Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.139 (Canal Zander)

The decision to fish this particular stretch of canal was, in hindsight, somewhere between heroic persistence and full-blown masochism. I’d parked a good ten-minute trudge away the kind of walk where you start optimistic and end questioning whether you should have taken up stamp collecting instead. By the time I trudged past the third abandoned narrowboat (modern canal architecture at its finest), I already regretted my life choices. The more handy carpark is now pay and display which I'm a tight git these days I've fully functioning feet I'll use them !!

And then the scent hit me. Not the wholesome aroma of damp nettles and lock grease, oh no  this was the Botanical Gardens of the Lost, aroma courtesy of a gentleman who clearly believed breakfast is a joint effort. 

Literally. 6:45am. Rosie and Jim on the nearby narrowboat looked horrified like two pensioners witnessing teenagers try vaping in a bus shelter.

I set up between a dog walker who looked like they’d been dragged from bed by an over-caffeinated spaniel, and a jogger who was on their third loop of trying to outrun regret. But I was here on a mission: Halloween weekend, vampire vibes, Zander time. 

Cue dramatic soundtrack or in this case, the gentle “plonk” of my float and the distant sound of a gongoozler explaining canal locks wrong to their partner. 

Now, Zander, the so-called “vampire fish,” would never glitter in sunlight like a romantic teenage blood-sucker; no, these lads have the personality of a night-shift security guard and the fashion sense of a creature who thinks algae green is formal wear. Fangs? Absolutely. Eyes that say “I haven’t slept since the Industrial Revolution”? You bet.

Now first cast, float barely settled before something tugged. Could’ve been a fiendish predator could’ve been a curious leaf. Tragically, it was neither. Whatever nibbled vanished faster than my motivation on a Monday. I roved. I roamed. 

I muttered to myself like a pirate who’d misplaced his parrot. Eventually, a fish! Okay, two fish both convinced they were apex predators, not the biggest certainly . Still, in the murky black tea of the Midlands canal, that’s practically a sea monster. I swear one hissed at me. 

Or that might’ve been the wind. Or the weed fellow chuckling behind a cloud of existential relaxation.  A dog walker with a judgemental look (all in the eyes) stopped mid walk with her dog carrying on in front of her to release a chocolate hostage I'd imagine, out of sight out of mind and all that, but she was there eyes fixated to wonder what I was going to do with them I suppose.

The towpath slowly filled with morning humanity: four lure anglers twanging rods like they were auditioning for a fishing-based boyband, cyclists whispering “sorry” as they nearly removed my kneecaps, and a labradoodle that decided my ruckbag held the secrets of the universe. 

The drama! The ambience! The slow realisation that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t actually enjoying myself. 

But anglers are a stubborn breed; we tell ourselves joy is optional but commitment is sacred. Eventually, I packed up before I turned fully feral. The canal? Tea-stained. The fish? Temperamental. My mood? Somewhere between “Let’s Go!” and “Let’s go home.”

That was enough for me !! So I ambled back, rods over shoulder like a defeated medieval foot soldier, I knew I'd return ( 7 years time ?)

Because fishing isn’t about the catching. It’s about the characters. The mystery. The absurdity of chasing vampire fish while being side-eyed by childhood puppets and serenaded by the smell of herbal breakfast. (apparently !!)

That’s canal life, baby. One day you’re landing fanged leviathans; the next you're debating if a gust of wind counts as a bite. 

But oh, when that float dips proper… when midnight predators strike in tea-coloured gloom… when Rosie, Jim, and Duck give you their silent approval… magic.

Let’s go again.
Because logic never stopped an angler and certainly hasn’t stopped me.