Warwickshire Avon - Grockles and Grammaticasters

There’s something inexplicably comforting about knowing you could knock up a pepperoni pizza mid-session while waiting for a chub to inhale a 14mm halibut pellet. The Jackery Explorer 1000 v2 what a name, like it ought to come with its own cape had arrived, and with its 1500 watts of fishless potential, the River Wye trip now had the culinary support of a high street takeaway. Sam won’t starve, that's for sure. Airfryer, kettle, USB fan, and possibly even a disco ball if the barbel get frisky.

With Sunday’s gastronomic angling expedition prepped, I fancied a few hours at a local stretch to scratch that barbel itch. Arriving at a well-trodden haunt, I was relieved to see just two cars in the carpark a rarity, like finding a tench in your garden pond after a storm. 

Alas, within minutes of picking a peg with a “hot” reputation, a fellow angler appeared who seemed to be auditioning for Swim Wars: Episode III – The Peg Spreader. Not content with one pitch, he baited three like a Victorian land baron claiming territory. A bit much, I thought, so I gathered my gear, muttered something unrepeatable, and wandered off in search of solitude.

The weir it was then clear, shallow, fizzy with oxygen, and free from both peg pirates and loud social media live streamers. 

I baited with some trusty groundbait and pellets, then let it rest while I had a saunter along the bank, which is where I bumped into Jon Pinfold. After the customary bank-side natter (which in fishing time equates to two cups of tea and the synopsis of three seasons’ worth of barbel blanks), he headed off downstream, and I trudged back to the foamy sanctuary of the weir.

The first cast in and the bait was getting instant attention. That gentle rattling, the kind that screams “I’m not the fish you’re looking for” echoed up the line. A suicidal gudgeon proved the point, followed by a roach with delusions of grandeur. Evening crept in, and I decided to double down with two 14mm halibut pellets, because nothing says “come hither Mr. Barbel” like a bait the size of a gobstopper.

With the centrepin poised, ratchet armed, and tea in hand, I relaxed into the last hour before dark. Then, a tug not a full-blooded wrench but enough to get the ratchet moaning briefly like an annoyed pensioner on a mobility scooter. I struck... into air. A chub, most likely, cheeky sods. Then, just as I’d re-entered that contemplative space where your brain flits between philosophical musings and wondering what happened to Wagon Wheels, all hell broke loose.

The rod buckled, the ratchet sang its song of war, and the fish surged. This, I thought, this is it. The barbel of prophecy. The one. The beast. The holy grail of whiskered dreams. But then... a lolloping swirl on the surface. And I knew.

Bream. 🙈

The barbel’s doughy, silt-loving cousin. It wallowed like a drunk grockle at an open mic night, and while the fight had lasted all of fifteen dramatic seconds, it was clear the finale had already been written. Five pounds and ten ounces of pure heartbreak. A fish shaped disappointment. Covered in the sort of slime you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy’s sleeping bag.

I fished on for a bit, more out of principle than optimism, fed a bit more bait, and hoped in vain for redemption. It didn’t come. On the way back to the car, I met Jon again who’d had a lovely evening bagging up on chub, naturally.

Back home, the bream slime was a pungent reminder of what could have been. The clothes went straight in the wash before they walked there on their own. Honestly, I don’t know what it is about bream mucus, but it seems to bond at a molecular level to anything it touches like some kind of piscine superglue with notes of corpse flower and disappointment.

Still, with pizza planned for Sunday’s session and tea on tap, hope springs eternal. Because that’s fishing. One moment you’re dreaming of barbel, the next you’re reeling in aquatic bin-liners. But we carry on. Because somewhere, beneath the gin-clear water, a barbel waits. Fat, wary, smug.

And probably laughing.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.28

It all began with a trip to Caffeine and Machine last Friday, a place I usually associate with quirky motors and overpriced cappuccinos, not a full-blown air raid by winged kamikaze nutcases in yellow jackets. I don’t know what’s going on at the moment, but the wasps have absolutely lost the plot. Step one toe out from under the relative safety of the pub’s awning pint or pastry in hand and you’re immediately swarmed like you’re starring in your own apian horror flick. 

Stratford wasn’t much better. Even the garden back home became a no-fly zone unless you fancied a side of wasp with your burger. And I did twice.

That said, life isn’t all sting and vinegar. On a more celebratory note, with VR now accepted and a tidy little wedge en route to my bank account, I’ve landed back where I belong: Principal Studio Engineer, rubbing shoulders with clay modellers and Alias aficionados. 

Much more my scene than faffing about with endless design loops and emails asking if the fillet radius can be reduced by 0.2mm “for aesthetic flow”. Straight in to a job though, no rest for the wicked, I've got to earn those extra taxes for those with ever growing hands in the public purse. Not that I had to put out feelers either this one landed sweetly in my lap like a tench on a warm summer evening.

Oh, and the Polestar 5? Finally heading off to the automotive press soon. Good. I’ve seen enough of it to last me several lifetimes. Let the journos poke, prod, and publish their hot takes. I just want to stop dreaming about cup holders and GD&T tolerances.

Anyway, with the heat and the insects conspiring to make everything sticky and infuriating, I’d not been overly motivated to fish. Yes, I could fish maggots and bag the usual crowd of maggot-munching misfits, but what I really wanted was something bigger, beardier, and more bronze: a proper barbel.

After another day working from the office and a series of chores that felt never-ending (and involved a particularly spiteful flat-pack shelving unit), I finally carved out a couple of twilight hours to wet a line. Got to the stretch around 8:30pm and fished ‘til just after 11. Baited one swim with hemp and pellets and then did the ceremonial sit on hands technique to let things rest. Eventually cast out a 14mm halibut pellet with all the hope and enthusiasm of a child releasing a balloon and believing it’ll reach space.

It was one of those warm but blowy evenings hoodie required, Nigel, the jammy so-and-so, had a mint double-figure barbel out of here just a few days ago. So the hope was there. I mean, it's a low stock stretch, sure, but there’s something about the challenge that keeps me coming back. Barbel, though, they’ve been my bogey species of late. I can catch chub with my eyes closed, but barbel? They laugh at me. Literally. I’ve heard it.

Now I got a chub pull not long after settling in, which gave the heart a little flutter, and as dusk settled in and darkness crept over, I was sure—sure!—that rod would eventually go full Keith Moon. It didn’t. One more nudge, then nothing. Not even a courtesy nibble.

Still, the skies were clear, the air was calm, and aside from a minor argument with a bramble on the way back to the car, it was all quite serene. Left with my tail between my legs again but at least I got a dose of that glorious solitude that keeps us all coming back. You can’t put a price on it. Not unless you’re fishing on a day ticket at Linear.

I might give the well-trodden BAS waters a go next time. At least there, the barbel occasionally make the mistake of feeding. Until then, it’s back to dodging wasps, assembling shelving units incorrectly, and pretending that I don’t have a vendetta against an entire species of fish.

Warwickshire Avon - Staff Curries and Steganography

Now after years of pretending I could tell the difference between "notes of molasses" and "caramelized oak whispers," I've finally found a rum that makes me actually nod like a smug connoisseur: 

Gosling’s Family Reserve Old Rum. 

This isn't your average mixer no, sir. This is the kind of rum that shows up in a tuxedo, offers you a cigar, and then quotes 19th-century literature while sitting by a fireplace that crackles with self-confidence. 

It comes in a nice box, for heaven’s sake. A box! That’s how you know it’s fancy it arrives like a treasure chest and tastes like one too.

From the first sip, it whispered sweet nothings of baked apples, burnt sugar, and what I assume is the flavor of a pirate’s retirement plan. 

I’m not saying it changed my life, but I did start swirling it in a Glencairn glass while making unsolicited tasting notes to rolling eyes Sam. So this is my new sipping rum. It’s smooth, rich, and just pretentious enough to make me feel accomplished without needing to win a Nobel. Cheers to the good stuff and to finally drinking a rum that doesn’t demand a splash of Coke to be tolerable. Oh and it was £50 quid in the Prime sale, it's so nice I buy another one or two whilst it is still on offer !!

Now there’s something gloriously contradictory about sitting in the full glare of a summer sun, sweating like a giddy spice merchant at a naga chilli convention, and still somehow convincing oneself that today yes, today is the perfect day for a curry. 

The mercury was past thirty degrees, the sort of heat where even the foxes walk around in flip-flops and sunglasses, but there I was, menu in hand, peering at the usual lineup of balti belters and tikka twiddlers.

Now, I’m no stranger to the odd chicken jalfrezi or king prawn dopiaza when the weather has a bite in the air, but in this sort of swelter? Madness, surely. Or was it? Because really, when isn’t it a good time for a curry? Funeral? Wedding? Fishing trip? Jury duty? Yes, yes, probably, and if it’s not too messy, why not.

This was a new gaff never darkened their doors before. But you get a sense for these things, don’t you? From the soft hum of the extractor fan to the comforting clatter of pans behind a swing door, there was a vibe. And there it was, tucked between a korma and something likely to induce both hallucinations and tears: Staff Curry. That rare, coveted dish whispered about in curry houses across the land. Not dressed up for the punters. No frills. No cream swirl, not dumbed down for the westerners. Just good, honest, home-style spice designed to bring comfort to a weary chef and possibly a hangover to a curious diner.

I asked what meat was in it for today. "Lamb," the waiter said with a knowing look, the sort of look that says, You’re in for it now,. And by heavens he was right. It was the sort of lamb curry that hits all the right notes: rich, earthy, gently molten. Chilli heat somewhere between a madras and a vindaloo, but without the bravado. More of a warm handshake than a slap round the face with a chilli-stuffed slipper. Proper chunks of meat, and most of it still on the bone, and thick sauce so deep you could moor a barge in it.

But man cannot live on curry alone. Well, he can, but he’ll likely sweat out the soles of his shoes. So, I did what any rational angler would do in 30°C heat after a meal designed to initiate transcendence I went chub fishing. Naturally.

I had no plan, no time, and frankly no right to be on the riverbank carrying a rod, and radiating cumin like some sort of sentient spice rack. But the river looked seductive, all glimmer and glide, like a mirror with a secret. A quick smash-and-grab, I told myself. Just me, the river, and maybe, maybe, a plump-cheeked chub who hadn’t had a curry yet and fancied something off the top, or slow sinking !!

Slow sinking seemed to work as I flicked a piece under the branches with all the subtlety of a hungover ninja and watched it drift. The sun beat down. I could feel the curry reactivating with every heartbeat. And then, out of the shadows, came that wonderful boil, that sudden bulge of water, and WHAM! A chub worthy of a pub sign lunged at the bait with reckless abandon.

It fought like it had something to prove. I sweated like I’d been caught shoplifting samosas. But eventually, the net was slipped under a nice chunky bronzed fish. Not a record, no, but certainly a specimen. 

And in that moment, crust-crumbs still on my fingers and turmeric likely seeping from my pores, I realised something profound: the only thing better than a curry in a heatwave… is a curry and a chub in a heatwave, if that’s not living, I don’t know what is.

2 more fish succumbed to the bread and I bumped one off but it was so nice being stood in the water I must admit, despite not knowing what the pollution levels were like. Not much more than an hour, but that fishing fix satisfied and I went home a happy man.