Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.140 (Canal Zander)

It was one of those mornings when you wake up earlier than intended, stare at the ceiling for a bit, and think, “What the heck am I doing with my life?” Well, that’s a bit dramatic, but you get the drift. It was Sunday, the day of rest unless, of course, you’re an angler, in which case it’s the day of trudging about in the damp, lugging tackle that weighs roughly the same as a baby elephant, and convincing yourself it’s “relaxing.”

The nearby village had a Remembrance Parade later in the morning. I fancied a nose at the preparations  there’s something solemn yet heartwarming about seeing everyone line up, medals shining, the band warming up, and the vicar trying not to look too annoyed at the teenagers vaping behind the bus stop. 

Sadly, a prior engagement meant I couldn’t stay for the event itself, but it got me out of bed at least, which is half the battle on a Sunday.

Now, what to do with this unexpected slice of morning? The rivers are, to use the technical term, pants. Low, clear, and about as inspiring as a lukewarm cup of tea. 

Still, as I write this, there’s been some heavy overnight rain, and the forecast promises some proper downpours in the week ahead. Maybe, just maybe, those fickle drops will find their way into our local waterways. 

We’ve somehow managed to be in that annoying meteorological bubble that avoids every bit of rain the rest of the country gets. Everyone else is out there moaning about floods, and we’re stood on dust-crusted banks praying for a drizzle.

But hope, as they say, springs eternal. A bit of colour in the river would do wonders for the fishing  get those wary barbel and chub to stop skulking about in their hidey holes and start behaving like proper fish again. In the meantime, though, I needed something to scratch the itch.

So, I thought canal Zander! The fanged marauders of the cut. They’re never too fussy, right? Always up for a snack, especially on a gloomy morning. There’s a marina just down the road where the water’s usually a murky brown stew of diesel, duck poo, and dreams. Perfect habitat for a Zed.

Except, of course, today it looked like the Caribbean. Honestly, I could see my deadbait over a metre down a shimmering silver slab of nothing-happening-ness. Zander love a bit of murk, that mysterious twilight zone where they can ambush anything foolish enough to blink twice. But this? This was gin-clear, mirror-calm, and about as inviting as a swimming pool at a naturist camp.

Now, usually, the place is a hive of activity. Holiday boaters coming and going, diesel fumes swirling about, and the occasional argument about mooring rights drifting across the water — all the lovely chaos that stirs up the bottom and makes the Zander feel right at home. But today? Peaceful. Too peaceful. Like the set of a crime drama where the detective’s about to find a body in the reeds.

Still, optimism intact, I set up two deadbait rods. Nothing fancy an overdepth in-line float set-up on both, because, well, I like to keep it traditional. Maybe a Zander sleeper rod and a bream rod would have been more sensible, but when did sensible ever feature in my fishing decisions? Exactly.

Two hours later, the only thing stirred was my coffee. The sun crept up, the water sparkled mockingly, and I started to realise I might as well have been dangling a Mars Bar on a shoelace. Not a tap, not a pull, not even the half-hearted nudge of a suicidal perch. Nada. Zilch. Nothing.

I even tried to convince myself that maybe, just maybe, I’d missed a subtle tremor on the float. You know that internal argument you have where you’re desperate for any sign of life? “Did that just twitch? No… probably wind. But maybe?” You end up staring so hard at the float that your eyes start to water, and you convince yourself it’s all part of the plan. It wasn’t.

Eventually, boredom won. The sun was now properly up, the dog walkers had started to appear, and I could feel the judgement radiating off them as they passed that look of “he’s been there for hours and hasn’t caught a thing.” Which, to be fair, was entirely accurate.

So I packed up, trudged back to the car with that special combination of disappointment and mild self-loathing that only anglers truly understand. The best part of the morning? The bacon sandwich waiting at home.

Still, I suppose that’s fishing for you all hope, no guarantee, and a constant reminder that nature has a sense of humour. Next time, though, with a bit of rain and a tinge of colour in the water, I reckon the Zeds might just come out to play. Until then, I’ll just keep lying to myself about “enjoying the peace and quiet.”