Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.138 (Canal Zander)

Oh, for a life so simple! If only I knew back then what I know now, I’d be retired, sat in a battered fishing chair somewhere warm, sipping lukewarm tea and pretending to be enlightened whilst targetting something unachievable. But no instead of a minimalist monk, I’ve become a maximalist mug, surrounded by tackle boxes, half-spooled reels, and enough bait tubs to start a small biological weapons program and no time to fish. 

They say living simply is about removing the non-essentials but how exactly do you do that when every “essential” seems to involve another bit of overpriced fishing paraphernalia that promises inner peace and bigger fish? 

I keep hearing that happiness comes from mindfulness and meaningful relationships, but the only meaningful relationship I’ve had recently was with a leaking flask and a roach deadbait that refused to stay on the hook. Still, I suppose there’s a kind of Zen in it sitting by a murky canal, covered in frost, muttering about taxes and modern life, while trying to convince yourself this is simplicity.

Now here are mornings when you wake up, peer through the bedroom window, and immediately question every life decision that led you to become a grown adult who thinks sitting beside a canal in sub-zero temperatures waiting for a fish that looks like an accountant with scales is a productive use of time. This was one of those mornings. 

The car roof was crisp with frost, the air so cold it felt like inhaling ground glass, and I could already hear the faint voice of reason whispering: “You could just stay home, put the kettle on, and watch Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing instead.” But of course, reason has no place in angling.

I was off to meet Security Neil the man, the myth, the self-proclaimed Barbel whisperer from a staring role in Buffalo Si’s River Masters YouTube channel where those hot pegs were discovered over the episodes, and currently basking in minor celebrity status after a couple of Angling Times appearances showing off Barbel of such proportions that they could probably drag a kayak upstream if given the chance. I thought perhaps some of that good fortune might rub off on me, though in hindsight, luck rarely transfers via casual conversation and lukewarm tea on a canal towpath.

Now, when I arrived, the canal looked less like a predator’s paradise and more like an overfilled aquarium that had been through a Brita filter. Absolutely gin clear. You could see every discarded shopping trolley, half a bicycle, and one lonely traffic cone lying in silent judgment of my optimism. Not exactly textbook Zander conditions. 

You see, Zander like it murky proper chocolate-milk murky so they can sneak up on an unsuspecting roach without being seen. This looked like a scene from Finding Nemo. Still, I’m nothing if not delusional, so out went the roach deadbaits under light floats, and I began the traditional canal-side ritual of slowly freezing to death while pretending to “stay mobile”.

Neil turned up just as I was starting to wonder whether my toes were still attached. He’d parked somewhere sensible, of course, while I’d more of walk to try and get those steps in. We greeted each other with the mutual understanding of two men who should really be at home with a plump pillow sandwich but instead had chosen to commune with nature and mild hypothermia.

Within minutes it was obvious that the fish were having none of it. The floats sat there as motionless as a teenager asked to clean their room. Normally, when there are Zander about, you don’t wait long. They find the bait, give it a good thump, and off they go like a moped on a mission. But this morning? Nothing. Not a twitch, not a wobble, not even the courtesy of a half-hearted tug. We began praying not for divine intervention, but for a few passing boats to churn up the canal. Imagine that: two grown men, begging for holidaymakers to appear and drive floating sheds through our swims just to stir up the sludge.

And that’s when the conversation drifted as it inevitably does to life, taxes, and our mutual bafflement at how we’re both still working like galley slaves while the government spends our hard-earned cash on things like “consultations about consultations.” We concluded that the only way forward was to join the booming industry of money laundering. 

Not the criminal kind, you understand, just the apparently legitimate sort that seems to involve opening yet another chicken shop in Stratford-upon-Avon. Either that or a mobile ice-cream cart. Or failing that, a lap-dancing club Romeo and Bootyette, though neither of us has the physique or the flexibility to manage that enterprise successfully.

By the second hour, our philosophical musings had done little to improve the fishing. The floats continued to mock us, the water stayed clear enough to spot your reflection, and my roach baits looked more like underwater garden ornaments than deadly offerings. We considered moving, but that’s angler-speak for “we’ll moan about it for an hour before not actually doing it.”

Then, out of nowhere movement! A tiny bobble on the right-hand float. Adrenaline shot through me like caffeine through a pensioner at bingo. Was this it? Had the mighty canal Zander finally arrived to make all the frostbite worthwhile? I held my breath, watched the float dip again, and struck with all the poise of a man whose coordination is inversely proportional to excitement.

And immediately, I knew. Not a Zander. Oh yes a Pike. The eternal gatecrasher. Every canal angler’s unwanted houseguest. Don’t get me wrong, a fish is a fish, but when you’ve spent all morning dreaming of that tell-tale Zander thump, the pike feels like the bloke who turns up to a wedding uninvited and drinks all the champagne. After a brief tussle and some unprintable language, I slipped it back into the gin-clear water, muttering something about betrayal.

We gave it another half hour, mainly because neither of us could feel our fingers enough to pack up efficiently. The boats had churned things up a bit, but the Zander were clearly on strike. Eventually, we called it a day. Neil, ever the optimist, said he might try another spot on his way home. I wished him luck, secretly hoping the fishing gods would continue their campaign of indifference equally across Warwickshire.

Half an hour later, my phone buzzed. A WhatsApp photo. There was Neil, grinning like a lottery winner, holding up a perfectly respectable canal Zander. “First chuck!” he wrote. Of course it was. I responded with the traditional angler’s reply: “Nice one,” What I actually meant was: “I hate you and everything you stand for 😁.”

Driving home, I pondered the usual lesson we should have moved sooner, we always should have moved sooner but of course, I won’t. None of us ever do. 

That’s the joy and the madness of fishing: eternal optimism in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Back home, I made another brew, thawed out, and stared thoughtfully at the kettle’s reflection. A life so simple, I thought, if only we could stop chasing Zander and start appreciating the quiet. Then I checked the weather forecast for tomorrow. Cloudy, with rain overnight perfectly turbid conditions.

Looks like I’ll be up at dawn again.