The first trip of the year up The River Severn is always something to look forward to but on this occasion I hastily booked the world's smallest caravan for a night and a few days later I am here, down in the Severn Valley on a last minute mini trip, so what could possibly go wrong?
I fancied a new stretch for me just above Bewdley town centre and after opening a poorly maintained gate that required lifting (and tweaking the old back) I made my way down to the river, I knew she would be low but she still looked good. I passed another angler, an old fella, no doubt the owner of the only other car in the car park, wondering how the heck he got that gate open and closed when I struggled.
I passed the old bridge which looked weird without the 'bridge' bit, the stanchions standing proud out of the river like the legs of a huge beast, it was dismantled in 1965 so stands as a monument now to a defunct railway line, an impressive legacy though and a local landmark.
I set up in a fast shallow area downstream where I could actually see Bewdley road bridge from where I had waded out. Trotting maggots over hemp was always going to be the planned attack and I was happy to get loads of dace from the offset knowing that getting through to the odd bigger fish would make for a jolly good day's trotting, even getting a shed full of dace would do so I was happy being well on the way to the latter.
Then it happened, something anyone who has worn waders regularly has experienced, that sharp sensation that goes from leaving you thinking how cold the water is to knowing you have a leak in the old boots. I say old but they were anything but, although it does show the folly of taking a punt on cheap waders from Amazon.
I came out of the water knowing that I had accommodation booked and a bit of drying to do, tipped out the contents of The Severn from my left boot and sat on some steps further downstream. Trying to dry my sock when it was a cloudy 17c was futile as was wading again when they were gone at the seam, a boot full of water is also pretty dangerous as you slip inside the boot, plus it can get cold and annoying. I caught a few roach and small perch fishing with a bare foot whilst lamenting I couldn't wade much for the rest of the two day trip.
I was still positive, a good fish or two would make it all magic, besides there's always a memory in these mishaps, who knows I could even luck into a good spot as a result, perhaps a monster akin to those old bridge stanchions, I donned my old leaky boot, the initial feeling of cold soon warmed, most the water was gone and the general public was saved from seeing (and perhaps smelling) my bare water pruned foot.
Upstream I went back to the old bridge, it would be cool to fish near it after all, here it looked deep but was anything but, as I snagged this and that before a map of the snags was imprinted in the memory, sometimes it only takes a small area to catch a few fish so I was buoyed to get a small chub, the landing net was used at last.
Then a decent roach and a good perch followed before another chub similar in size, all in a spot that was less than two feet deep, I was building a nice mix of fish and the leaky boot was forgotten, job done. Then I hit a better chub that took line before heading for a bit of hit and hold action with a submerged willow, "Oh no you don't" was my audible response when it was make or break with the snags, so imagine my surprise when red fins and those green stripey flanks appeared, a cracking perch just shy of 2lb was in the net.
It then started raining fairly heavy, so I did think how miserable I could have felt with a cold wet foot out in those shallows, mind you I also contemplated running along and sheltering under 'the bridge' before quickly realizing how daft that would be. I suppose having fished under so many bridges so many times without a brolly the concept of a bridge without fair shelter is something to get used to.
The rain didn't last long and few more decent perch, the odd bigger dace and a battle with bleak bites kept me busy before losing another good fish which I suspect was another perch, perhaps bigger, the lost ones always are, it's angling law to think such a way, one that keeps us coming back for more.
It had been a nice day's fishing in the end and certainly eventful as I closed the gate on another adventure, literally heaving the damn thing shut before heading off to my humble holiday abode, I got a few funny looks from the locals, who I suspect aren't from around these parts, much like me.
The next day I'm off to Hampton Loade knowing I can't wade but will make do with what I've got, like the day before the weather was cool although it was threatening to get brighter this time. I set up on the second area of shallows knowing I could just get out far enough having marked the hole in my boot with a pen on the outside.
I was just about set up when another angler joined me just below, he asked first and being a float angler like me (even with the same bait bib) fishing with his wife like I often do I obliged, we had a good chat, it was his favourite swim after all and was on holiday too, all the way from Central London so that earned my respect straight up.
It was interesting to compare catch rates and baits like you can do with other anglers, with a head start I had over a dozen dace and one roach mid river whereas he had nothing fishing much further out. I do feel he was being a gent by refraining from wading across (he had chest waders) into my line of attack. Eventually he had a small chub, then another slightly bigger when changing to luncheon meat, a tactic I will reconsider in this coloured water as I tried pellet the same way to no avail. In the past I have experienced first hand that pellet out fished meat by a country mile but that was in clear water, when the weed was about and like I say in the past, times have changed.
Things went slow for both of us so I bid him and his lovely wife farewell (she was reading a good book like all clever wives seem to do) and headed off downstream leaving them to the swim. I then get to a narrow shallow glide and was about to cast when a guy rocks up opposite to fish the same bit. I'm left contemplating the difference between the courtesy of asking before getting close to someone's space and how it differs to simply encroaching and poor manners.
I didn't need any aggro so I explored further instead, it was a good time to rove anyway as blue skies arrived and things got bright, good sock drying weather I thought ironically. I roved and roved without wetting a line much and without wetting a foot, one spot yielded no bites, another just a few dace and gudgeon. Off came the hoodie as it got fairly warm but it wasn't too bad. I passed an enclosure of thousands of mallards, no doubt the source of the cacophony you get there sometimes when they are all on the river, whatever that's all about I'm not sure but they are certainly noisy.
Then I passed what looked like some bank works where a digger had been, down to an island, here the river didn't look like the Severn, it was the width of a canal but flowing through like a small river in winter would, sadly most of it was inaccessible although it did flow over some rocks down the bottom, with gusto too but at the same time showing a lack of recent rainfall, was this really the Middle Severn? I thought as I looked at this side channel, taking a fraction of the water the other side of the island does, despite that it was pushing though like many rivers that size could only dream of.
...and this was my holiday view, from an old caravan perched atop a hill, bottle of wine at the ready and memories made.
