The Tiny River Alne - Gonkholes and Gudgeonology

Thursday delivered rain not so much in drops as in volumes, biblical in ambition if not quite in duration. The sort of rain that causes river levels to rise with all the restraint of a politician spotting an expenses loophole. Every local river had been in flood, doing that thing rivers do when reminded who is actually in charge. Thankfully the little Warwickshire Alne, that most mercurial of watercourses, rises like a startled cat and drops again just as quickly, leaving behind only suspicion, turbidity, and a faint smell of uncertainty.

So this first session after finishing work for a much needed two week Christmas break the lunchtime before left me with a choice that wasn’t really a choice at all. Canals or flowing water. The canals would be there, of course flat, patient, faintly resentful but flowing water won as it always does. Flowing water has intent. It’s doing something. Even when it’s doing absolutely nothing useful to the angler, it’s still doing it with conviction.

The Alne, though, is a moody little beast. Chocolate brown at the best of times, and after a deluge it resembles less a river and more a moving accusation. You never quite know how it will fare until you’re there, standing on the bank, trying to read its intentions like tea leaves stirred by a guilty conscience. Twelve to sixteen hours earlier it would have been over the banks, liberating worms, drowning rats, and generally rearranging the furniture of its own ecosystem.

But when I arrived, miracle of miracles, it was back within its banks. Still brown, mind. Brown in a way that suggested light entering it had signed a waiver. This was not a day for finesse. This was not a day for subtlety. This was a worm day.

A worm day with a maggot cocktail, no less. A combination chosen not because it is elegant, but because in water this coloured, subtlety is just arrogance with a hook. The river looked about as clear as Severn Trent’s conscience, following yet another “unfortunate discharge” into local waterways a phrase that somehow manages to sound both accidental and deliberate at the same time. Bugger the environment, let’s pay huge bonuses to the fat cats. The fish can always learn to hold their breath, can’t they?

Anyway.

Simple tactics, really. Find the slack or steady water and send a wriggly worm on what can only be described as a swimming lesson with poor prospects. No ledgering sophistication, no float wizardry just letting gravity, current, and blind optimism do the work.

The morning was misty in that soft, apologetic way that makes everything look slightly unreal, like the river itself wasn’t entirely convinced it wanted to be there. Still, it didn’t take long to get the first signs of life. Minnows arrived first, as they always do, like excitable children at the front of a queue, pecking, fussing, and generally being a nuisance without actually committing to anything.

Then, out of nowhere, a thumping bite.

I struck.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

That hollow, soul-sinking moment where the rod tip springs back and you’re left wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Was it a fish? A stick? A hallucination brought on by acid and low expectations? We’ll never know. The river, naturally, declined to comment.

I halved the worm because if there’s one thing fishing teaches you, it’s that confidence should always be immediately abandoned and got it back out again. This time, when I struck, there was weight. Proper weight. Alive weight. The rod nodded, the line trembled, and for a brief, glorious moment I wondered if something altogether unreasonable had made a terrible mistake.

What is this?

Oh.

A gonk.

A big, fat gudgeon.

NICE.

I love it when gudgeon turn up. Truly love it. They are everything good about fishing distilled into a fish the size of a man’s finger. Bold biters, no nonsense, and looking for all the world like barbel in miniature, as if someone had photocopied a proper fish and forgotten to adjust the scale.

This one was a cracker, all whiskers and attitude, and I admired it like you would a small but perfectly engineered tool. Then back it went, no doubt to tell its mates about the terrifying sky-worm incident.

Bites, after that, were hard to come by. As were fishable swims. The river had that freshly rearranged look gravel shifted, banks scoured, flow lines altered just enough to make last season’s knowledge completely redundant. I worked my way downstream, poking worm into likely-looking steadies, waiting, listening, thinking.

Three more gudgeon followed, each greeted with the enthusiasm usually reserved for far larger species. Because frankly, in conditions like these, anything that bites deserves respect.

In the most downstream swim, I hooked a dace. A proper silver flash, briefly airborne in that way dace do, before in a moment of stupidity entirely my own I decided to swing it to hand. It dropped off, naturally, because the fishing gods have an excellent sense of timing. Thankfully not one of the massive dace that do reside in this small Warwickshire river. Just a small one. Thank God. Losing a big dace would have required reflection. Possibly a sulk.

I had expected the stretch to myself, and I was not disappointed. No dog walkers, no well-meaning passers-by asking “caught owt then?” Just me, the river, and the low-level hum of existential satisfaction that comes from being exactly where you ought to be, even if nothing much is happening.

The fishing wasn’t exactly productive compared to the massive chub haul. But so what?

I was out in nature, boots damp, hands smelling faintly of worm, mind pleasantly emptied of emails, deadlines, and general nonsense. And that’s good for the wellbeing, isn’t it?

Well.

It is for me anyway.

And if a big fat gudgeon is the price of admission, I’ll pay it every time.

Warwickshire Avon - Watercraft and Woe

My big chub campaign has, at present, ground to a halt so abrupt you’d think I’d hit a submerged shopping trolley. The last chub over five pounds graced my net back in October and since then it’s been like chasing ghosts with fins. Still, the river was fining down nicely, looking all moody and seductive, whispering promises of slab-sided winter chevin lurking under snags and slacks. Naturally, I packed the Jimny, convinced myself today was the day, and set off full of misplaced confidence and cheesepaste.

I arrived to find the car park empty. Completely empty. Normally this stretch resembles a Halfords sale with rods, barrows and blokes called Dave everywhere, but winter had scared off the fair-weather brigade. You know the type if a jumper or raincoat is required, the rods are ceremoniously hung up until June. I, however, soldiered on, because nothing says “good decisions” like standing next to cold water with lobworms in your pocket.

Armed with lobworms, bread and cheesepaste (which smelled like something the dog once buried and regretted), I kicked off with the paste and a feeder rammed with liquidised bread. I don’t know this stretch intimately, but years of watercraft and blind optimism told me the chub had to be there. This bit of river gets baited to within an inch of its life in summer, and the fish respond accordingly by growing large, smug and uncooperative.

The swim that had done the business previously? Stone dead. Not even a courtesy knock. So I began roving, leapfrogging swims like an overly hopeful salmon. One thing about liquidised bread is that it can draw fish from afar, or at least that’s what I told myself while repeatedly returning to the same empty swims like a man checking an unplugged kettle.

Then it happened an unmissable bite. One of those full-on, rod-wrenching jobs that even a statue could hit. Naturally, I struck like I was swatting a wasp and smashed the rod straight into a branch to my right. Absolute textbook stuff. The fish, insulted by my incompetence, never came back. I stood there for a moment, reflecting on life choices and inspecting the rod like it might apologise, the problem is that bite that I missed, could be the trophy shot of dreams. 

More roving followed. Swim after swim offered nothing but cold fingers and rising doubt. I spooked a couple of cormorants, which probably explained everything the chub were likely holding a secret meeting somewhere out of sight, laughing at me while polishing their scales. 

The fish were sulking, and my confidence was leaking away faster than cheesepaste in a warm pocket.

After nearly two hours of this nonsense, another angler arrived and, in a moment of accidental wisdom, said, “Go where your head tells you.” This sounded profound enough to ignore everything I’d been doing and drive somewhere else entirely. So I did.

Off I went to a different stretch, navigating the Jimny down a track best described as “post-apocalyptic”, the high-profile tyres bravely soaking up potholes, puddles and geological features not found on most maps. I legged it to the peg, half-expecting to find it taken, but luck was briefly on my side the swim was free, despite a couple of anglers lurking nearby like vultures with thermos flasks.

The swim looked perfect. A lovely crease and a slack to the right, absolutely screaming “chub live here”. Five minutes in, another unmissable bite. Missed. Of course. I switched from bread back to cheesepaste, muttering darkly, and within ten minutes had plucks, taps and finally a proper, strikable bite. This time I connected.

The fight was spirited but sensible  no heart-stopping lunges, no net-busting drama so I knew it wasn’t a monster. Still, when that chub slid into the net it felt like winning the lottery with three numbers. A blank saver. One fish. Job done. That, predictably, was the only bite I had. The swim died, another swim followed suit, and before I knew it curfew loomed and I was packing up after nearly four hours of hope, effort and mild self-loathing.

So, no big chub glory this time, but with Christmas approaching and two glorious weeks off work on the horizon, I remain optimistic. The river owes me. The chub owe me. And eventually, one of them will pay up preferably something starting with a six, or even seven, that would nice wouldn't it. 

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.45

I must be, as they say in the old country, a glutton for punishment, because there I was again young Michael, trudging down to the syndicate stretch like some sort of half-hopeful, half-delusional Dickensian urchin with a rod. You’d think the repeated blanking would’ve put me off by now, but no this time I’d brought reinforcements: a pint and a half of maggots so past their best they were practically applying for a pension.

But the Avon looked a picture just that perfect height for trotting, the colour easing out like a teabag on its second dunk, and I thought, Surely this is it. Surely even I can’t mess this up. After all, every fish loves a maggot, especially one that smells like it’s been fermenting in the glovebox of a Vauxhall Astra since ‘98.

Now, there’s something almost spiritual about trotting a float down an English river therapeutic, even. A sort of piscatorial mindfulness. You cast, you mend the line, you watch the float glide downstream like a lazy waiter carrying your hopes and dreams on a red-tipped tray. It forces you to focus, to be present, to ignore life’s usual concerns like electricity bills, existential dread, and the lingering smell of those aforementioned maggots.

The rhythm does something to you. Cast… mend… drift… hope… despair… repeat. It’s basically yoga for anglers, except with more layers, more mud, and fewer people called “Saffron.” And the river, being a proper blue-space oasis, works its magic; cortisol drops, serotonin rises, and before long you’re smiling to yourself like a man who’s either at peace with nature or has finally lost the plot entirely.

Of course, catching a fish would help the whole experience along nicely, but even blanking has its charm. There’s a sense of purpose in the trying, a strange satisfaction in the persistence, and a feeling of accomplishment when you eventually remember where you left your rod rest. Besides, it’s the ultimate digital detox no screens, no notifications, no doomscrolling. Just you, the river, a float, and a pint of semi-sentient maggots plotting their escape.

Before the session even began, I decided to unleash my inner Heath Robinson and knock together a trotting pod from the sacred Box of Bits you know the one. Every angler has it: a chaotic archaeological dig of metal doodahs, plastic whatsits, and mysterious components you’re certain will be useful one day, even though you’ve no idea what they originally belonged to. And no, before you ask, I’m not throwing any of it away. That’s how civilisations collapse.

So there I was, rummaging through this angling Bermuda Triangle, emerging occasionally with relics like an Allen key last used in 2003 or a bankstick thread that may or may not have been part of a lawnmower. With the ingenuity of a man who refuses to spend 40 quid on a branded gadget, I cobbled together my masterpiece: bucket of bait steadfastly on the left for balance, rod support precariously on the right for ambition. A system so perfectly aligned that NASA would’ve asked for the blueprints if they didn’t look quite so… improvised.

But I tell you what job’s a good ’un. It stood there proud as punch on the bank, like a budget version of the Starship Enterprise, ready to guide my float serenely down the Avon. And as I stepped back to admire it in all its utilitarian glory, I felt a warm glow inside the kind that only comes from knowing you’ve built something with your own two hands… in, ok, 5 minutes. 

Whether it actually helps me catch anything is another question entirely, but between us, that’s never really stopped me before.

Now the frost had welded itself to the windscreen like a bailiff with a warrant, and scraping it off felt very much like I was being punished for crimes committed in a former life. Still, once mobile, I pointed the car down those fog-sodden country lanes where visibility is more a matter of faith than eyesight. Arriving at the syndicate stretch with fingers already numb and optimism slightly dented, I was greeted by that special winter stillness which suggests either piscatorial glory… or a thorough doing-over by events yet to unfold. A lovely morning, mind you. Absolutely lovely. Just cold enough to make you question your life choices.

Winter chub usually means bread for me, accompanied by my fetching marigold gloves haute couture for the serious angler but today had “maggot morning” written all over it. The river had shifted from that ghastly battleship grey to a pleasing olive green, the sort of colour that whispers possibility rather than screams despair. A handful of maggots deposited on the edge were clearly visible a couple of feet down, which is always encouraging, unless you’re the maggots. Trotting conditions looked spot on, so naturally I also put out a sleeper pike rod in the margin because, as we all tell ourselves, “you never know” which usually translates as “nothing will happen, but I’ll feel better for doing it.”

Tea was consumed initially. Maggots were catapulted little and often with the sort of discipline normally reserved for monks. The float began its steady, obedient journeys downstream, dipping and gliding as if rehearsed. 

This swim, I know, tends to deliver its bites right at the tail of the run, and so I waited… and waited… and waited some more. Half an hour passed before the float finally buried itself with conviction and I struck into what can only be described as a presence. Solid. Heavy. Sulking low in the water like it had an argument with the riverbed and refused to move.

What followed was a short but emotionally scarring encounter. Instead of charging left as all decent fish should, this thing powered right, heading with malicious intent towards a colossal snag and tree roots clearly designed by Satan himself.

I applied as much pressure as a size 20 hook and my nerves would allow, the 15ft Daiwa Connoisseur bending heroically and doing everything except filing a formal complaint. For a moment, just a moment, I thought I had it. 

Then — ping — and that was that. Done. Properly. Utterly. The river resumed its innocent flow, and I stared at the end tackle like a man examining the ruins of a once-promising relationship.

And that, dear reader, was that. No more bites. Not even a sniff. The pike rod may as well have been attached to a brick. By eleven the sun had burned off the fog and shone down on the river like some cruel celestial spotlight, illuminating my blank with brutal clarity. Another zero in the book. And yet… I packed up with a smile. Because I’d been out. In the frost. In the fog. There had been a fish. A real one. And hope, like maggots, is best introduced little and often.

But it got better,

Christmas, as any thinking angler knows, is a dangerous time. Not because of the cold, nor the enforced proximity to relatives who smell faintly of mothballs and regret but because it lulls a chap into thinking he’s “just popping out” when in fact he’s embarking upon a full-blown campaign of logistical chaos.

Thus it was that I found myself “with the rabble” a phrase which here denotes a loose flotilla of family members, hangers-on and those who appear whenever food or alcohol is mentioned allegedly to “sort the Christmas tree”. A noble errand. A wholesome errand. An errand which, through no fault of my own, required a stop at Wetherspoons.

Specifically The Dictum of Kenilworth Wetherspoons, which sounds less like a pub and more like a stern medieval ruling involving land rights and the beheading of lesser nobles. Inside, however, it was the usual festive Spoons tableau: sticky carpets, shouting televisions (I jest), and the unmistakable air of men who have been there since breakfast and intend to see Christmas through from the same barstool.

And then — reader, brace yourself — I saw it.

Byatt’s XXXmas Ale. £0.99 a pint.

Yes. Ninety. Nine. Pence.

At which point my internal risk-assessment committee (normally a robust and well-regulated body) immediately resigned en masse. I mean, what is a man to do? Walk past it? Pretend he didn’t see it? Leave value on the table? That way madness lies.

Now, I should clarify that Byatt’s XXXmas Ale is less a beer and more a seasonal suggestion. A dark and moody pint-shaped hint of malt, with undertones of “you’ll regret this later”. Still, rules are rules, and for under a pound one must conduct due diligence.

One pint became two. Two became three. Three became four at which point I realised I was in no fit state to drive, operate heavy machinery, or convincingly argue about fishing tackle on the internet.

Thankfully and here we pause for respectful silence The Wife intervened.

Sensing my predicament, she offered to drive. An act of seasonal generosity so profound it deserves its own stained-glass window. I accepted with grace, humility, and the slight wobble of a man who has done very well out of Christmas.

So yes, a round of applause if you please. Not for me I merely fulfilled my duty as a citizen faced with sub-quid ale but for sensible spouses everywhere who quietly save Christmas while we’re busy “just having the one”. The tree was sorted. The errands were completed. No laws were broken (that we know of). And peace descended upon the household, accompanied by the faint echo of Wetherspoons and the lingering warmth of ale that cost less than a Freddo.

Merry Christmas to all and to all designated drivers.