Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.27

There are whispers again on the WBAS stretch. Whispers of leviathans stirring of barbel that don’t so much run as migrate, and of chub the size of spaniels slipping quietly into nets like bashful burglars. Big Barbel catcher Dave W, the lucky swine, clung to his rod as a barbel motored off towards Stratford-upon-Avon with the sort of purpose usually reserved for late trains or startled deer, only for the line to go slack, the hook to pull and his dreams to unravel like a bad alibi. 

Not to be defeated, he settled for a perfectly respectable 5lb 6oz chub, which, in the grand theatre of river exaggeration, now features suspiciously often in pub retellings.

Seduced by the promise of glory and the convenience of a car park within staggering distance, I assembled the gear. Chair with lumbar support? Check. 12mm pellets of questionable origin? Check. Hope? Ha. Two swims were lovingly peppered with goodness grenades (©Buffalo Si) neat balls of groundbait optimism hurled out like the orange throwers in at the festival in Spain. 

The plan, bold in theory and sketchy in execution, was to fish each swim in rotation, into dusk and beyond. In my head, it was poetry. In practice, it was more interpretive dance meets light loitering.

As the light faded and the sky put on its clear, star-pricked cloak, a cormorant barged in uninvited, all neck and indignation, flapping about like someone who’s taken a wrong turn at the canal. Later, just as I was beginning to feel at one with the moment  and questioning all my life choices an otter ghosted into view. It paused, stared, and then vanished as if to say, “Mate, even I’m not bothering tonight.” It was, if nothing else, deeply atmospheric.

Despite adopting an all out big fish approach™, the result was one half-hearted chub pull and several hours of enthusiastic nothing. I packed up when I could no longer see the quivertip and was just waving my rod around like a wizard with no spells left. But if catching fish is the only metric, then you’ve missed the point entirely. 

The river was alive: predators chasing baitfish like it was Black Friday, dace launching themselves skyward in cartoonish arcs to escape the jaws of unseen pike and perch. It was chaotic. It was beautiful. It was... totally fishless.

Still, it was nice to be out. The air was good, the stars were out, and I didn’t fall in or cry once which by modern standards is a roaring success. There’s always next time, of course. Just me, the river, and a wildly misplaced sense of optimism.

The sunset, well it was rather nice I must admit !!

It reaffirmed that I really struggle to sit behind a motionless rod, any tips to counteract the restless legs ?

Warwickshire Avon - Angry Skies and Angelocracies

Now there’s a certain art to tactical child abandonment, especially when it’s dressed up in the wholesome veneer of “fishing with your son.” And so it was, armed with a tackle box, a float rod, a landing net, and a kilo of wriggling optimism (also known as maggots), I deposited young Sam with a couple of his mates at Lucy’s Mill in Stratford. I say “deposited” because it had all the grace and ceremony of unloading a barrow of turnips only these turnips can tie a half blood knot and demand sausage rolls every hour.

With Sam safely ensconced and fiddling with floats like a young Izaak Walton with ADHD, I found myself with a rare and golden sliver of time what one might call The Dad Window. It’s that brief period when you can fish guilt-free, knowing the offspring is similarly engaged and unlikely to fall in or be swept off downstream by a belligerent swan.

Now, the air was thick. Not just “warm-summer's-evening” thick, but thick like a chip shop's back room, the kind of weather where clouds loiter with intent and the sky crackles like a poorly wired toaster. You didn’t need a barometer; your knees knew the rain was coming. Possibly sideways.

So with urgency in my step (and a slight whiff of wet maggot juice in my car), I set up a light float rig one of those elegant, simple affairs that feels like poetry until your line gets caught in a hawthorn and flicked a couple of maggots out into what can only be described as gin-clear water. Honestly, I’ve seen less transparency in Stamers government briefings. You could read the small print on a submerged Rizla.

It wasn’t long before I skylined the swim like an absolute amateur and spooked a group of chub that looked like they’d been training for the River Olympics. They vanished upstream in a flash, probably muttering something about “bloody humans” and “float rods on a Sunday.”

But all was not lost. The bites came thick and fast dace, bleak, roach, and chublets so small they’d struggle to pull the skin off a rice pudding. It was fun, frenetic, and had all the subtlety of a toddler on a trampoline. Forty-five minutes in, my wrist was aching, my bait box resembled the floor of a popcorn factory, and I was starting to wonder whether all the big fish had taken a day trip to Evesham.

Then, just as I was contemplating a premature tea and a dry sock change, the float buried. Not dipped. Not bobbed. Buried. Gone. Submerged like it owed the river money.

And it was clear immediately this wasn’t one of the tiddlers. No, this had shoulders. It headed straight for the opposite bank with all the subtlety of a tipsy rhino, and I knew, with grim certainty, that I was connected to a proper chub. The Drennan Acolyte Ultra bent beautifully (some might say heroically, others might say expensively) and after a spirited tussle full of sideways lunges, boil-plumes and choice words, the fish slipped into the net like it had just remembered a prior engagement.

A proper chub. Not a record-breaker, but one of those river fish that makes you grin like you’ve just reversed into a lamppost and realised it was only your bumper.

I was just about to have another trot when the clouds finally made good on their earlier threats. A fork of lightning cracked in the distance close enough to raise hairs and make you regret every carbon fibre item on your person.

Session over. But as I squelched back to the car with the chub memory warming my chest and the weather trying to soak my pants, I had that unmistakable feeling: Fishing Fix Achieved.

And Sam? He caught nothing but small fish like me, and stories. Which, let’s be honest, are the most important fish of all.

Warwickshire Avon - Farmers Dogs and Fanfaronades

After what can only be described as an enforced sabbatical from the rods largely due to my sudden immersion into the world of joint domestic CEO I’m tentatively crawling back into some kind of fishing routine. You see, the Wife recently underwent a bit of shoulder surgery. Nothing too drastic, but enough that I was rapidly promoted from “Occasional Assistant” to “Reluctant Full-Timer” on the home front.

Now you don’t realise how many moving parts your domestic life has until you’re the one desperately trying to oil them. Cooking, cleaning, taxiing teenagers who claim they’re adults yet still can’t find their own socks it’s a full-time gig. So, when the Wife was given the all-clear to drive again (hurrah!), it was like the gates of freedom creaked open and let a shaft of light back into my world.

We celebrated the occasion in the most refined way we know: food, wine, and absolutely no responsibilities. With the kids otherwise detained Sam nobly taking on the challenge of babysitting Ben (a feat deserving of a small medal and at least three packets of crisps) we entered a phase I’ve dubbed "The Gastronomic Renaissance."

Now, one of our stops on this gloriously gluttonous tour was Clarkson’s “The Farmers Dog” at Burford. as the wife was desperate to go I went in fully expecting to loathe it, mentally preparing a scathing TripAdvisor review involving phrases like “style over substance” , “manure-scented ego trip.” , "inevitable tourist trap" 

But I must eat my metaphorical hat (after the 3 actual courses). The place was, dare I say it, rather good. Slick operation, excellent staff, and a menu that didn’t require a bank loan to pronounce (just to pay for).

Three courses. Three. That never happens. Usually, we’re too full after a starter and a bottle of wine, but this time we soldiered on in the name of matrimony it was, after all, our 17th wedding anniversary. Seventeen years! That’s longer than some Labradors live.

We left the pub stuffed, slightly poorer, but very content. The wine was flowing (for Sarah as I was driving), the dessert was shared (romantically, not begrudgingly), and I even found myself praising Jeremy  Clarkson and team, they have done good. (Well apart from the outside toilets they need work)

With marital bliss temporarily restored and a bit of extra brownie point credit in the bank, I figured it was time to wet a line. A short session was in order something to scratch the itch, shake off the cobwebs, and reconnect with the simpler things in life. 

You know like fishing for chub with floating crust in the middle of a salad-depleting drought.

So off I trotted to a stretch once known in hushed, reverent tones as Barbel Alley. Ah yes, those were the days: a snug little slice of river where the barbel used to queue up politely for your bait. Sadly, as is the case with all prime real estate, the locals were evicted this time by a band of squatting otters. No notice served, no compensation given. Just barbel evicted faster than a teenager caught nicking beer from the fridge.

The calm before the storm !!

Still, one must adapt. I arrived only to be greeted by a sight every pleasure angler dreads: cars. Loads of them. Parked haphazardly like some deranged angling car boot sale. The signs were there, and sure enough, the "Three Day Festival" was in full swing. Matchmen everywhere, and every peg occupied by someone in a seatbox fortress surrounded by enough tackle to survive a month in the Yukon.

So, off I went to the Stretch of Convenience. Not glamorous, not prolific, but reliable and mercifully empty. The river was gin clear and so low I half expected to see a teenager paddle-boarding past me sipping a matcha latte. But floating crust is a magic trick when used right, and I wasn’t messing about.

A few freebies flicked upstream and sure enough, the chub began to loiter. They're not subtle fish, chub. Like teenagers outside a corner shop they hang about, loitering suspiciously, occasionally darting forward in an uncoordinated flurry.

It didn’t take long to tempt the first one. A classic take: a hesitant nudge, then wallop, a broad flank erupts from the water, and off it motors like it’s being chased by a tax bill. A cracking fight too, all seen clearly through the trusty polarised specs, which, in this case, doubled as a filter for my disbelief at how strong these things can be on light tackle.

Two more chub followed from separate swims, each as belligerent and welcome as the first. Nothing monstrous, but in that clear water, on the float, each one felt earned. A purist’s joy. The barbel that had been milling about here the other week were conspicuously absent probably put off by the water levels or possibly holidaying in the deeper end. I might try again and fish into dusk next time, when the salad farms turn their pumps off and the river gets a bit of a breather.

So, not a bad session all things considered. Three chub caught on simple tactics. No boilies, no bait boats, no fancy rigs just floating crust and a little bit of watercraft. Sometimes fishing doesn’t need bells and whistles. Just a bit of crust and time on the bank.

Life’s returning to normal now the Wife is mobile again, and while I did my bit holding down the fort, I’m more than happy to hand back the reins and get back to my true calling pretending to be a fishing blogger with a wine habit and an unhealthy suspicion of otters.

Until next time tight lines, mind the crust, and if you're in Burford... book ahead.