Warwickshire Stour - Misadventurousness & Melancholiosity

There are days in an angler’s calendar that promise greatness. Days where the mist hangs mysteriously over the fields like a scene from a low-budget fantasy film, days where you wake with purpose, spring out of bed, and most importantly don’t feel like death warmed up because you haven’t been bathing your liver in Merlot the night before. 

This, dear reader, was one of those days. I leapt out of bed as fresh as a Mountain Dew advert, ready to take on the world, or at least ready to lob bread at fish with unrealistic optimism. Dry January, despite YouTube’s well-timed attempts to derail me via targeted ads featuring cheerful sociopaths telling me I deserve a drink, was going strong. My willpower rare, delicate, and about as dependable as a politician’s promise was still intact.

The plan was straightforward: hit the Arrow like a caffeinated otter, strike into a chub or two, and revel in that smug satisfaction that only a successful winter session can deliver. I’d even sorted the tackle the night before, which is practically unheard of. 

Usually, I’m rummaging in the back of the car like a raccoon in a skip, finding month-old pork pies and floats I’d assumed were lost to the ages. I even woke up after one of those sleeps where you open your eyes and think, “So this is what it feels like to not consume a distilled vineyard before bed.” Simply marvellous.

But fate fickle, cruel, and clearly a fan of slapstick comedy had other ideas. I decided to check to see if there wasn’t a match on. And of course, there was. Thirty-odd organised individuals most likely lined up like an angling firing squad, each armed with poles long enough to vault the Severn. Plans, as they say, utterly and spectacularly scuppered.

So off to the Warwickshire Stour I went, muttering to myself like a man who’d just realised he’d left his wallet in a taxi. The Stour, bless it, can be brilliant after a flood. Huge roach sometimes appear like shimmering aquatic miracles, drawn to colour and flow like a drunk to a kebab shop. I was brimming with optimism. That is, until I laid eyes on the river.

Now, I’m not exaggerating when I say it was green. Not nice countryside green. Not gentle minty green. No, we are talking glowing, radioactive, phosphorescent, mutant-slime green. 

A green so intense it could probably power a small village if you hooked it up to a turbine. A green that made me ponder whether the Ninja Turtles were about to emerge asking for pizza recommendations. I had expected weak tea. I got neon mushy peas.

Still, the chub can’t resist bread in a small cage feeder when the river’s tanking through, and I came prepared. 

Size 12 hook, thumbnail-sized flake of Warburtons, and chub-scaled gear that whispers confidence even if the angler using it is mostly running on blind faith and caffeine.

The first swim was the banker. The Almighty Banker. The swim where, nine times out of ten, you’d expect at least a tentative pluck or the tell-tale movement of something that isn’t submerged shopping trolleys. 

It’s sheltered by trees and a nice high bank that blocks the worst of the wind though the wind was still lively enough to blow the moustache off a walrus. I cast in, sat back, and tried to look like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Twenty minutes passed. Not a twitch. Not a tremble. Nothing. If the quivertip had shown any less movement, I’d have assumed I’d accidentally superglued it to the rest of the rod. So on I trudged, swim to swim like a wandering prophet with a bait bucket. Each spot looked fishy seductive even but each gave me absolutely nothing. 

I could’ve been fishing in a chlorinated swimming pool for all the interest I got. By swim number five (banker number two), I finally saw the quivertip give the slightest tremor. A nibble! Or possibly wind vibration. Or maybe the river sneezing. Hard to say. But I reeled in to find the bread gone. Something had happened, and that was enough to inflate my optimism like a punctured football being blown up with a foot pump.

Refreshed, inspired, and with the grace of a man who definitely knows how to cast, I filled the feeder again, stuck on a perfect piece of bread, took aim at the sweet spot… and immediately launched it straight into an overhanging branch like an absolute clown. I stared at it in disbelief as the feeder swung gently, taunting me like some kind of annoying river-side wind chime.

I pulled. I tugged. I even gave it the classic “wiggle and swear” technique, which has a success rate of approximately 0.0047%. Nothing. So I yanked with a bit more conviction, fully expecting the rig to drop back into the swim.

Instead, the line snapped, the feeder swung back, and my quivertip decided it fancied a career as a submarine. Off it plopped into the river, vanishing into the murky green depths like Leonardo DiCaprio at the end of Titanic (apparently I've not seen it). Goodbye, old friend.

Session over. Abruptly. Dramatically. Stupidly.

Spot the piece of bread in the tree - Where's Wally ? !!

Now, unlike Nic from Avon Angling, whose car boot resembles a fully stocked tackle megastore with more spare rods than a medieval armoury, the back of my car contains only the essentials: half a sandwich, mismatched gloves, vague hope, and definitely no spare quivertips.

Tail firmly between my legs, I admitted defeat, climbed into the car, and grumbled all the way home. Sometimes fishing teaches you patience. Sometimes it teaches you humility. And sometimes it just smacks you round the face with a radioactive river and flings your quivertip into oblivion.

But fear not. There’s always tomorrow (or most likely next Friday). And besides, at least I didn’t break Dry January. Small mercies.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.47

There comes a moment on a frost-nipped January evening when a man must weigh the consequences of his actions against the potential for an absolute screamer of a dream. This is not a decision taken lightly. History is littered with men who made the wrong call men who reached for a banana instead of a Stilton and paid for it with eight hours of beige unconsciousness. 

For those not versed in the darker disciplines of Gorgonzolaphantasmagoria and Gyrationalisms, it is common knowledge in these parts that the British Cheese Board’s 2005 study is less of a myth and more of a field guide. While the scientists prattle on about tryptophan and tyramine those delightful amino acids that supposedly stabilise sleep while simultaneously kicking open the saloon doors of the brain’s “wacky” department I prefer to think of cheese as aviation fuel for the subconscious.

Cheddar gives you a gentle biplane ride over your childhood. Brie offers a mildly confusing ferry crossing involving a former PE teacher. But blue cheese? past its best Blue cheese, hands you a parachute, shoves you out of a balloon at 30,000 feet, and shouts “Good luck!”

I opened the fridge with the reverence of a monk unveiling a relic. There it sat: the leftover Christmas Gorgonzola. Veined like a topographic map of a river I’ve yet to fish, sweating faintly, smelling strongly of ambition, old socks, and unresolved arguments. This was not a cheese to be trifled with. This was a cheese that had opinions. 

I weighed out exactly 20 grams the scientifically prescribed dose for a psychedelic passport to the subconscious. Any more and you risk waking up fluent in Esperanto. Any less and you just dream about missing the bus. Down it went, chased with a sip of water and the vague sense that I had just signed a contract without reading the small print.

Sleep came quickly. Alarmingly quickly since starting Dry January, which is highly unusual for me.

My slumber was instantly invaded by a dream of startling, retina-polishing clarity. I was back on the bank, but the Avon had transformed into a vast, slow-moving sea of liquid marmalade. 

Not the cheap stuff either proper, chunky, artisanal marmalade with bits in. The current glugged ominously.

I wasn’t alone.

A troop of vegetarian crocodiles wearing monocles were rowing a Victorian bathtub across the crease. They were dressed in tweed waistcoats and arguing heatedly about the ethics of organic kale, whether chickpeas had ruined modern cuisine, and if a size 6 hook was “a bit mainstream, darling.” One of them had a clipboard. That felt significant.

Behind me, a kingfisher in a hi-vis jacket blew a whistle and told me my rod licence was out of date.

In the middle of this madness, a fifteen-pound barbel a real Barbara of a fish, broad across the shoulders and radiating quiet authority surfaced, cleared its throat politely, and asked me for a light. I patted my pockets, apologised, and explained I’d given up smoking in 2009. It nodded, disappointed but understanding.

💩

Then the bite came.

I struck like a man possessed, only to realise I was holding a stick of celery for a rod and using a piece of Red Leicester as a float. The reel was a hamster. The hamster was furious. Line peeled off, the crocodiles applauded, and someone began playing a harpsichord version of the Match of the Day theme.

There was no nightmare to be found no sense of dread, no sweaty panic just a profound, almost philosophical whimsy. The kind that leaves you wondering whether you’ve unlocked hidden layers of the human psyche or accidentally inhaled an entire volume of Lewis Carroll.

I awoke to the shriek of the alarm, my head fuzzy but my resolve ironclad. The ceiling looked disappointingly solid. No marmalade. No crocodiles. Just the lingering aroma of Gorgonzola and destiny. The cheese had delivered on every front: a night of vivid, lucid madness that far surpassed what I expected, no acid to be seen here. My spirit had been lightly tenderised. Somewhere, deep in the folds of my brain, a monocled crocodile was still judging my groundbait choice.

If you fancy your own odyssey, I recommend a pilgrimage to Cobbs Farm for their Gorgonzola (the best lucid dreams I've ever had on cheese), or at the very least a daring late-night raid on the fridge. Measure carefully. Respect the cheese. And whatever you do, if a barbel asks you for a light be polite.

They remember these things....!!!

Anyway to the fishing !! Storm Goretti promised a blockbuster showing, but here in Bard’s country it barely made the trailers. 

The snow that blasted in late evening looked promising enough, but by morning the so-called red warning, up-to-six-inches drama had fizzled out into something resembling a melted white slush puppy. 

Sam had built a snowman around 8.00pm when it was coming down heavy for a while, but that was all but gone when I drove him to the bus stop in the morning where mild overnight temperatures had quite an affect.  

I’d half-hoped for a proper winter curtain of white perfect conditions for a snow-chub mission but instead it looked like someone had dusted icing sugar over a damp sponge.

Working from home Friday meant I kept one eye on the laptop and the other on river levels, and by mid-morning the Warwickshire Avon was looking surprisingly fishable. 

The Stour, Alne and Arrow had rushed up as expected proper chocolate-brown torrents after the pre-snow rain I'd imagine but the Avon held just enough composure to tempt me out. 

Only snag: Ben’s school was closed, and the Wife was off doing lunchtime cover elsewhere, so any fishing would have to wait until reinforcements returned. I also had a small recovery mission to tick off. I’d left a pair of gloves on the syndicate stretch from the weekend, and syndicate member Dave had kindly retrieved them and perched them on a post like a lost-property scarecrow.  

Seeing as I needed to pick them up anyway, I figured it would be rude not to bring a rod and see if any chub were in a cooperative mood. The plan was simple: a quick smash-and-grab session. Bait a handful of likely swims, give each twenty minutes, and if nothing materialised, call it a day.  No faffing, no lingering, no overthinking just in, out, and home before anyone realised I’d snuck off. Cheesepaste on the hook and pungent garlic and cheese flavoured bread.

The river was doing its best impression of a Costa drive-thru special—turd-brown, frothy, and absolutely not what any sane fish would choose to live in. Unless of course the fish have developed a taste for angry cappuccino water, which knowing chub, wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.

Still, armed with cheesepaste potent enough to fumigate a small barn, I bravely lobbed it into the only two slacks available both of which looked marginally less violent than the main flow but still had that “don’t bother, mate” vibe. And bother I did. Twice. Result? Not so much as a tremble on the tip. Even the resident minnows must’ve been on strike.

Packed up with cold fingers, a blank, and the comforting knowledge that at least the river got to enjoy my cheesepaste even if the chub didn’t. They’re probably still laughing about it under a fallen tree somewhere.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.46

There comes a moment on a winter Sunday morning when a man, cocooned in a duvet and spooning a couple of overlay large pillows like they’re long-lost lovers, asks himself a very serious question: do I really need to go fishing today, or can I just lie here until capitalism collapses? The bed was obscenely warm, the sort of warmth that whispers sweet nothings about sick days, early nights and the radical notion of “just staying in”. Outside, the world was minus five and actively hostile. Inside, I was 50/50 on even putting a toe out from under the covers.

But Monday loomed, as it always does, like a BAA bailiff with a clipboard and their archaic rule book. Another week of being one of the many alarm-clock Brits, shuffling through life trying to keep the wolf from the door while the wolf appears to be driving a newer car than you. 

I’m getting fed up with work if I’m honest where the industry I work in automotive had been in decline for years. The years tick by, the alarm clocks get louder, and the enthusiasm quietly slips out the back door. Still, there are mouths to feed and a roof to keep over our heads, so self-pity was packed away with the pyjamas and it was time to suck it up and get on with it.

So yes, at 8.00am sharp, I was back out the door, breath freezing mid-sentence, fingers instantly numb, questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment. The Jimny was loaded like a prepper’s bug-out vehicle. Because I could drive onto the farmland, I took full advantage and brought everything short of a dishwasher. 

The Jackery 1000 v2 power station was in. The travel kettle was in. And yes, brace yourselves, the air fryer came too. I’ve reached that age where comfort is no longer optional, and frankly I’m fed up of trying to coax gas canisters into life by holding them near the Jimny’s defroster vent like some sort of deranged bushcraft ritual.

This, I decided, was my entry into the 21st century.

The plan, as always, was beautifully simple and therefore doomed to complication. Rock up at the top of the stretch, pre-bait a few likely chub-holding swims with nuggets of cheesepaste and liquidised bread, then fish each one for 15 to 20 minutes in the hope of winkle-ing out a bite. 

The water temperature was a bracing 3.5 degrees, which in angling terms is roughly equivalent to fishing in a gin and tonic with extra ice. Still, I’ve caught down to 2 degrees before, so hope that most foolish of companions was allowed to tag along.

After that, assuming either success or spiritual defeat, I’d reward myself with breakfast and a proper cup of tea bankside. Not flask tea actual tea. There is a vast and under-appreciated difference. A flask is a compromise. Freshly brewed tea is a statement of intent. With the high pressure bringing blue skies and sun, I planned to trot maggots through the deepest section on the stretch. Objectively, these were probably the worst fishing conditions imaginable, but fishing has never been about logic, has it? It’s about optimism with a rod licence.

I actually had the tea first, because I am nothing if not chaotic. And I was right — there is simply no comparison. A proper brew, steam rising into frozen air, the first sip burning your lip just enough to remind you you’re alive. I don’t do it often, but the convenience of the syndicate stretch allows these little luxuries, and I leaned into it shamelessly.

Eventually, guilt pushed me into action and I started fishing. Immediately, I noticed the cormorants. Loads of them. Milling about like guests who’ve realised they weren’t actually invited. After a group of ten flew overhead, two more tried to land in the river near me about fifteen minutes apart. 

Both spotted me at the last second, flared indignantly, and did an aerial about-turn like I’d personally offended them. The river had cleared considerably rich pickings for the black death and I knew, deep down, that bites would be scarcer than optimism at a staff meeting.

Two swims came and went without so much as a nibble. The third, though, looked right. A nice slack just round a bend. Breadflake settled nicely on the deck and within minutes there were tiny taps. Then sharper pulls. That electric little something that cuts through cold, doubt, and cynicism in one go. I struck.

At first, I thought I’d hooked a roach that brief, fluttery resistance but then the fish shot off to the right and the rod hooped over properly. A proper bend. The sort that makes you forget the cold, the early start, and the existential dread of Monday mornings.

Chub.

In the icy water it didn’t fight as hard as they often do, but then pike are the same, aren’t they? Cold turns warriors into philosophers. Soon enough it was in the net. A lovely 3lb 13oz chub not massive, not legendary, but absolutely perfect. Proof that getting out of bed had been the right call. Proof, if you like, that life occasionally throws you a bone.

Three more swims produced nothing at all, because fishing likes to restore balance. I moved the car down to the trotting peg just as the sun finally showed up, blue skies stretching overhead and a welcome hint of warmth seeping back into my fingers. This, I decided, was air fryer time

Yes, yes I can hear the purists sharpening their pitchforks. But the air fryer was loaded with a couple of Aldi Ultimate pork sausages and some onions, sizzling away merrily while I pinged maggots little and often into the swim. They were decent sausages, mind you. 

 Not quite a Lashford which are practically a local religion but respectable. More than respectable enough for bankside dining.

And I’ll admit it: at that moment, with hot food, blue skies, and tea on tap, I could finally see the appeal of the bivi-dwelling carp angler. Just for a moment. Fresh food bankside, no rush, no alarms. Then I remembered the bivvies, the beeping, and the waiting, and snapped out of it.

With a full belly (healthy eating has apparently started you’ll be pleased to know), I spent an hour trotting maggots through the deepest run. And yes, you’ve guessed it: not even a sucked maggot. Not a tremor. Not a courtesy knock. Absolute silence.

Still, I drove home content. One chub, hot sausages, real tea, blue skies, and a brief escape from the grind. And sometimes, that’s more than enough. 

There are traditions, and then there are Traditions, the latter being the sort you only continue because you once did them twice and now it feels legally binding. Ours is the ritual incineration of the Christmas tree, an event that sits somewhere between pagan sacrifice, bushcraft cosplay, and a mild cry for help.

It begins, as all good post-Christmas endeavours do, with a sense that something has gone wrong. The tree, which only days earlier stood proud and sparkly like a well-fed pike in a garden centre aquarium, is now leaning slightly, dropping needles, and smelling faintly of disappointment. 

Much like an over-wintered keepnet, it has served its purpose and must now be dealt with.

Out come the tools. The chopping of the tree is undertaken with great seriousness and no small amount of misplaced confidence. 

Branches are lopped off and stacked with the sort of care normally reserved for building a swim that nobody else will fish. The trunk is separated like a prime barbel from its entourage of bleak. This, we know, is the good bit the proper firewood, saved for later like a secret flask.

The Weber BBQ is dragged out, protesting loudly, having expected nothing more strenuous than sausages and vague regret. My wife and I stand around it in the cold, huddled like two homeless philosophers warming themselves over a barrel fire, wondering aloud how we got here and why our noses have stopped working.

The branches burn like nobody’s business. Honestly, if DEFRA are looking for proof that climate change is real (or not real, depending on what day it is and who’s shouting), they should watch a Christmas tree go up. 

It’s less “controlled burn” and more “Norwegian black metal album cover”. Needles crackle, sap pops, sparks fly it’s all very festive in a last days of Rome sort of way.

We stand there, drinking something warm but inadequate, making the same jokes we make every year. “Won’t need eyebrows anyway.” “This is probably illegal.” “Should we be doing this?” All excellent questions, none of which receive answers.

Later, once the kids are finally in bed having asked at least seventeen times why we’re burning a tree “like mad people”  the trunk is brought inside. 

This is the civilised portion of proceedings. The open fire, a good film, and the quiet realisation that Christmas has gone for another year, like a season that never quite fishes as well as you remember.

This year’s choice was School of Rock. I hadn’t seen it for years, which is angler code for I’d forgotten most of it but remembered liking it. It turns out it’s still really rather good. Jack Black plays himself, but with more shouting and fewer fishing rods a role he was clearly born to play. The fire crackles, the room glows, and for an hour or two the post-Christmas slump loosens its grip.

And that, I think, is the point of the whole ridiculous business. Not the burning, or the cold, or the faint whiff of singed pine lingering in your clothes like a bad session. It’s the small, daft rituals that stop the year tipping too abruptly into grey normality. Much like fishing, really standing around in the cold, burning through resources, telling yourself it’s good for the soul.

Next year we’ll do it all again. Probably. Tradition’s a funny thing. Once it’s got you, it’s very hard to unhook. 🎣🔥