Not quite as easy as one, two, three.

I have often thought myself and Barbus barbus are like two positively charged ions, we seem to repel one another! After a few fruitless forays and a shove by a good friend in the right direction I think I might be becoming a bit more of a negative in this dynamic, and in doing so me and my old adversary might actually seem to be a little more attracted to each other. Not that I was never attracted to them, more that anything that could go wrong, would go wrong when I tried to catch one. 

My first session on this venue was disaster, my second was somewhat less so; on that second session I did at least come in contact with a barbel if only briefly... In an awkward swim where the best place to cast was just out of reach I persevered fishing a small mat formed around a trailing willow branch, and after numerous chub-like rattles on the rod tip I got the now sacred three foot twitch. After hitting and holding, the fish swung quickly out into the flow and then equally quickly back, ending up well and truly stuck in snag. I will go on record as saying this was the sweetest lost fish I have ever had in my life as after trying every trick I know, from slackening off, changing the angle and trying to pull through, the dull thumping on the end of my line stopped. I hate having that feeling that I have left a fish possibly tethered and would rather never catch another fish in my life than leave one caught up. With great sorrow I concluded my only option was to pull for the break and hope that my free running rig would drop off the soon to be broken line.

The one thing I did discover in this crappy situation was how good the integrity of my rig was, when the drooping willow branch soon started to move under the strain of my locked up clutch. Then low and behold, the lead appeared followed by my hook link. The joy at finding the fish had got off in the snag was what made that loss so sweet, and soon enough an ounce an half of lead flying through the air had me diving into the undergrowth.

My next session I fished a recently vacated swim down stream of the snag swim. I knew there was fish in the area as Baz had landed four from the every swim earlier in the afternoon. Knots checked, I cast out towards the opposite bank and waited. It's hard to sit on your hands when some very determined chub are plucking your pellets so hard that you're getting bites that would normally be manna in the winter. But hard as it was I waited and sure enough after a while the rod buckled over as a barbel turned off bait in mouth.

Personally I feel that in the first few moments of a barbel fight you can never know how big a barbel is, as they all go like stink on that savage first run and this one was no different. With my rod held low and maximum pressure, that first run was subdued and a sprightly spirited barbel came out into the safety of the main flow. Truthfully I could not have cared if it was three or thirteen pounds as it crossed the net because for me, getting that barbel jinx off my back is the hardest thing every year. It did turn out to only be a little one but I can truthfully say it was one of the most satisfying.

After that first one I didn't have to wait long for the next bite either, though how I turned a proper 'fish on' bite into striking into thin air I don't know. That didn't matter as my next cast again hit that sweet spot a foot off the willow leaves, and my third bite came moments later from a powerful near six pound fish which took me on a merry dance around the swim.

Whether six fish out of the same swim in one day was too much pressure or whether the fish actually came out of the snag and into open water as dark fell, I couldn't say, but weirdly the activity dropped off as the bats appeared in the night sky. I did not care at all as the monkey was well and truly off my back and I could now start enjoying my barbel fishing properly.

If I wasn't keen enough to return a few days later I nearly boiled over when a couple of decent downpours topped up the river. After watching a small spike appear on the Environment agency graph it looked like the Avon might for once be in the right condition when I arrived.

When I first saw the river in the half light I could just see the normally highly visible fronds of weed were at least half obscured by the clearing water, as I headed back to the previously highly productive area. Sadly though after an hour and a half of perseverance I had only had a few lack lustre chub nibbles. Not wanting to waste good time in a swim which I was convinced should have produced quite quickly, I upped sticks to fish another swim I had my eye on.

With my bait comfortably cast to an over hanging tree on the inside edge I thought it might take a while for a bite to emerge, so I set about knocking up a few more PVA bags of pellets. Yes and you've guessed it, the moment I began twisting that first bag ready for knotting, the rod was rammed around. I wasn't sure if it was a mad-ass chub or a barbel as the bite was so vicious, but the initial fight was not too savage. Then as the fish vibrated upstream the line fell slack. Undeterred I quickly finished making a few bags before recasting, but no others materialised.

Now I found myself in a quandary; should I stick it out in a known hot spot or take my chances upstream in the shallow but coloured water? A week prior to this I had walked all through the shallows checking out possible holes to fish, and save a few blasé chub and pike it seemed rather lifeless, but I knew some of the snags held barbel and this colour might have inclined them from there hidey holes. This might be my best opportunity to take advantage of the coloured water. So I took a chance and went off to search them out rather than wait for them to find me.

I ended up fishing a  jungle of a swim I had clocked out the previous week. The main flow of the river gets channelled into a rip right down the centre of the river by a jutting reed bed on which I was sat and a very extensive bit of cover on the opposite bank. At the start of the over hanging willow was very shallow but from what I had seen previously it deepened off under the cover and ended in a big slack behind it.

The river here is so narrow I could just about swing my rig into place and almost cushion its landing as it went in, it was that close. In a way its an awkward swim to fish with extra water in the river, as my line was cutting straight through the main flow and my bait had ended up just at the end of the cover on the crease formed by the fast water and the slack meeting. My hope was that any of the fish that I assumed normally were tight under cover might be either out in the deeper water, or may move in and out of it looking for passing food in the faster water.

There was certainly some small fish topping in the eddy behind the trees and they were even quite interested in my baits initially, but soon enough all went quiet. The rig was holding so rather than recast I held fast and waited. After about half an hour my phone rang and it turned out to be one of my little brothers calling for a chat. I automatically use my left hand to hold my phone when I am fishing and thank god I do as a few minutes into our conversation my rod jumped forward a foot as an attached barbel dived under the cover. Squealing like a little girl that I had a fish on and would call him back, I tossed my phone over my shoulder hopefully onto the ground and applied maximum pressure to try and extract the fish from under the willows.

Finally after a real tug of war, I spotted a flash of colour at the edge of the over hanging trees before I watched the vague shape of a barbel glide out into the main flow then dive back towards the cover, stripping line off my reel. This turned out to be this fishes major tactic. Three or four more times it did the same before settling deep down in the main current just holding head down. Careful patience won the day though and a big rubbery mouth soon appeared just off my waiting net.

With the fish safe and recuperating in a convenient notch in the reeds I went about looking for my abandoned phone, which I found standing straight up in the mud and still saying I was still on the line with my brother. After establishing he had long rung off I began trying to calm down and get everything in place to sort the fish out. She certainly had recovered and was a little lively to say the least. But lucky for me I had my Korum sling mat with me all wet and ready to cradle her.

I was well over the moon to catch such a lovely lump of a fish from such a tiny and intimate swim. She even acquitted her self amiably whilst I carefully did some self takes before holding her in the flow and watching her slide across the flow back under the trees into her snaggy home.

Thank god that weeks over.

I think I have lost my mojo of late. It was inevitable that it was going to happen as after a high always comes a low. Three times I have fished in the past week and each time something has not been quite right in all honesty.

Chasing bubbles

We have all done at one time another and undeniably sometimes it pays off. But chasing bubbles if you think about it is quite possibly a futile pastime. I mean yes, there are times when those attractive bubbles that you see dimpling the surface of the smooth surface can mean nothing but a fish is causing them. Like when tench are hard on the feed and vast clouds of tiny bubbles break the surface all at once making an audible fizz, or when you can actually see a carp rooting round on the bottom sending large blooping bubbles up to the top. But these few examples of fish-related bubbles although specific are probably quite rare. Consider how many bubbles rise on even a tiny pond through the course of a day, never mind through a prolonged period of warmer weather and soon you realise that of what we see hit the surface, probably less than twenty percent is fish related.
The possible origination of any one bubble that defies gravity in itself is massive. Ignoring the overly romantic idea that most of us anglers have that bubbles are fish falling for our infallible rouses, the fact is that any one of hundreds of possibilities are the cause of a bubble. Most can probably be attributed to the decay of previously living matter, whether its the relatively quick breakdown of last years leaves or the long term breakdown of silt, it is more than likely this that is responsible for the majority of what we see.

It was this temptation which I fell foul of when I last visited the lake. Arriving early evening I found which I assumed to be fish feeding all over one area of the Coombe and yes, in a what I can hardly describe as a  minor moment of misjudgement, I foolishly spent an entire evening casting to what I was convinced were feeding fish. It wasn't until the sun dipped behind the wood on the far side of the lake and the shadows grew long that the bubbling petered away that it clicked; the dropping water temperatures reduced whatever was causing the gases to rise from the silt leaving the water like a mirror and me feeling kind of foolish.

Trash fish harassment

I have heard the reference 'trash fish' used colloquially by some American anglers more and more since the Internet has broadened our angling horizons, and from what I can tell the reference refers to fish that are considered to be second class or a nuisance. Although I would never agree that any fish is better than another, I could not possibly deny with any clear conscience that ocassionally I find some fish a nuisance when fishing for another. So it is through clenched teeth that I use it.

Sunday after some well needed rain I, like many others, skipped happily towards the river thinking high temperatures combined with a higher water level and coloured water would mean the Avon's Barbel population would feed with the gay abandon of a kids in a sweet shop. Frankly they probably did somewhere in the river, just not where I was fishing. But I must say at this point that even if they were there and did feed, chances were that they never got near my baits as the local bream population had become rather stimulated by my bait and antics. It hard to be ungrateful with a bend in your rod but on this occasion I did a pretty good job of it! As time and time again those snotty brown buggers hung themselves up on my rig, and even with a respectable daytime match weight to my name, I could not help but think of this a failure of a session, hence no pictures.

Not one thing right! 

We all have bad sessions when you can't do a dammed thing right, I know. But knowing that does in no way stop us from beating ourselves up when it happens. Hence on a slightly detoured trip I found myself a guest on a stretch of the Avon which has a good reputation for barbel fishing, that was in prime condition and even worse was producing multiple catches of barbel on that very night...

You all know the sort of session I had. It was one of those ones where you just can't settle. Where the next peg along looks better than yours and when you do move you find yourself thinking, was I better off back there? My tactics didn't fit and nether did my attitude considering the time constraints. 

I must have fished five swims between seven and ten and not one did I feel I fished well. Worst of all I got the distinct feeling that in at least two of the afore mentioned swims there was certainly fish. In those cases I reckon my atom bomb antics may of alerted any fish present to my presence. Every cast I made seemed to end up in the wrong spot or go in hard and my teeth were left cold time and time again from my incessant inhaling of air.

In the end and on the verge of just leaving I opted to just go up to a swim near the exit of the fishery and camp out in the simplest of swims and wait. Considering how badly I had done and how loudly I had gone about it I saw no harm in switching from lead to a feeder. Frankly it made no more noise than any of my other rigs had entering the water and after waiting half an hour until my white rod dip began to merge into the dark my tip bent round. It was no barbel that took pity on me but instead a chub of less than two pounds. That was it for me; I was very, very done.
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Looking back now I could happily remove 26th of July - 3rd of August from my fishing life. But then again maybe I shouldn't! Its true that when we have these runs of bad form it makes you feel pretty crappy but conversely when it comes good after a bad spell it always feels that much better when it ends. After all, if its all good you stop appreciating what you've got when you have it all the time. So a little perspective can only be a good thing. That's the way I am looking at it anyway and roll on next week.

Amazing dace how sweet thou art.

Spring is knocking on our door and it's signs speedily increase, but the frost still forms on the chilly March nights and in the last remnants of dark the world sparkles white. During the daylight the early suns soothing rays dry deep every tarmac road of an entire Winters worth of damp, leaving them white with salt dust. It's those powder white, half light highways in which I speed to try and beat the rising sun to the river. The end of the season fast approaches and after a maddening winter not ability to pay the attention I wanted to the river, I now feel if I must take every chance I get to spend whatever time I can casting onto running water before the last hour comes.

Four different people on five different occasions boasted to me only the day before that the Avon was in perfect condition. Winter green, clear and with the just the right bit of colour. It always sounds contradictory when I hear people say that the river is clear with just the right amount of colour, but I know exactly what they mean and so does any other angler worth their merit. I for one believe it is that rare state where the water has the perfect combination of good visibility so the fish see every morsel from a good way ahead, whilst the having adequate colour to enable them to feed confidently even during the brightest of days. Its ironic however that the rivers attain this perfect nirvana-like state just as the season ends.

It's about this time that the Avon's dace population find optimum condition, ready for the temperature to become constant enough for them to spawn. That's still a little way off so they are still feeding hard, and happy coincidence means that I just happen to know where probably the best dace fishing is to be had on the entire Warwickshire Avon. Only problem is... I am not the only one who knows this information, hence my need to get to the river before first light.

This ever popular section is only really fishable at the tail end of the season. During Summer the banks are so overgrown that you would need a machete just to access the river and it would hardly be worth it anyway. You see when Winter comes and the temperatures drop, the majority of the rivers dace and roach seem to drop downstream from miles and stack up in this deep slow section forming a bonanza ready for the taking, much like the sockeye of North America.

Is not the smell of a weir in the half light the most intoxicating scent? With the wind in the right direction that very specific smell can be detected miles away from the waters edge. That wondrous aroma licked round the corner, down the alley through the dank and went straight up my nose, and in one quick sniff, I knew it was going to be a good day on the Avon before I had even left the car park. 

Every time I come to this bit of river and cast out my feeder I wait expectantly with a hint of worry, even though I know that as long as Winter is cold and I have bait the fish will more than likely bite. You see nine times in ten the fishing is insane, but that one time it is not it is the worst kind of dire, and trust me, this stretch on a bad day is the exact opposite of it's many good days.

Worry was soon abated when two casts in the first bite came. From then on in it never stopped for one moment; every feeder load of grubs was eaten with nothing less than gay abandon  At first it was little roach that viciously pecked at my maggots, then after a while the dace began to show. Small ones first, then not long after that they began to grow in size.

Hitting dace bites using a quiver tip is never easy and truthfully sixty or more percent are missed. But my theory on this has held me in good stead for many years fishing this particular area. Yes, fishing the stick or waggler as many of the match style anglers do undoubtedly converts more bites into fish, but while this will put together a match winning bag it does pander to the smaller fish. Undeniably bigger ones do get caught, but probably on a ratio of  ten little ones to one big one, on the float. 

Using the feeder those little dips of the float caused by smaller fish never enter in the equation. You never strike the trembles or slight nods: you just wait for a convincing bite, hit it, and more than fifty percent of the time it's a better fish for sure.

Sport was fast and furious and the speed in which my maggots were dwindling reflected that. It was about this time that Andy who was downstream encountered some action on the pike rod he had cast in the margin. 

I watched him strike, play and land the fish before venturing over to have a look and offer help if it was needed. He had the nice plump double well under control so being surplus to requirement I slipped off to have a quick cast before he wanted a picture taking.

The tiny hook re-baited I flicked the feeder underarm using physical memory, straight onto the line I had hit all morning. I felt it drift down to the soft bottom with a muted thump before resting the rod on the butterfly rest and my knee. The other day I talked to a friend about those times when you instinctively hit a bite; seeing the rod tip begin to move in a way that countless previous experiences tells you will be a proper bite, and striking before it has had time to develop. This was exactly what I did. This whole minute may well be one of those few perfect minutes of my angling life. One cast into exactly the right spot. One bite which was detected instantly and reacted to before it happened. Then that heavier pressure than I'd felt all day followed a long bar of silver rotating towards the bank. No dallying, no losses, just straight into the net in one shot. A PB dace!

I looked at in the net and called out to a distracted Andy that it was a big dace. He though had just freed up his pike and was getting ready for me, who was in that heady PB zone, to come and do the camera job on his pike. That done I went back and took a second look. That was when a hint of doubt came into my mind and I thought maybe it was a little chub. I have had a few that I would describe as decent dace, but this thing was in a different league and I think that's what threw me at first. It took two hands to hold the wiry critter; it's features were not like all the others I had caught. Instead of solid silver it had different tones of colour. A dark back fading into a silver belly, it had a huge mouth and was wide across its back.

I know anyone who has reads this who fishes any Southern rivers might think I am over reacting to what they think is not that special of a dace. But for the Warwickshire Avon this is a absolute monster the likes of which I have never seen before. The shot of the fish in my big old ham hock hands really did not show the fish for how big and fat it actually was, so this mat shot shows her for the kipper she was. 

Ten inches long, pigeon chested and with a stomach like Pavarotti. She was with all the best possible meanings an absolute hog of a dace, and luckily for me I had my digital mini species scales to weigh her on.
The plastic box I have been using to hold my captures on the scales was only a little over eight inches long so the poor girl found herself a little bent in there whilst the scales recorded her weigh,t and my new PB, at 12oz plus.

After that capture the keenness was taken from my cast. I often feel like this when I land a big fish, like I should just stop fishing and bask in the afterglow of a great capture, not sully the moment by casting again. But I never can not cast again as my whole ethos is based on the fact that I cannot have caught the biggest fish out there. On this occasion I should have stopped and gone home. The bites withered away as did my attention and soon I wandered off upstream for a few casts in another reputable spot.

Although well populated by anglers it seemed they were having a fruitless time, bar a few small silvers. So I soon wandered back to find Andy about to chip off, and Keith who had slipped in my swim working hard for bites.

Later myself and Keith wandered off downstream to explore what I can only describe as the oldest looking bit of the Avon I have ever fished. Sitting under the sandstone cliffs in the warm winter sun feeling for the tug of a perch as it picked up my worm, the question of how long it took the river to carve that stone down from the fifty feet peak of the cliff to where I sat was mind boggling. Jeff has often written about how spooky this place is at night and I was beginning to realise what made it feel that way. It is its age! The slip of land that surrounds that river has probably not changed for thousands of years. The cliff above has, as have the fields that flank it, but the bit where I was sat couldn't due to its geography  How many other anglers had sat aside this river searching for a fat perch dangling a worm I can't imagine. Anglers, like those dace, have probably been returning to these same few fields for hundreds of years and I know that I, like many, will continue this tradition come what may so next year I will be back.

Quiet and simple punishment till spring.

I think I am often guilty of forgetting that fishing is not just about chasing specific species or bigger fish. The element of relaxation involved or simply just being alone in the quiet of the country side somehow is forgotten. Mind you familiarity does bred contempt, hence the more time you spend fishing the less likely you are to appreciate the simplest things.

Having just spent the last two weeks firstly preparing for, then exhibiting at one of Europe's largest trade fairs, I find find myself  rather overdosed on humanity. Quite simply should I have to speak the same tired sales shite to another prospective customer well... I may go mad! In a very spectacular falling down moment might I just add.

Through this twelve day angling absence the things that have kept me going were the notions that it can't go on forever, and that once it was over I would seek solace outdoors away from work, fishing. Following this I would spend the rest of my weekend possibly watching a movie or dining out. Then weather permitting I might even not go to work on the Monday and instead, like some skiving kid on the wag, head off fishing whilst most went to work.

I wrote the previous two paragraphs before the weekend and before I went fishing. Since then I did exactly as I planned fishing a full day on Saturday and bumming off work Monday as well hoping both would be relaxing and enjoyable. Which nether session really lived up to!

Saturday we opted for a last minute stretch change and in a moment of shear madness decided to fish the recreation ground over the lido. Big mistake! The as usual inconsiderate Stratford rowing club were out in force and although over eighty percent of there boats were coxed, they all seemed unable or simply did not care to give any of the many anglers fishing this stretch so much a millimetre of space.

Their reluctance to share the river with us got my blood boiling very quickly indeed, as time and time again oars smashed up our swims making fishing barely possible. But on the bright side the Avon looked a fine colour and the roach which we sought did seem to be interested. If only we could keep a line in long enough to hook one.

Boat foam!

The roach though enquiring around my bread baits regularly, seemed very non committal.  I can't even think of a single occasion in the past when I have had so many bites and never connected a a single fish. By dinner time I had had enough. The rowers were driving me crazy and the roach were pushing me over the edge so I was very ready to move.

Spending the afternoon on a second usually reliable zander stretch, we did find peace and quiet. The fishing here though was much like the mood of the area, quiet! The river conditions had me convinced of some daytime zander action but the cold water seemed to be again hampering that.

The single and only bite came just after dark fell when a solitary twang of a rod fished into a deep slack on the opposite side of the river hinted that something did actually swim in the Avon. I had been waiting all day for some real action so every effort was made to try and convert this tepid gesture into a fish. But not a Jimmy bean came from it and that ended what could only be described as a torrid days fishing.

Monday I fared no better ether. Once again for about the hundredth time this winter the Avon was out of action as it lapped roads instead of banks. The back end of the season is one of my favourite times to fish the rivers and this winter that has no been an easy pastime. I get the impression just about every angler feels the same and would confirm that this has been a terrible end to the 2012- 2013 river season.

With the whole day at my disposal I planned to visit a canal to again fish for zander. After a night of snow flurries I stuck with my idea and made my way to the grand union to find it in a far worse condition than the Avon was.

Quite literally it looked like I could have walked across it there was so much dirt suspended in the water. The picture I took did no justice to how off-putting the water looked. I knew even if I did fish I wouldn't have much confidence given its current state, and  so moved on.

My last option was to head off to a friend's fishery and spend the day as men have done for hundreds of years; staring at a float as a worm wriggled below. The only poop in my plan was that it was February and quite honestly I do not find February to be my favourite of months.

Why should I dislike a month so much you will probably ask. Well here it is! February like September is a change over month. Unlike September though were fish suddenly begin to realise winter is coming and they must feed hard to prepare for the soon impending chill. February hints at Spring arriving although the temperature as we currently see fluctuates rapidly from cold to a little less cold. Yes, nature shows signs of life here and there...

Fields show signs of green

Daffodils begin to pop up

Snow drops bloom

Winter aconite suddenly colours the winter wood

But like this little flower, every living thing still finds the weather a bit too cold and would rather stay wrapped up asleep for a few more weeks until winter finally shows us its back.

Just like the shy blooms littering the woodland floor, the fish residing in my friend's lake refused to come out and play in the cold, and I soon resorted to scratching for bites. And I hate scratching for bites especially when I am half freezing to death waiting for spring to arrive.

pushing our luck against all odds.

I slept badly the other night. It was the rain that caused this fitful sleep. I have never slept particularly well whilst it rains ever since I was a child, and quite truthfully I have never fathomed why. Normally sleeping is not that much of a problem for me. In fact in the past I have slept in places most would consider abominable. The centre of Bristol bus station at peak time, atop a damp haystack next to a canal on a chilly October night and in several cinemas during very loud movie screenings.

The night in question though was in no uncertain terms terrible. Rain drummed constantly on my bedroom window and intermittent gusts drove huge globules against the glass with storm force. In my half sleep my mind was not only battered by the weather, but also by the shadowing thought that whilst I slept the world outside thawed under the hand of the tempest that raged against my window. This may seem like an exaggeration, but everything is exaggerated when you can't sleep, and a few inches of snow melting easily turned into a global catastrophe, like the end of an ice age.

In the dark the thought of all remnants of snow melting ran through my mind and filled the river with awful chilled rock salt tainted water, as the white world was washed away. So there I lay trying to cover my ears from this torturous sound with a hood of quilt and blanket, all the while brooding half conscious on what the Avon would look like when I first saw it in the morning. If I ever got to morning...

The night before the morning after my phone had bleeped to indicate a message just as I drifted off, and in the early hours I burnt my eyes to read it. From it's vague contents I determined Andy now doubted the validity of our intent to visit the river. His normally unshakable confidence had been undermined by the falling rain, rising river and a few doubting comments to a facebook post he had made.

I however was not perturbed by such things and hoped my confidence in our chances would be enough to bolster both our resolves, and if it wasn't then I would go it alone.

.

My reason for wanting to get on the river even in such frightful conditions is simple. When the river flares up quite often the populations are forced to find sanctuary from the flow. If you can find these safe havens then the audience is captive. As I know certain bits of the Avon area as good as anyone else then I feel confident that I know where the slack areas will be. So if we could find a fish-able area, chances are that fish would more than likely be in them, and if they got hungry maybe one of our baits may get picked up resulting in a trophy whilst most anglers never even left the house. This might seem like a bit of a hair brain rationality to apply to risky endeavours, but as the single best bit of fishing advice I have been given says 'you won't catch anything with your hook out of the water'.

Once we got under way our confidence did soar a little as we batted ideas to and fro. But when we first saw the river our short lived confidence melted much like the snow that now filled it. Option after option were submerged until only two remained. The first was an epic but still borderline slack created by the main flow splitting in two as it passed under a bridge, then colliding again making half the river flow a at least two thirds less than the opposite side.

In a more favourable flood this has been an amazing fish holding area. But today it proved to be not quite sheltered enough. This swim in normal conditions is still water, today however it flowed with some force and after probing it for more than an hour, we had between us cast each one our four rods multiple times. 

I cant imagine there is a single bit of weed left in the Avon this year as most of it came down before Christmas. Now though all that is left skimming the bottom is rotting black leaves which alone can't dislodge your rig. In multiples though they clog leads, cover baits and hang off ever hook point if left to there own devices.

Our confidence halved, we upped sticks towards the last gasp saloon. Behind an island in the track of a lock  we found exactly what we sought. The only flow in this spot was shaved from the main current by the point of the island and left an almost still but deep area on the nearside bank. If ever I saw a more text book zander hideout I would be lying. The conditions were perfect, how could there be no one home.

Four hours we waited, and in that time we received exactly two of the poorest runs I have ever seen on the Avon. Both were over moments after they started and both were left an appropriate amount of time before baits were checked and tell tale tiny punctures were seen on the flanks of the baits.

During our vigil we did see something odd. Every so often a fish would suddenly roll right up the flooded bank amongst the vegetation close to our feet. Ever time we saw it we were convinced it was the same fish. It was certainly silver in appearance, but why it was rolling in this newly flooded bit of ground was beyond both of us. Time and time again it surfaced only feet in front of us. For my part I was thinking it was a small zander attacking prey fish sheltering in the scrub.

It was my idea it was a zander and my knowledge of how much those little critters love lobworms that inclined me to swap my heavy outfit for a lighter one and try a worm down the edge. The light was going and the world was growing darker before anything happened. 

spot the weir

I was a little upstream taking a photo of the river as the sunset over its still swelling banks when Andy whistled sharply and indicated that I had just had some interest on the rod that he had been watching for me. I got back just to see it nod again then begin bouncing round hard. Then after hours of confidence sapping nothing I was playing a fish. But the question was what sort of fish was it exactly.

Really I never thought it would be what it was but the sight of a pretty big roach was pure joy and almost made our gamble worth while. It was a bit washed out but it was undoubtedly a thoroughbred roach of one pound and one ounce.

Now I must come clean and make an admission here and certain friend of mine may want to pour himself a large shot of something strong before he reads this. This was not my first encounter with the rolling in the shallows on this session.

Immediately after swapping over to my lighter outfit and about an hour before I landed the roach I had got an pretty much instant bite. This fish was connected and played until I found myself in a bit of an two and eight with my landing net out of position and me cutting off Andy from it. At this point thinking it was probably some minging skimmer that I decided to try and bank the fish by pulling it into the flooded edge instead of getting the net. As I lifted its head a little more to get it over some nettles its identity came apparent  Andy shrieked its a big roach I panicked and applied more pressure then my hook came free. Now that first and lost roach as far as both as we both could make out was at least half if not more as big as the one I landed. So by not having my net on the right side of me I actually bumped off what could of been a Warwickshire Avon roach of one pound eight or more.....maybe much more!

As the light went we did focus on our attempts to land more of these chance captures, but only found eels. Though we should have focused on the rising river! Knowing we could get into to trouble we had ensured and exit point into the field behind was always available. By home time we were convinced that although the river had risen we could still leave via the way we had come in.
WRONG!!!
The moment we turned the first corner we came face to face will a wall of water. Keeping calm we turned to our reserve exit and hoped the barbed wire fence. A bit further on we found the Avon spilling noisily into the field we were now stood in and a knee deep wade was our only option to get out of it.

Once through that we believed we were high and dry. That was until we had to go under a bridge where we soon found the Avon was very much over its banks and flowing hard. At this point our pair became a trio!
Why anyone other than stupid anglers would decide to try and get through this flood was beyond me, but the old chap we found clambering along a fence in the dark alone was at risk of getting into some serious trouble.

This second wade was different. The river was not just escaping is banks but running over them with force straight onto us and dragging your feet forward caused the water to crash up our legs like waves breaking on a reef. One the other side we made sure the old fella made it across then we all crossed the foot bridge to the other side together where we knew a third dip in the Avon was inevitable.
By far this one was the longest wade, but good on Mr Lewis for going all the way back through it a second time to give our new friend a piggy back up onto dry land and safety.

Walking back towards the car away from the river I could not help but think that we had really pushed our luck on this occasion. I was damp from a little above the knee down, my boots I knew would take weeks to dry out, but some how it seemed worth it. Yes we had not caught the chance trophy we so hankered for, but we had caught some fish against all odds and had ourselves a little adventure whilst doing so as well.

Fishing in a winter wonderland.

I feel lucky too know of a special spot on old mother Avon, that when the weather is at its most horrid you can be guaranteed some wondrous sport. Fishing there can be so good in fact, that I would quite easily go as far as to say that it can be more consistent bite wise on bad day, than most others rivers on their very best of days.

Years ago I, like empty beer cans, was a regular feature of this understated bit of the Avon. My seasons would begin in the dark on June 16th attempting to hook hold of a rare barbel. During the summers I would jig the deep clear waters for perch and rampant jack pike. Then as autumn crept in chub could be relied upon to feed amongst the dying weed. But of all the seasons to be enjoyed sitting aside running water it was winter that was most enjoyable here, as when the cold easterly wind brought snow from Europe that was when the dace became king. And what dace they were too!

Nowadays it is only those dace which lure me back to this ancient river bank, and conditions this weekend just passed seemed torrid enough for a date to surely to be set. Truthfully we had it in our minds to travel to another place, but four hundred miles of driving to freeze half to death did seem slightly pointless on such a day. So after a myriad of suggestions, the name of old reliable was uttered and we were off.

Dace as far as I am concerned are the most underrated of our course fish. If I was to say that on our last session myself and Mr Lewis caught ourselves fourteen or more carp of between twenty and thirty pounds in under five hours, you would think I had surely gone mad. On the other hand if I said we had caught fourteen dace of between six and ten or more ounces... Well that statement would probably not raise so much as an eye brow, and considering that pound for pound or ounce for ounce they are just about the same comparatively, I think it would prove my point aptly.

What makes this even more amazing is that these fish were all caught on probably less than five pounds worth of bait; when was the last time you read about anyone catching even one carp on anything less than fifty pounds worth of bait.

As I knew would be the case, once positioned knee deep in freshly deposited mud in the half light, bait flowing, the bites came quick and fast. Though my first catch of the day was to have a total weight probably the same as everything other fish we caught put together, and maybe a few more too boot.

You see not only does this dace abundance provide great fishing for us but it also provides good feeding for pike, and most of the pike for miles converge at this time of year, like us, on this section. Oh, and are they a thieving bunch for sure. How many small dace have been stolen from me here I could not count on all my digits and yours. Feeders and floats to seem to be regularly taken on the retrieve as the pike here are that wound up in the frenzy.

The most unbelievable situation I ever experienced first hand, happened after I hooked a tiny dace which flipped my hook. My still baited hook was taken as it sank by a second dace which I began to reel in. This  fish was then grabbed by a small pike of maybe four pounds which bent my rod double. After playing the pike for a while I was thinking it may get landed if my luck held and then a bigger pike grabbed that one and ended the whole debacle in a flash.

Knowing the amount of pike present and having two predator rods in my quiver for the afternoon session I was always going to put out a bait just in case. But I never thought one would come along so soon!
My first enquire from a dace had just been spectacularly missed and as I loaded my feeder full of magics again I caught a slight bounce on my other rod tip from the corner of my eye. At first I wondered if I had knocked the rod as I was re-baiting my feeder then it bounced again with a little more venom.
Normally it takes an hour or so for the predators to move into that small zone right at your feet where the small fish exit and re-enter the water. Today though someone was already resident in the kill zone and my bait had dropped right into its lair.

Before I had even had chance to land a single lovely silver dace I found myself striking into a pike as it moved off. I don't know why but I always assume it's going to be a naughty little jack pike here. Maybe it's because when the water is clear you can see the little buggers racking up under your feet ready to attack your catches  Today was no different, and assuming it was just another jack I powered straight into it and gave it some real stick. It did not take long to get it on the surface where through the still murky light I sight as I thought a decent enough jack pike. Then it ploughed off like a steam train. This was when Andy called over suggesting I take it a bit easy that I replied " pah... it's just a little one with a big attitude" to which he replied
"I reckon that's a bit bigger than you think". When it next surfaced shaking its head I will admit it did look a bit bigger. Then when the net slipped under, it didn't seem that big again. But when I picked the net up and set eyes on its bulk filling my predator spoon, I did finally agree that I may have been a bit gung ho with this lovely lady.

What a start to a mornings fishing! I had not even taken my head light off and here I was wrestling with a plump mid double pike in the stickiest mud in Warwickshire.

It took a while to settle down after I returned her safely upstream and recast another dead bait back into the that kill zone, but soon enough I got my head down and caught up with Andy, who was by now swinging in dace and roach in one after another.

The silver fishing was out of this world as expected. Running a float through was scoring hard for Andy and fishing a tiny maggot feeder kept me striking all morning as the snow began to fall. The float as expected registered more bites, but as I have often felt, the feeder seemed to sort out a larger class of dace quicker rather than having to wade through all the tiny ones to catch a big one here or there.

All in all the stamp of fish was great and if only could have caught just one dace the length of Andy's longest fish and the girth of my fattest fish, we may of actually stood a real chance of landing a one pound dace from the Warwickshire Avon.

By noon I was clean out of magics and quite frankly caked in fish slime. After another enjoyable dace bashing session my only regret was that I never got one single picture of one of those lovely dace as I was to wrapped up in catching them to remember to get any pictures. Oh well, all I can to do is go back again try for that pounder or maybe even a twenty pound pike.

Carbeling! No Zarbeling.

Last year whilst grubbing around on the river I got chatting to an old guy - well I was chatting, he was moaning. Amongst his various gripes he mumbled the word carbeling, by which he was referring to when carp anglers, who normally spend their time pitched up for days on end next to some lake awaiting a pig of a carp, instead ply their carpy scaled down tactics to fishing for big barbel on non native rivers.
Hearing this made me realise that I could possibly coin a new phrase of my own for a technique I have been using for a good many years now.

Zarbeling ; To fish for zander using using barbel techniques and tackle.

I started doing this after what can be considered one of the most frustrating sessions ever. Whilst fishing a particularly coloured Avon on a mild February day with some very heavy cloud cover, my two bite alarms sounded all day with multiple enquiries, from what I was convinced were zander. Even low resistance rigs fished into the slack water using light set drop off indicators could not convert the initial enquiries into actual runs. Late in the day my riparian companion Rob rolled up to my swim, after spending the session quiver tipping for small fish down stream. After watching my bank side disco for a while he tied on a trace, cast out a dead bait, and lo and behold, he got a tiny bit of a bite which he converted into a nice zander.

This got me thinking that tip rods were the way forward for river zander fishing. On a lake or canal that has little or no flow you can leave the bail arm open on your reel with whatever bite indicator you favour attached, and have no problems.
The problem with rivers is the flow. To fish at all in the flow there is always an element of resistance/pressure on your rigs, and we all know zander hate both. Barbel rods offered both a sensitive quiver tip plus enough power to deal with the biggest zander you are likely to come across, and even with pike right up to 20lb should you be lucky enough to hook one. Rig wise I straight away began using a free running big barbel set up, just with a wire trace and trebles attached instead of a mono or braid hook link.

For quite a long I was still waiting for that hoop around of the tip, of which I did get the odd one here or there. But still I was getting heaps of tiny knocks I was not converting. I can't remember when I figured this out exactly, but on one occasion after getting a single tap on the rod tip I picked up the rod and took the line in my other hand.
By holding the tension myself I could actually feel the fish move off, and I let it go on its merry way whilst keeping in touch with it. Once I had let it have what I thought was enough time to get the bait in its mouth, my sharp strike met with throbbing resistance.
This was a revelation! I now began converting probably 80% or more of  the slight taps into landed fish and I have never looked back.

With this unnerving warm weather we are currently experiencing and my need to get back on running water, I wondered if a dusk zarbeling session might be the right way to go. With a fining down river with a healthy bit of colour and near double figure temperatures to boot, the conditions looked about spot on.

I could of just played it safe and gone chubbing on the upper Avon where I knew the fish were on the feed, and given my state Sunday morning after the bloggers winter watering the night before, that was nearly the case. But as I ummed and ahhed, mooching around the house, I came to the conclusion that another window like this in the weather might not be so forthcoming over the next few months, so I got my act together and headed out.

Anyone who fishes any busy town waters will fully understand what I mean when I say that I soon found myself sitting in that still strip of almost silent land between the bustling path populated by Sunday walkers and the ever moving river. I kind of love being in this place half between humanity and nature. You walk along that path to get where you're going, then step out of society slightly and begin to dabble with nature instead whilst all the other people still on the path are oblivious to things going on right beside them.

After sitting in silence staring skyward for the best part of an hour, I was beginning to think my gamble was going to end badly, and pangs of regret crept into my mind. Given the conditions I had hoped even during the daylight hours some interest might have been garnered, but not so much as a nod had occurred. Sure the plethora of rubbish still suspended in the water kept me busy recasting every now and again, but the feeling I was working for nothing had begun to undermine my confidence badly.

Then twang!!! It always amazes me that even after watching rod tips for hours as they move back and forth that we anglers can spot the difference between an rotten old leaf catching your line and the tiniest pluck of a fish. This was no leaf, bag or any other shite for that matter. It was one hundred percent a fish. Rod in hand I could feel a few more tiny tremors travelling back along the just taught line. Then it moved off and I tracked the fish through ninety degrees with the rod flicked of the baitrunner  and as the line tightened  I struck hard into a solid fish.

My decision to gamble on a zarbeling session had paid of with the capture of my first zander of the year, and at seven pounds plus it was a great first fish. As is so often the case on this busy bit of water, once that first bite was out the way it all kicked off. Two more smaller zander fell one after another before it quietened off for a while.

Vilified, my thoughts were pushing me away from the river and homeward. My hunger had become apparent, and the idea of the beef and ale pie I would soon be eating was betraying me. That was until one of my rod tips began bouncing around.
I have found when using this method of bite indication for predators that the difference between a zander and a pike bite is never more evident  A zander nine times out of ten gives a single tap then unless line is given it will certainly drop the bait. A pike on the other hand nearly always indicates its presence in one of two ways: either the rod tip slowly bends over, then for some reason springs back before bouncing back and forth until you hit it; or it hammers off straight onto the bait runner just like a barbel. Either way the difference is obvious once you seen a few examples of each.

The first pike was tiny and no injustice was therefore felt when it got off. Only a short while after recasting onto the exact same spot, the next pike to pick up my bait really put a bend in my rod as it hung deep in the still powerful current.

Long and wide across the shoulders, this young lady has was well on her way to becoming a proper river pike. Like all the fish I caught on this short session she was solid. The fish, unlike us anglers, seem to have fared very well in the flooded conditions, and its nice to know that whilst we have been unable to fish, our quarry has been able to feed up in earnest for any cold weather ahead.

High and dry looking for that one moment of magic

Like most men I have the potential to drive my other half potty, and after a few hours of frantic Christmas shopping followed by a stop off at the local European style super market I was guilty of doing just this. I hate that snippy state we all get into at this time of year, and I for one often end up getting so frustrated over all the fervour for just one day, that I just have to escape. Luckily Jacky felt the same and suggested I maybe should go off for a few hours and leave her in peace. Me being the obedient type, she did not have repeat herself before I was pulling on my coat and slipping out the door with rod and bag in tow.

Two hours till dusk, a selection of juicy lob worms in my bag and the river was calling. I knew we had a bit of rain the day before but honestly never thought the effect would be as bad as it turned out. The land everywhere is sodden and it doesn't take much to get the rivers rising, but this takes the mick.

It looked like a weeks worth of rain was charging through the river as I crossed the field, and I won't deny almost turning tail, but truthfully I actually fancied having a crack at this familiar area when it was flooded out. I have an intimate knowledge of the banks and thought a couple of the areas where I normally sit might actually have turned from pegs to swims.

Getting close to the river though turned out to be a monumental effort alone. I hopped from island to island trying to avoid the deeper water, and after a detour probably equivalent to ten times the length of my normal route, I was sitting atop a mound in front of a nice slack water.

There is little need to go into the ins and outs of  two hours of debris catching on my line. What I can say is there was certainly fish in the slack and I did receive one tentative bite. More of this little session was spent watching the river rise out of the corner of my eye. For safety's sake I had earmarked a couple of tufts of grass a little up the bank, and as the minutes ticked away, they slowly disappeared from view under the rising water.

I eventually came to the conclusion that this was just not worth the risk, and decided to make a move towards home. This was the point when I realised that although I had be watching the water rise to my right I had neglected to watch it flanking me from the left. The water had risen up a drainage ditch along the edge of the field and spilled over in a old trench which dissected the field, and had left me very much marooned.

Landing net pole in hand, I carefully felt my way through the shallowest water, or so I thought. One step a little off course and my right boot went fully under the water, and trying to correct my mistake the left one got the same treatment. Feeling water now seeping through my thermal boots, my feet were certain to get a soaking, so off I went double time trudging through the water as a quick as possible.

Looking back over the now flooded field I could see the river had covered at least a quarter more of the low lying field than it had when I arrived. Even with a soaking wet feet I still think it was worth checking out that slack water, as there was always a chance that the heavy flow could of forced a lot of the rivers population into that tiny little area.

That following morning had been when I was really expecting to get out onto the river, but my experience the night before had luckily confirmed it would more than likely be a waste of my time, so a change of tack was in order. Having only thirty something lob worms as bait my only real option was to go and continue testing the waters on the tiny woodland fishery which I suspect might hold some decent perch.

Nestled in a spinney surrounded by trees this fishery has, as far as I am concerned, all the right ingredients for monster perch; no competition from other predators in or out of the water, huge amounts of prey fish and not too big. Partly the reason for targeting this water is that more than five years ago I myself caught a three pounder here, and then the following winter a fishing buddy of mine did the same. I was never to sure if it was the same fish but either way it proved the water more than capable of such fish.

I know the fishery's owner very well, and when I spoke to him on the subject of perch he firstly confirmed that from time to time big perch do turn up in matches, and secondly that this spring just past was a bumper year for spawning, or as he put it "the water were black wi fry". On a visit earlier this month I landed two perch of one and half and two pounds on a freezing cold day when the water was still muddied up from the feeder stream flooding over, so now it was clearing I really fancied my chances.

Maggots would have been a good addition to my bait as they would have concentrated the smaller fish and drawn in the perch, but with only limited worms at my disposal I opted to use a technique that has worked for me before. Fishing a whole split worm on the hook and flicking out a chopped up worm every twenty minutes to half an hour seems to be enough to attract perch via the scent of those chopped worms, whilst not quite being enough to attract to many swim ruining carp of which this lake has many.

With all my best efforts it seemed that still thawing pool was proving to be frigid in more ways than one. Through the morning there had been some intermittent topping by the silvers but that seemed the full extent of the activity. I stuck with the plan and concentrated all my attentions of the single orange top which slipped in and out of the shadows on the mirror like surface. 

My first bite came two hours in when my float buried instantly, leaving me connected to a powerful fish which was at least double the size of the current UK perch record. It didn't take too long to get off my hook either - three powerful runs towards the last vestiges of the lily pads and it was free. Happy with a little action the loss was not that hurtful, as carp held no interest today.

After the swim had settled and another two hours passed, out of now where I got a single stern bob on the float before it headed out into the lake. I must of hit hundreds of these classic perch bite this year alone but this one when struck contacted nothing. Both halves of my worm were gone though, which hinted a perch was somewhere scoffing its free meal. 

A quick recast and that magic moment came again exactly as before, and as I watched it sink away I paused giving this one a little more time to engulf the bait before I struck into a certain perch good perch. Whether it was the contrast of little activity or whether I am growing in appreciation of the perch's fight I don't know, but the the scrappy battle was a joy, and the first glimpse of that spiky dorsal was breathtaking.

Nowhere near the biggest perch I have caught this year but certainly one of the most appreciated  It was maybe a pound and a half or more, but more importantly it was the right sort of perch; big head, deep body and young. I have come to look for this sort of perch in these more commercial lakes as I think they are a good measure of what the water could hold. Even if they are still a few years off becoming a monster, there could be fish with the same genetics a few years older hanging around, and not just that, there's always the ones that spawned them.

After the floods have passed.

The Avon has got my attention. For the longest while she had fallen from my mind, whilst other far away rivers and moody lakes have preoccupied me. But now she has changed from a memory to a target again with a monumental discharge of power which has turned my eyes back toward her.

The slow sedate flow is gone and the level has risen violently, bursting bank, covering field and fence as the familiar channel in which it flows was unable to cope with days of rain. The entire country has been reminded of how water governs our lives. Gone are the picture postcard images only to be replace by scenes of disaster and woe.

Unlike most who would rather get away from the frigid water sopping through their lives, I find myself intrigued by it. The flood plains now call to me and I have been watching for an opportunity to explore and see it in a different way. I do not want to see her as I always do, I want to cast into new slacks or differing pools which are only temporarily there; to play whilst she is a different mood.

Sense over valour has prevailed though. When midweek I ventured near, I found banks still very submerged. It's not that I did not want cast into the flooded water or that I did not feel confident to wade through the flooded meadow, it was more what I knew of this stretch!

Last year I sat on frozen banks in total silence as the evening drew in and from nowhere, the bank no less than twenty feet upstream crumbled into the river reminding me of how undercut it was. With no other reason than it was no longer able to support its weight, a sizeable chunk of dark brown Warwickshire mud, grass and all slid into the river. How many times I had sat atop that bit of earth with not a single thought to it's stability I could not have recalled if I tried, but what I did know was that I had sat there. Witnessing such a thing has ever since acted as a reminder to probe the ground I intend to sit on carefully with a bank stick before I settle in; should that bank stick suddenly dive deep after half a foot or so, then I always move back a little more, extending my landing net as I do.

No fish is worth your life, and for me this day alone in the half light it was easier to walk away. Giving the old mother Avon a few more days to temper herself, a nearby fishery I suspected might hold big perch came to my aid, and after plying its chocolate waters with left over grubs and a few lob worms, my suspicions were confirmed a little. That bitter morning a landed two nice perch of one and half, and a little under two pounds along with a rouge chub, proving that I will return again for a bigger perch.

Two more days passed before I ventured back to the river and when I again found myself looking over the fields. The water was again hidden within cuts on flat land and although the river was back where it belonged, signs of the floods remained. Just over the barbed wire fence a tide mark of debris marked high water and my normally straight path was today more of a game of hopscotch, as I traversed from mound to mound.

Though familiar at first glance, a few moments watching revealed my timing seemed quite right. The water flowed right to left but the currents were like a jigsaw put together all wrong. In the past my knowledge of some of the swims have lead me to believe that should I fish blindfolded, I could get my baits in the right place (if I did not fall in first that is). Today, however, the swims were new and I had to again think how to best fish these old haunts.

After a few probing casts of a light rig, where I watched diligently as the weight skipped across the river bottom before snagging on old weed, I spotted not far from the rod tip the tiniest of eddies, no bigger than a metre in width where the current deflected off a slight jut in the reeds.
Just lowering the bait into the water I saw my worm waft in opposition to the flow, and the tension in the line went as the lead made bottom, the bow of the line indicating my bait, now on the bottom, was possibly upstream.

How in such flow the rod tip registered such a half hearted enquire is a miracle, but the rod tip did judder just once hinting at some interest. I nearly struck the second, but just stopped hand on cork and said to myself 'next time' which took no time to come at all. We have all heard the popular saying referring to a barbel bite as a three foot twitch. Well this was a three centimetre twitch, and I hit it at one point five.

Every moment of the spirited fight was enjoyed, and the satisfying sight only a small chub of a maybe two pounds vilified my choice of casting into the temporary eddy at my feet.

I do not often chance a second fish from such small features. But given the power of the current between this eddy and the rest of the river it seemed perfectly plausible there could be a whole shoal of chub crammed in it. A short interlude and a few broken worms flicked tight to the bank and I again lowered the bait into the opposing current. 

Another tinkle came and went before I checked to see if I had been robbed, and I had! So pushing my luck I recast, set the trap and waited. Longer than before it took, but there is not many chub, no matter how fickle can resist the allure of a worm in fining water. The bite was the identical to the last. Only this time on the second twink down the white tip never sprang back. The fight of these chub in the more powerful flow was impressive, but unusually for the chub of the upper Avon they pulled none of their normal dirty tricks instead opting to hold out in the flow rather than dive into every available bit of rush.

This slightly larger one proved me right concerning the presence of more fish in the tiny eddy. But it was also a clear signal to move on downstream and spend the last hour or so fishing a favourite old swim, which I was convinced would certainly flow differently in my favour and would be a great last swim as the light went.

From the first cast to the last, fish were very interested in what I was offering. The only problem was that the quick and half hearted rattles were not caused by chub, but rather perch and if the chub bites were shy these could drive a man insane for sure.

Not one of those quick rattles were connected, no matter how quick I tried to hit them or how long I waited. These perch had robbery down to a fine art. Somewhere in the rash of violent tugs the tip pulled round very slightly, as if a tiny bit of weed had hung up as it passed by my rig. Even if I am just reeling in I give my rod a tiny strike just in case it might be a fish and on this occasion it was. A third chub smashed up the swim before broaching my net.

After that it really turned into one of those one last bite things. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon I was still getting bites, even though I could barely see the white tip of my rod in the dark. Even unable to hit those pesky perch and with my hands numb from the cold, it was well worth being on the river to see the sky first turn dark blue, then purple as night fell.

Even after a Saturday night fuelled by rum and cokes I was always going back the following morning despite knowing how cold it would be after a clear night. The one thing that kept me ever confident was that I knew the fish were on the feed. 

In a new swim however, it was no chub who struck first. With the turbulent flow close to my feet a large eddy was accessible by fishing my rod tip pointing skyward, lifting my line well over it into the slack. I had already stuck at a very perch-like rattle before recasting, and just as the weight touched down I fancied the slight nod of my rod tip indicated another may of attacked the worm as it fluttered down. Nothing more happened though and suspicion grew that once again I had been turned over.

My little flick of the rod just before reeling revealed the rig may of snagged up on some unseen obstacle. This was in part true as the hook was in fact snagged in the mouth of a pike who had grabbed the falling bait. For the first few runs it was all good, and even using a relatively light outfit I felt sure I stood a chance with this toothy critter. That was until it did a very unseasonal jump over on the far bank and revealed itself as an nice size jack of maybe five pounds or more. I survived the first bit of acrobatics but on the second my line stood no chance as it thrashed its head and severed my line like cotton.

I think the reason I cast back into the same spot was because I wondered if its prescience may have in some way hampered any other fish present, and that may of been true, as after only moments the tip once again went before I hooked another chub of two to three pounds.

Three more swims I fished after this one and no more fish were landed. Then thinking it was about time to get off, I chanced that pesky perch hole again wondering if on a different day their confidence may have grown overnight.

Straight off I missed two wicked bites which I am still kicking myself for missing now as I write this. They were the only proper bites I had in two different occasions in that swim, and somehow in a fumble of hands I struck both as the tip was going the wrong way. One fish I actually felt vibrating up the line for shortest of time before the rig popped clean out the water.

Even with that hint of regret of missing what could have been a nice river perch, I am glad to see that one of my favourite stretches of the upper Avon is showing no signs of suffering from the recent floods, and now I find myself really looking forward to those short cold winter sessions and maybe rooting out a five pounder here or there.