I wake with a start.

That heightened sense of awareness, the clarity of every noise and sound in the still air. I’m suddenly aware of the weight of my head lolling forward and I’m brought back to reality, the warm fuzziness of my dream fading into the darkening sky. For that one moment, that one split second that seems to last an infinity, I was completely unaware of where I was, lost in the early evening mist, the rod still cradled in my hand, line looped over my finger. It could have been hours but in reality it was probably no more than a few minutes.  I settle back into my chair and focus once again on the gently nodding green isotope.

What is it that brings us back? Why am I here again, on the darkening banks, on a mild January night? Why does this place, this river, this stretch…bring me back?

The Avon often hides behind its many guises; from its Summer beauty, of reed lined banks, through Autumn shrouded in its misty cloak, to winter harsh and bare. She is a hard task master, driving you to frustration and exhaustion both physically and metaphorically. The endless walking along the banks, the hours spent craning your neck to watch that one patch of gravel, the soul destroying sessions spent in each swim; trying, pleading, yearning for the rod to hoop over. She is also a seductive mistress. This beautiful aquatic allegory of a woman whose allure and promise of pleasure pulls us inexorably under its spell, making us escape the drudgery and stress of our everyday lives for a snatched, furtive few minutes, an illicit liaison. She is that pretty girl who sat next to you in class or on the bus, the one you never quite had the courage to ask out but for who your heart ached. Her beauty and her mystery are the magic that bring us back in hope and expectation, to have that fleeting glimpse of what she holds, dreaming to be satisfied, to have that desire quenched.

For me it was that one fateful day in June when I finally succumbed. The promise and temptation was too much and laden with tackle and with hopes of monsters large I pitched up on the river by the Old Railway bridge and started what was to be a long affair with the watery mistress.

Why I ended up there I really can’t remember. I think it was looking over the bridge at the gravel below, watching those fingerling whiskers grubbing across the river bed below me. Of course, being the lazy angler it was also the nearest to our new home in Verwood. A quick car journey, a short walk and I was there. I was beginning to feel that, finally, I had arrived. I felt if I managed to catch one from this fabled river I would be a true barbel angler. If I just caught one, just one, no matter what size, by design, from a stretch that I had chosen I could call myself an Avon angler.

But better writers than I have discussed what takes us to the river bank and why we sit there, grown men, whiling away countless hours in an often fruitless pursuit, with the same boyish enthusiasm that took us there when we were young. For those of amongst us who have never experienced that epiphany moment on the banks of a waterway or lake, that moment when we realise that it is not just about catching a fish, but the journey that we take in our hopes and dreams every time we venture out, then this collection of notes and thoughts tries to give you insight into why we I it.

I never like the word “campaign”…it sounds too tactical, too military. I suppose to me, a better word would be an adventure, an affair, that’s it….. a season long affair.  I have, in my travels, fished many rivers, many different stretches and in many different conditions. Usually this has entailed me pitching up on a river, stumbling across a swim, knocking out a barbel or two, ticking it off the list and moving on.  But the Avon draws me back, again and again.

Part of me always wants to settle onto a stretch. To see it in all its moods. I feel within us all still lies a prehistoric ancestor whose very survival depended on reading the moods of the land, the weather, the seasons, the very heartbeat of nature in order to forage and feed…..Somewhere deep inside us there still lies that ancestor and when we pay attention to our deeper self we can still feel that ebb and flow of the river, become attuned to its changing levels and moods.

I feel that if you spend long enough on a stretch of water you start to understand it.

There are of course the physical mechanics…the levels, the flow, the depth, the snags, even the changing temperature. These you can quantify, you can measure, you can gauge. But there is another more unfathomable level….the rivers moods. How often have we sat there in perfect conditions? Not too hot, not too cold, not to light, not too dark. The moon, the barometer, the thermometer, all tell us today is the day and all too often we go home scratching out heads and wondering where it all went wrong. Like that beautiful woman, the unpredictability of her moods confuses and frustrates us once again, but like that woman the more we live with her, the greater our understanding of when the time is right becomes.

But in essence that is what keeps us coming back. If you could simply catch to order, pre-determine the number and size, then would be have the same level of excitement and that tremble in our hands when that tip pulls round. Would that deep animal rush of adrenalin feel the same.

But fishing is also about confidence. It’s the confidence in how you fish, your set up, your bait and your ability. It’s having that confidence to sit it out, hour after hour, twiddling your thumbs, watching the world slowly flow by.

It’s a head game. The shear joy. The delayed gratification. The struggle, the journey and ultimately the reward.

Think positive. Every blank is one session closer to that fish of your dreams. It’s the journey not the destination that is important.

Be confident in your rigs. If you’ve caught consistently on other stretches with the rig…leave it. Chose a good bait and once you start catching….stick with it.

Enjoy the experience. Look around you. Enjoy the hazy days of Summer, the early mists of Autumn and the crisp freezing conditions of Winter. Live with the land and the river. Embrace it. Don’t fight against it and try and impose your will on it. Listen to it. Hear its moods. Flow and bend with it.

Think about how you want to fish a stretch. Do you want peace and solitude? Do you want a partner, friend or group of like minded anglers with you? Sometimes I enjoy the company of friends, the banter, the chat, the gossip and will avidly text and meet up. Other times I just want the solitude. Just to sit, alone, with my thoughts on the banks. To lose myself from the hustle and bustle of the world around. Catching in this state is almost incidental.

A recent thread on an internet forum highlighted for me the different reasons why we go fishing. Some of us are driven to catch, be it for personal satisfaction or for recognition from our peers. Some of us fish for personal and financial gain. Some of us just fish; to enjoy wetting a line, to watch the hypnotic flow of the water, observing the wildlife.

But as I have said…I am a lazy angler. I like my fish to come easily and have the attention span of a gnat! So why do I struggle against the Avon? Maybe its because of its magic, it just gets under your skin and pulls you back…..To be honest I just cant quite put my finger on it. Its like that name on the tip of your tongue, just when you think you have it, it slips away, to sit there and annoy you deep in your subconscious mind.

So I sit and watch the isotope become a greeny blur against the glassy surface of the river. An owl hoots behind me on its way to catching its evening meal, the rhythmic beating of a swan’s wings fades up river, roosting pheasants bicker. The clouds drift across the waning moon, dimming its silvery light. I settle deeper into my chair, pulling my scarf higher across my face. Warm and content, I feel myself drifting off, my head becomes heavier and I feel my chin touch my chest….I wake with a start. The river flows timelessly on.