Piscatorial Quagswagging

Walking down to the design studio entrance of doom doesn’t really do much for the soul, if I’m honest.

I’ve never really got on with a full moon, fishing-wise.

The padlocked security gate was open, which immediately meant that the other locked security gate would probably be open too, and as it turned out, I was right.

When chaos engine Donald Trump met elected by his mates to lead the country Andy Burnham at the United Nations, social media naturally did what media does best and immediately turned a perfectly ordinary diplomatic encounter into a forensic examination of…

There are many things I enjoy about fishing, but trotting a float down a river sits somewhere near the very top of the list.

So, we are back on the Warwickshire Avon, Nic and I, and to be honest it has been a while.

When we first acquired our little section of the syndicate stretch, I can fully understand why the landowner only gave us one bit of river to play with initially.

There are certain noises in life that a sensible man learns to recognise, and one of them is the faint, nagging ache coming from the lower back which, when translated from the language of bodily complaints, basically means “pack your gear away, you idiot.”

Well, autumn has certainly decided to announce its arrival, and judging by the temperature the other morning on the way to work, it had clearly forgotten to send a polite letter first.

I’d not fished this particular stretch for barbel for quite some time, which is probably why, in a moment of complete irrationality, I suddenly developed the overwhelming urge to go and annoy one of them again.

Sam has, somewhat unexpectedly, started showing a bit of interest in fishing again, which is obviously a good thing although I'm not entirely sure whether my bank account is going to agree with that assessment.

There are certain news stories that make you stop what you’re doing, read them again and wonder if someone has accidentally put the wrong location on the press release.

Well, a week off the booze thus far after August's excesses and I must admit, I'm already sleeping better.

Well, the session didn't exactly get off to the most auspicious of starts, although to be fair, down here it’s generally about as peaceful as Piccadilly Circus at rush hour, only with more bivvies and considerably less public transport.

I was genuinely surprised the other day when Sam announced that he wanted to go fishing.

So, we're back in business then, although whether that's good news for anyone other than me is open to debate.

Being off work for most of August has been very, very nice indeed, although apparently there is a limit to how much relaxation the human body can cope with before it starts to resemble a sack of potatoes that has been left in the sun.

Saturday was one of those days where my twin brother Chris was living his best life somewhere down in Westward Ho!

After returning from our holiday in North Devon, I must admit I'm on a bit of a downer.

North Devon has always felt like my true spiritual home, with the only real snag being that I do not get down here anywhere near as often as my sanity requires.

You know how it goes.

Sunday mornings and I have a bit of an understanding.

The rumours had been swirling around Westminster for weeks, but now it was official.

Seventeen.

Now some itches can be ignored.

There are two things the Midlands does exceptionally well.

There are people who go to spas, there are people who meditate on mountain tops, and then there are anglers.

Now there are moments in life when you think you've absolutely nailed it.

There are few things in angling quite as satisfying or quite as nerve-racking as watching a great slab of floating crust drift lazily towards a summer chub that has already spotted you before you've even spotted it.

Now there are certain doors in life that are never meant to be opened.

The Wife raised an eyebrow when I announced we were having chilli con carne for tea.

I'd not fished this stretch for a good while, and as I walked down the field with the rod over my shoulder, it felt like I was visiting an old mate I'd somehow neglected.

I stumbled across a rambling gospel of trotting pellets for roach written with the sort of conviction usually reserved for people who’ve just discovered a “secret peg” that everyone else has also been sat on for 20 years.

Well, if the Met Office are to be believed, Stratford-upon-Avon could be nudging 40 degrees this week.

Friday afternoon once work had finished began in thoroughly civilised fashion.

Now there are wellness retreats costing thousands of pounds where earnest people sit cross-legged beside scented candles attempting to discover inner peace.