly fogged up with mist from your flask. But no matter. It was another chapter in the eternal love affair with this glorious, moody, mercurial river. On another positive note the margins were alive with fry, the first scoop of the landing net harvested me these !!

Because the Wye isn’t just a place it’s a state of mind. A place where logic goes to die, wallets go to empty, and yet your soul walks away feeling rich. If you look up Utopia in the dictionary, there’s a fair chance you’ll find a picture of Nic, Tess, and me, rods in hand, rain in the air, grinning like idiots, somewhere along its banks.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.139 (Canal Zander)

The decision to fish this particular stretch of canal was, in hindsight, somewhere between heroic persistence and full-blown masochism. I’d parked a good ten-minute trudge away the kind of walk where you start optimistic and end questioning whether you should have taken up stamp collecting instead. By the time I trudged past the third abandoned narrowboat (modern canal architecture at its finest), I already regretted my life choices. The more handy carpark is now pay and display which I'm a tight git these days I've fully functioning feet I'll use them !!

And then the scent hit me. Not the wholesome aroma of damp nettles and lock grease, oh no  this was the Botanical Gardens of the Lost, aroma courtesy of a gentleman who clearly believed breakfast is a joint effort. 

Literally. 6:45am. Rosie and Jim on the nearby narrowboat looked horrified like two pensioners witnessing teenagers try vaping in a bus shelter.

I set up between a dog walker who looked like they’d been dragged from bed by an over-caffeinated spaniel, and a jogger who was on their third loop of trying to outrun regret. But I was here on a mission: Halloween weekend, vampire vibes, Zander time. 

Cue dramatic soundtrack or in this case, the gentle “plonk” of my float and the distant sound of a gongoozler explaining canal locks wrong to their partner. 

Now, Zander, the so-called “vampire fish,” would never glitter in sunlight like a romantic teenage blood-sucker; no, these lads have the personality of a night-shift security guard and the fashion sense of a creature who thinks algae green is formal wear. Fangs? Absolutely. Eyes that say “I haven’t slept since the Industrial Revolution”? You bet.

Now first cast, float barely settled before something tugged. Could’ve been a fiendish predator could’ve been a curious leaf. Tragically, it was neither. Whatever nibbled vanished faster than my motivation on a Monday. I roved. I roamed. 

I muttered to myself like a pirate who’d misplaced his parrot. Eventually, a fish! Okay, two fish both convinced they were apex predators, not the biggest certainly . Still, in the murky black tea of the Midlands canal, that’s practically a sea monster. I swear one hissed at me. 

Or that might’ve been the wind. Or the weed fellow chuckling behind a cloud of existential relaxation.  A dog walker with a judgemental look (all in the eyes) stopped mid walk with her dog carrying on in front of her to release a chocolate hostage I'd imagine, out of sight out of mind and all that, but she was there eyes fixated to wonder what I was going to do with them I suppose.

The towpath slowly filled with morning humanity: four lure anglers twanging rods like they were auditioning for a fishing-based boyband, cyclists whispering “sorry” as they nearly removed my kneecaps, and a labradoodle that decided my ruckbag held the secrets of the universe. 

The drama! The ambience! The slow realisation that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t actually enjoying myself. 

But anglers are a stubborn breed; we tell ourselves joy is optional but commitment is sacred. Eventually, I packed up before I turned fully feral. The canal? Tea-stained. The fish? Temperamental. My mood? Somewhere between “Let’s Go!” and “Let’s go home.”

That was enough for me !! So I ambled back, rods over shoulder like a defeated medieval foot soldier, I knew I'd return ( 7 years time ?)

Because fishing isn’t about the catching. It’s about the characters. The mystery. The absurdity of chasing vampire fish while being side-eyed by childhood puppets and serenaded by the smell of herbal breakfast. (apparently !!)

That’s canal life, baby. One day you’re landing fanged leviathans; the next you're debating if a gust of wind counts as a bite. 

But oh, when that float dips proper… when midnight predators strike in tea-coloured gloom… when Rosie, Jim, and Duck give you their silent approval… magic.

Let’s go again.
Because logic never stopped an angler and certainly hasn’t stopped me.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.39

Ah, yes. Monday. Approaching not with dignity or grace but with the subtlety of a Northern pike detonating into a shoal of roach. The Big 5–3, looming like a barbel bivvied under a snag—patient, inevitable, and smelling faintly of halibut pellet and mid-life crisis. Fifty-flipping-three. One foot in the grave, the other still trying to perfect a Wallis cast without looking like I’m conducting a small orchestra of invisible bees.  

People say I don't look my age, of course they lie, but I appreciate the effort. I maintain the sprightly demeanour of a man in his late forties on a good physio day, provided the ibuprofen has kicked in and the knee brace is on the correct leg. Elasticity? More like well-loved bankstick tubing: perished, cracking, yet refusing to give up through sheer bloody-mindedness.

And sixty—SIXTY!—is out there beyond the marginal lilies, squinting through bifocals and polishing its orthopedic slippers like a retired SAS sergeant tending to his ceremonial dagger. 

I can almost hear it wheezing, chuckling, sharpening its scythe on the back of my last functional lumbar vertebra. 

Time, that slippery devil, is racing past faster than a spooked chub on the gin-clear Warwickshire Avon, the kind of fish that looks at you, judges your life choices, and then bolts off like it’s late for a Zoom call with its therapist.

The Mrs God bless her for tolerating my collection of rods, reels, and landing nets that cost more than her wedding shoes (a fact she reminds me of seasonally like the renewal date on a rod licence)—had a scheme. Thinking, no doubt, “Let’s see if his arteries can handle something that would make a Roman senator wince,” (We have recently renewed our life insurance !!) she whisked me off to a Brazilian Rodizio in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Because nothing screams "celebrating your continued survival" like testing whether your cardiovascular system can endure sword-wielding waiters slinging protein like medieval siege engineers launching cattle over castle walls.

Meanwhile young Sam now a towering beanpole of teenage non-fishing rebellion stayed home to look after big brother Ben. 

A rare treat: to trust your offspring not to burn the house down, adopt a goat, or order industrial-scale pizza deliveries. With no support network worth mentioning, it's an odd sort of luxury to have a kid mature faster than your cholesterol levels. 

And oh, what a spectacle. The passadores essentially churrasco-trained meat ninjas strode about with skewers so imposing I half-expected the bard himself to rise from his grave and ask whether we were rehearsing Macbeth or an enthusiastic re-enactment of Gladiator. 

At one point, I swear one of them sized me up like a hog roast candidate. If the green card on the table flipped the wrong way, I might’ve ended up rotating over charcoal while tourists from Birmingham applauded politely and asked whether I came with chimichurri.

Chicken hearts arrived by the dozen Coração de Frango, which in Portuguese either means “delicious delicacy of cultural significance” or “procedure your GP recommends avoiding after 50.” I devoured them with the enthusiasm of a carp that’s just discovered someone spilt a bucket of Dynamite Marine Halibut boilies in the margins. 

Bife de Alho flowed past like long-lost relatives at a wake each slice a garlicky whisper saying, “You lived another year. Reckon you can handle another?” A man at the next table was openly sweating meat grease like a bacon candle. His wife looked like she had already drafted the eulogy.

Somewhere between the ninth cut of sirloin and what may have been a small llama disguised as beef “special cut,” my body began issuing gentle warnings. 

First a polite nudge: “Steady, lad.” Then, moments later, an urgent communiqué from the Department of Internal Affairs: “We didn’t sign off on this mission. Stop or we’re pulling the plug.” I powered on anyway, because pride is a terrible helmsman and also there was caramelised pineapple and frankly I fear no man and certainly no tropical fruit.

I reached a personal plateau of protein intake that could only be described as prehistoric caveman meets Tom Stoltman preparing for a WSM tournament. 

Then came the meat sweats. Oh yes, those glorious humid trousers of perspiration, clinging like a wet wader after you step in slightly wrong. 

I lay down at home staring at the ceiling, belly like a python post-gazelle, and in that moment of culinary delirium and self-reflection, I Googled Mounjaro. 

Not because I need it heaven forbid  but more in a “might-need-it-in-2027-as-a-backup-plan” kind of way. Future-proofing is important at my age, especially when your metabolism is basically a retired greyhound.

In this cost of living crisis those small wins, or in this case BIG wins need to be grasped with both arms, make hay whilst the sun shines and we both certainly did I can tell you that. 

Anyway to the fishing if you are still awake !! in an act of nostalgia or masochism I revisited an old blog post, (this is number 1834 👀 btw ) (which frankly feels like the age my spine believes it is), chronicling a COVID-era syndicate adventure where poachers roamed with all the subtlety of Newcastle clubbing ladies at a kebab van after midnight. 

I had landed a respectable 12lb 6oz pike PB at the time back when the world was mad, the rivers quieter, and my knees slightly less creaky. Since then, I've bettered that PB both river and canal side, with a canal pike over 17lbs that looked like it wanted to claim council tax benefits and register as a local resident.

I don't target pike much these days, largely because they look like a Victorian doctor designed them after seeing a crocodile once in a sketchbook.  

But when you do bank a good ‘un, there’s awe. A prehistoric torpedo designed for pure murder that swims around the Midlands silently plotting mayhem. Beautiful in a “don’t-put-your-fingers-there-Mick-you-pillock” sort of way.

Anyway, fishing wasn't really about pike today nor even Zander, those nocturnal teethy goblins of the cut. The farmer finally removed the electric fence to contain the sheep, meaning access to more swims along the syndicate stretch, and crucially I could now drive right behind the peg instead of lugging a hedge cutter like some geriatric lumberjack cosplay.

Yes, I have grown lazy in my golden-fishing-years era. Once I'd stride along riverbanks like a younger man possessed now I see a walk longer than a Tesco Express car park and internally whimper. 

(I'm still maintaining 10k steps on average a day you will be please to know) The hedge cutter alone weighs as much as my resolve did before discovering LSD in my twenties. 

But needs must, and if maintaining the swims means I get first dibs at the good ones, then so be it. The river gods reward effort allegedly. Though they mostly reward people who own stealthy bait boats and suspiciously expensive sunglasses.

There’s a moment, somewhere between swinging a hedge timmer like a medieval turnip farmer and realising you’ve just stepped in something that definitely wasn’t mud, when a man questions his life decisions. I’d set off for the river with hope in my chest and breakfast pastries in the glovebox, convinced that today yes today! I would outwit a pike and maybe even look competent doing it. Fast-forward half an hour and I was locked in mortal combat with autumn nettles, swearing with the gusto of a pirate who’s stubbed his toe on his own treasure chest.

I hacked, trimmed and generally vandalised the riverside vegetation until the bank looked like someone had attempted landscape gardening with the emotional restraint of a toddler on a Haribo overdose. Sweat poured, ambition radiated, and at one point the brambles and I were so entwined we may as well have been engaged. But, dear reader, swims were cleared. Nature defeated. My honour only mildly compromised. A couple of heroic dips in the river sorted the sweat situation and I emerged ready — nay, ordained — for piscatorial victory.

 

Rods out. Float poised in that perfect way that suggests something might, at any moment, explode into a dramatic spray of water and primal triumph. The river glistened like polished silver, dragonflies danced in the morning sun, and my anticipation crackled like the first gulp of a cold pint after a week of pretending salad is a satisfying lunch. I could practically hear the David Attenborough narration warming up.

So the masterplan: four or five swims, hour in each, find a pike, land said pike, grin smugly for blog readers and imaginary documentary crew. First swim, normally as reliable as the bloke in the pub who always “knows a shortcut.” Nothing. Not a nudge, not a rattle, not even a pike popping up to laugh at me. Fine. Onto the next roving mode activated, strides purposeful, like a man who definitely knows what he’s doing and not one who forgot which pocket he put his forceps in.

Second stretch of river again, splendid nothingness. Fishless silence, punctuated only by the gentle rustling of reeds and the slow deflation of my ego. I tried sink-and-draw with the smelt, a deadly method according to every fishing article written in the last two decades and also every bloke with a YouTube channel and a beard. I twitched that smelt like I was presenting it at the Royal Ballet. Nothing followed. Not even a curious roach pretending to care.

To the deeper water then, where big pike theoretically lurk like those grumpy nightclub bouncers from Coventry's Fatty Arbuckle's back in the day. I chucked a lure about with all the finesse of a drunk penguin. Wind picked up, lure rod began behaving like it was possessed by the spirit of a disgruntled washing line, and very quickly “dedicated lure angler” became “man giving up before he throws something expensive into the reeds out of spite.”

 Deadbaits back out. Prayers whispered. Offerings made to the fish gods that probably violated several religious guidelines. The river responded with all the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to unload the dishwasher. By this point, the only thing taking interest in my baits was a lone leaf, which drifted past with a kind of pitying vibe, like even the foliage had given up hope.

Hours passed. My optimism slowly dissolved, much like my rear end’s feeling in that ridiculous folding chair that looks sporty but has all the ergonomic qualities of an anvil. In the end, the only thing I hooked all day was a clump of reeds the size of a Labradoodle and a philosophical crisis about why I don’t play golf instead though then I remember golf involves trousers.

And so I trudged home, smelling faintly of sea fish, plant sap, and desperation, self-esteem slightly bruised but not fully annihilated. Because that’s fishing: endless hope, frequent humiliation, and just enough stubbornness to do it all again next weekend. Besides the river owes me now. I’ve filed an emotional complaint. Next time, I want action. And if not action, at least a pike swimming by so I can swear at it with purpose.

On to the next one !!