Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.145 (Canal Zander)

I rewatched Altered States the other night and was reminded that long before any of us were overthinking a canal float, John C. Lilly was busy climbing into isolation tanks, experimenting with things like LSD and ketamine, and asking his brain what it fancied doing without the inconvenience of reality. Dolphins, tanks, chemicals proper commitment to the idea that consciousness might be more elastic than a length of worn-out pole elastic. And watching it, I couldn’t help thinking: this is just roach fishing taken to its logical extreme.

 Because when you’re after a proper canal two-pounder, you’re not that far off yourself. Sit still long enough, stare hard enough at a motionless float, and eventually something shifts not in the water, but in you. Time stretches, thoughts wander, and you start to suspect the roach are operating on a level you’ve yet to access.

Then the float lifts. Just slightly. Enough.

No tank required. No dolphins either. Just you, the canal, and a brief glimpse into something deeper about two pounds of it, if you’re lucky.

Now getting back on track there are moments in life when a man must confront two unavoidable truths: firstly, that his body is no longer the finely tuned angling machine it once was and my back and knee are still not 100%, and secondly, that sometimes the fish have simply formed a union and voted unanimously against being caught. 

The past few canal sessions had delivered precisely that sort of democratic resistance floats motionless, maggots unmolested, and me sat there like an unpaid extra in a very dull documentary about still water. So, being forcibly removed from the bankside for a few days was, in hindsight, less a tragedy and more a state-sponsored recovery programme for a creaking carcass that had begun to sound like a bag of snapped twigs every time I lifted the landing net.

Of course, the reason for this enforced sabbatical was 16 year old Ben, who required entertaining and looking after whilst the better half and Sam were away gallivanting in Chester with what I can only assume involved excessive chatter, laughter, and absolutely no appreciation for the delicate art of float watching. 

Now, experience has taught me that dragging a youngster along to the canal in the vague hope he’ll share your enthusiasm is a risky strategy. Last time resulted in approximately seven minutes of interest, followed by an hour of existential boredom and in Ben's different mind most likely a critique of why fishing is “basically just sitting.” So this time, I pivoted. Parks, snacks, mild chaos anything but subjecting him to the hypnotic non-event that had become my recent fishing trips.

By the time everyone reconvened for a curry the Saturday evening an event which, incidentally, required far more stamina than any canal session I was already plotting. Because Sunday morning loomed large, and with it, opportunity. The rods practically hummed in anticipation, or possibly that was just me trying to stand up after the aforementioned curry. Either way, the decision was made: back to the towpath, back to familiar territory, back to the scene of previous roach-based encouragement.

The alarm did its duty at 5:30am, but as I peeled myself out of bed and shuffled downstairs, the world outside looked less like promise and more like punishment. A proper hoolie still tearing through, though the sky mockingly was crystal clear. I gave it a long enough stare to convince myself I’d made the effort, muttered the inevitable “not today,” and retreated to the sanctuary of a couple of over-generous pillows. Sensible? Perhaps. Honest? Definitely.

Truth be told, the canals still haven’t got under my skin this close season. I’ve given them a fair crack, but there’s a certain lifelessness about it all at the minute hard to put your finger on, but you know it when you feel it. This morning’s frost won’t have helped either; just another little nudge in the wrong direction when you’re already struggling to muster enthusiasm.

Sunday, then, became what Sundays sometimes ought to be—unhurried. A wander for a bit of fresh air, pale sunshine doing its best to pass as spring, followed by a proper beef dinner that did far more for morale than any blank session could. By the time the plates were cleared and the light began to soften, the itch returned quietly, but persistently.

So the Zander gear was dusted off and readied. No grand expectations, no heroic notions just that familiar pull to be near the water again after work. Because for all the false starts, frosty mornings, and fleeting enthusiasm, the truth remains: it only takes one bite to put everything back into perspective.

And that’s usually reason enough.

 Anyway I set off with the kind of optimism only a close-season angler can muster the delusional belief that today, finally, everything would go exactly to plan. 

Of course, within minutes it became clear that the only thing going exactly to plan was the local dog population’s coordinated effort to carpet the entire stretch in what can only be described as tactical deposits. It wasn’t a path, it was an assault course. 

A brown minefield. One wrong step and you’re carrying eau de Labrador all the way home. Still, with the grace of a bomb disposal expert and the foresight of a man armed with pink marker paint, I negotiated the worst of it and lived to cast another day.

Now, this particular bit of cover and I use the word “cover” loosely, because it’s about as deep as a puddle in a car park has always intrigued me.

 It’s barely a couple of feet deep, yet the Zander seem to treat it like a five-star retreat. Why? No idea. Perhaps they enjoy the thrill. Perhaps they’re just showing off. 

Either way, last season it produced a 6 and a 7, which in angling terms is enough evidence to convince you it’s basically the Amazon. So naturally, I was back, creeping along like a hopeful burglar, laying traps.

Ten minutes. That’s all it took. Ten minutes of smug self-satisfaction before the right-hand float suddenly sprang into life like it had seen a ghost. Off it went, darting under the cover with purpose. I tightened into the circle hook, felt that glorious resistance… and then chaos. 

The fish bolted right like it had remembered an urgent appointment, the rod finally hooped over and ping. Gone. Just a swirl, a disturbance, and me stood there blinking like I’d just been mugged by a fish. “Damn it,” I muttered, in the understated way of a man absolutely fuming inside.

Undeterred (translation: stubborn beyond reason), I got the bait back out. And apparently, the culprit hadn’t read the “once bitten, twice shy” handbook, because within five minutes the left float did exactly the same dance. This time I was ready. Tightened in, rod bends, and yes — we’re attached. A proper scrap ensued, none of this polite nibbling nonsense. After a spirited tussle and a few muttered negotiations, a Zander slid into the net. Not a monster, no, but in that moment it might as well have been a record-breaker. A blank saver. A morale booster. A fish that said, “Alright, you’re not completely useless.”

The plan had only ever been a couple of hours, and to be honest, the conditions weren’t exactly rolling out a red carpet. A bit of chop on the water, some tow dragging everything sideways, and enough floating debris to start a small island forming around my line. It was less “precision fishing” and more “ongoing battle with nature.” I worked my way down the stretch, probing each bit of sparse cover, but aside from the earlier excitement, it all went a bit quiet. No more takes, no more drama  just me, the wind, and the ever-present threat of stepping in something regrettable.

And that was that. Rods packed away, boots (miraculously) still clean, and the fishing itch well and truly scratched. No monsters, no heroics, but a tale to tell and dignity mostly intact  which, given the circumstances, feels like a win.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.6

There are days, rare as a perfectly hooked tench in a gin-clear margin, when the alarm clock is silenced not by necessity but by indulgence. A Tuesday, no less. A day that ordinarily hums along unnoticed, filed away between the reluctant grind of Monday and the distant promise of Friday. Yet here it was, laid out like a well-trodden towpath under a forgiving sky mine to squander, mine to savour. And squander it I nearly did, though not without the usual negotiations with bones and sinew that seem, of late, to have developed opinions of their own.

The previous evening had been one of those defiant affairs the kind where common sense is politely ignored in favour of rhythm, nostalgia, and a stubborn refusal to concede to the creeping frailties of age. The 808 State acid house gig had loomed as a question mark rather than a certainty. My back, much like Nic’s from Avon Angling, had been issuing stern warnings all week. 

There is a particular tone to that kind of pain not sharp, not urgent, but insistent, like a bailiff tapping at the door. Still, fortified by a couple of rum and cokes and a mindset that could best be described as wilfully optimistic, I found myself there, upright, mobile, and for a few fleeting hours, entirely unconcerned with tomorrow’s consequences.

Tomorrow, of course, arrived.

The knee, never one to be outdone in these matters, had its say early doors. There’s a peculiar irritation in fluid build-up around a joint not agony, not even pain in the traditional sense, but a dull, swollen protest that makes every step feel like a negotiation. Ice helped, as it always does, though it carries with it the quiet admission that things are not quite as they once were. Still, plans had been made. Snitterfield Reservoir had been pencilled in, crucians the intended quarry, and for a brief moment the idea held together.

But fishing, like life, has a way of adjusting itself to the weakest link in the chain. Nic’s back had worsened overnight, tipping the scales decisively toward postponement. There’s no heroism in forcing these things not anymore. Experience teaches you that the fish will wait, but injuries, once aggravated, tend to linger like unwelcome guests. So we shelved it. Another day, another attempt.

Which left me, mid-morning, with that curious mixture of freedom and restlessness that only an unexpected change of plan can bring. After a lie-in that felt both deserved and slightly indulgent, I turned my thoughts to a spot Neil from the garage had mentioned one of those whispered recommendations, delivered with the kind of confidence that suggests either hidden brilliance or mild exaggeration. “Full of fish,” he’d said. “Fish the oxygenated swim bites all day.”

Well, that was enough for me.

Arrival came just after eleven, the sun already working its quiet magic. T-shirt weather proper t-shirt weather the sort that encourages optimism before a single cast has been made. The swim itself was exactly as described: shallow, barely two and a half feet in places, with a modest inlet offering perhaps three metres of purposeful flow before surrendering to stillness. It had all the hallmarks of a productive spot — oxygen, movement, structure. The kind of place where fish should, by all rights, queue politely to be caught.

I set up with a simplicity born of experience. Maggots for the float, a bit of sloppy groundbait to encourage interest, and a sleeper rod positioned with quiet hope a smelt resting beneath the surface, waiting to tempt a passing zander. Bread sat in reserve, a backup plan rather than a primary tactic. It all felt right. It all looked right.

And yet, for the first hour, it was nothing short of a masterclass in inactivity.

There is a particular kind of frustration reserved for waters that look perfect but refuse to deliver. It gnaws at you, quietly at first, then with increasing insistence. You begin to question everything depth, presentation, feeding pattern even the very presence of fish. Meanwhile, the world continues around you. The towpath, invigorated by the sunshine, had become a thoroughfare. Walkers, cyclists, the casually curious — all drawn to the water, and inevitably, to the angler beside it.

“Caught anything?”

At first, it’s a harmless enough enquiry. By the tenth iteration, it becomes something else entirely.

The zander rod remained motionless, its stillness almost mocking in its certainty. I repositioned it once, twice, searching for that elusive line where predator meets opportunity. Nothing. Not even a tremor.

It was only when I shifted my attention — and my float— to the far side of the swim that things began, tentatively, to stir. A smaller inlet, less obvious, but still pushing a modest current into the main body. Sometimes it’s these overlooked details that hold the key. A trickle of maggots, introduced sparingly, began to draw a response. The float dipped. Then again.

At last, some life.

The fish, however, were not the stuff of dreams. Roach, small and obliging, very much on the lower end of the size spectrum. Zander snacks, if anything. Still, bites are bites, and after a blank spell, even the smallest fish carries a certain satisfaction. 

For a brief window, it felt as though things might build that the swim might come alive in the way Neil had promised.

But as quickly as it began, it faded.

The bites dried up, the water returned to its earlier indifference, and the sun now fully committed to its role began to assert itself. Warmth spread, not just across the landscape but through the bones. It was, undeniably, a lovely day.

And that, perhaps, was the turning point.

There comes a moment, occasionally, when the act of fishing becomes secondary to everything else. When the discomfort of a complaining back, the repetition of unanswered questions, and the stubborn refusal of fish to cooperate all align to nudge you gently but firmly in another direction. I could feel it then. That quiet realisation that I was no longer truly invested in the outcome.

My back, ever the opportunist, chose that moment to reintroduce itself. Not sharply, not dramatically — just a dull, persistent ache that suggested it had been patient long enough.

And so, with no great ceremony, I made the decision.

Pack up. Move on.

There’s no shame in it. No sense of defeat. If anything, there’s a peculiar kind of satisfaction in recognising when enough is enough. The gear was stowed, the swim left as it was found, and the promise of something altogether different began to take shape.

A pint. A proper pint. Followed, ideally, by something substantial enough to qualify as lunch.

The local pub obliged, as they so often do. There’s a comfort in those places — a familiarity that requires no effort. The first sip, cool and steady, washed away the lingering frustrations of the morning. Food followed, hearty and unpretentious, the kind that settles both stomach and spirit in equal measure.

From there, the day found a new rhythm.

A short trip into Stratford, a wander through the familiar haunts, and the practicalities of tomorrow began to take precedence. Meat for the BBQ. Charcoal. The quiet anticipation of another warm day, perhaps even warmer whispers of 23 degrees hanging in the air like a promise.

Work looms, as it always does, but days like this — imperfect, meandering, quietly satisfying — serve as a reminder that not every outing needs to be measured in fish landed or targets achieved. Sometimes, it’s enough to simply be there. To try, to adapt, to accept, and ultimately, to enjoy whatever the day chooses to offer.

And if that happens to include a pint and a decent lunch, well… there are worse ways to spend a Tuesday. (The diet starts soon, honest !!)

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.5

There are moments in life when you begin to question your own sanity, and mine came somewhere between the carrot shelf and the reduced meat section in Aldi. Now, I’m not saying I’m easily excitable, but when you see perfectly respectable vegetables—carrots, garlic, swede, and potatoes (8p) practically being given away like unwanted raffle prizes at a village fête, you do start to wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered into some sort of alternate universe. 

Naturally, I filled the basket with the urgency of a man preparing for the apocalypse. Then came the beef—half price, £7 a kilo, practically winking at me. It was destiny. That beef didn’t choose me, I chose it… repeatedly… until it was in the trolley.

Of course, all this bounty would usually signal one thing in our household: the sacred Sunday roast. A ritual so consistent that even Ben knows to loiter strategically near the table around 5:30pm. However, fate had other ideas this week. 

While the wife and kids were likely dreaming of crispy roast potatoes and gravy lakes, I had other commitments—namely, a jaunt to Brum to meet my mate Simon. Plans included a few drinks (purely for hydration purposes), some Korean food, and an ACID house gig where 808 State would be twiddling knobs with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for men assembling flat-pack furniture. The legendary Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath would be our playground. Roast pork, therefore, has been unceremoniously postponed to Monday. The family will survive. Probably.

Now, before all that urban revelry, I had a far more noble pursuit in mind: fishing. The South Stratford Canal has always been a bit of a favourite—intimate, peaceful, and just the right amount of “I might actually catch something here.” But in a rare moment of adventurous thinking (clearly a mistake), I decided to try a different stretch on the Grand Union Canal. 

It offered a bit of shelter from the wind, which, after the previous night’s visit from what I’ve decided to call Storm Dave, felt like a sensible move. At one point the wife and I stood outside with a glass of wine, staring into the gale like extras in a low-budget disaster film, fully expecting the roof to take flight.

I arrived at the canal at the ungodly hour of 6:30am, which for me is essentially the middle of the night. Spirits were high, optimism intact, and my back… well, my back had other plans. In a spectacular display of athletic incompetence, I managed to tweak it while getting the tackle out of the car. Nothing dramatic, just enough to remind me that my body is now less “elite angler” and more “fragile antique.” Still, onward we marched—or shuffled—into battle.

The first swim is usually a banker. A few casts, a bit of groundbait, maggots doing their thing, and before you know it, you’re into a nice run of fish. Not today. Forty-five minutes passed with absolutely nothing happening. Not even a courtesy nibble. It was like fishing in a bathtub. Normally I’d have moved on much sooner, but the combination of sunshine and a mildly broken back made sitting down seem like a tactical masterstroke rather than laziness.

Eventually, I embraced the inevitable and went on the rove, trying swim after swim with the same result: absolutely naff all. The predator rod sat there looking decorative, the maggots remained insultingly untouched, and I began to suspect I’d somehow offended the fishing gods. Perhaps they’d heard about the Aldi haul and decided I’d had enough luck for one weekend.

In a final act of desperation, I headed to a known zander spot. The “last throw of the dice” scenario. A smelt went out on a circle hook, and for a glorious moment—finally—the float twitched, dipped, and sprang to life. 

Fish on! The zander, clearly unaware it was supposed to behave like a zander, fought like an overexcited chub, darting about under my feet as if auditioning for a circus act. I guided it in, heart pounding, net at the ready… and off it came. Gone. Vanished. Probably laughing.

To be fair, it wasn’t a monster maybe a 2lber, but it would have saved the blank and restored some dignity. Instead, I was left staring at the water like a man who’s just dropped his last chip down the side of the sofa. One final swim on the way back to the car yielded exactly what I’d come to expect by this point: nothing. Not a bite. Not a flicker. Not even a fishy insult. Just me, my thoughts, and a growing suspicion that maggots had suddenly become deeply unpopular overnight.

So there we have it. A morning that promised much and delivered the square root of absolutely nothing. Still, there’s always next time… assuming my back recovers, the fishing gods forgive me, and Aldi hasn’t sold out of everything worth eating.

And if not, well, there’s always Monday’s roast pork to look forward to. Assuming the rabble haven’t staged a revolt by then.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.4

I returned, blog readers, to that most glamorous of venues—Tramp Alley. A name that conjures images of refined solitude and gentlemanly pursuit, but in reality delivers the faint aroma of damp socks, regret, and something that may once have been a kebab. This time, however, I had a plan. An early start. The sort of optimism that only anglers and people who think they’ll enjoy DIY on a Sunday morning possess. The towpaths would be empty, I told myself. The boats would be still. The fish those elusive, silver-sided liars would be queuing up in orderly fashion, awaiting my maggots like patrons at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Naturally, this fantasy lasted approximately four minutes.

No sooner had I set foot on the towpath than I encountered walkers. Walkers! At that hour! What sort of people voluntarily roam canals before breakfast? Fitness enthusiasts, presumably—those peculiar individuals who enjoy suffering without even the decency of a fishing rod to justify it. We exchanged the universal British glance of mutual suspicion, each silently judging the other’s life choices. They likely thought me unhinged. I, of course, knew I was.

Undeterred, I pressed on to the very swim that had betrayed me previously. There had to be fish there. There always are. That’s the thing about fishing it runs almost entirely on blind faith and stubbornness. Mostly stubbornness. Unfortunately, a boat had moored precisely where I intended to fish. Of course it had. The canals, we are often reminded, are for everyone. A charming sentiment, though one that feels less delightful when “everyone” is parked exactly where you want to sit.

Still, I am nothing if not adaptable. Also grumpy, but adaptable. I squeezed into a nearby spot and began setting up, determined to show the canal who was in charge. (It is worth noting that the canal is always in charge.)

As I assembled my gear, a familiar and distinctly herbal aroma drifted into my nostrils. Turning to my left, I spotted him. The same scruffy chap as before, accompanied by what can only be described as a Rottweiler of mythological proportions. This beast looked capable of wrestling a grizzly bear and asking for a rematch. Thankfully, it was on a lead. One assumes reinforced with steel cables and prayers.

“Focus, Mick,” I muttered, dragging my attention back to the task at hand. “You’re here to fish, not to be eaten.”

And so, to the float. Ah, the float! A 3BB Drennan Antenna—an absolute masterpiece. The sort of float that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing, even when all available evidence suggests otherwise. I fish crudely on canals. Always have. There’s no finesse, no delicate artistry just a pragmatic, slightly agricultural approach that seems to work well enough. The fish, bless them, don’t appear to mind

The South Stratford, as ever, was its usual murky self. Years of boat traffic keep it nicely coloured, sparing us the horror of actually seeing how shallow it is. Only during the COVID lockdown, when boats ceased their endless churning, did the canal reveal its secrets namely that it is, in places, little more than a glorified puddle with ambitions.

My setup was simplicity itself. A small olivette anchored between float stops, a couple of inches from the hook, fished using the lift method. It’s a thing of beauty when it works—elegant, precise, and deeply satisfying. Of course, this assumes the fish are in a cooperative mood, which they rarely are.

Time passed. The float sat there, motionless, as if painted onto the surface. I began to question my my bait, and possibly my entire existence. The maggots, slightly past their prime, stared back at me with what I can only interpret as disappointment. “We used to be fresh,” they seemed to say. “Now look at us.” 

And then—at last! A lift. A perfect, unmistakable lift. The kind that sends a jolt of electricity through your entire being. 

I struck, and there it was—a lovely roach. Not enormous, not record-breaking, but honest. A proper canal fish. Soon after came another. And then, as if crashing the party uninvited, a rogue skimmer decided to join in.

For a brief, glorious period, everything worked. The bites, though few, were textbook. The hook-ups flawless. 

5 roach and 1 skimmer, that ain't bad, the biggest heading to 1lb I'd imagine. 

The sort of session that reminds you why you endure all the nonsense—the early mornings, the walkers, the suspicious aromas, and the ever-present possibility of canine mauling.

But, as is tradition, it couldn’t last.

By 8:30, the boats began to move. Slowly at first, then with increasing determination, like a mechanical migration of floating bathtubs. 

The water started towing, the float misbehaved, and the fish—those fickle creatures—vanished once more into whatever secret society they belong to.

I tried a few more spots on the way back, more out of habit than hope. 

Nothing. Not a bite. Not even a polite nibble. Just silence and the creeping realisation that the moment had passed.

Still, progress had been made. Fish had been caught. Dignity had been... partially maintained.

Next time, I think, I’ll explore somewhere new. There are miles upon miles of canal, each stretch holding the promise of better fishing, fewer walkers, and perhaps slightly less cannabis. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere more peaceful.

Though, knowing my luck, it’ll be full of joggers and swans with attitude.

Such is the angler’s lot.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.3

Now there are, blog readers, days in angling when one feels touched lightly, reverently, almost suspiciously by the invisible hand of piscatorial destiny. Days when the float dips with the punctuality of a Swiss train, the fish queue politely beneath your peg like well-mannered theatre-goers, and even the wind seems to whisper, “Go on then, have another one.”

And then there are days like this.

Days when your workplace IT infrastructure collapses with the quiet dignity of a soggy Rich Tea biscuit, and you find yourself staring into the abyss of a login screen that refuses—point blank—to acknowledge your existence. A screen so indifferent it might as well have sighed audibly and muttered, “Not today, mate.”

Our corporate vessel, once a proud ocean liner of productivity and synergy, currently sits somewhere between “adrift” and “being gently nudged toward relevance by a man in a borrowed kayak.” Systems flicker in and out of life like haunted Christmas lights, while hushed conversations circulate about a benchmarking document yes, a benchmarking document being assembled by myself and two equally weary engineers. A document so vast, so unnecessarily thorough, that it may yet be entered into the annals of history as The Most Expensive PowerPoint Ever Created by People Who’d Rather Be Fishing.

But then—glory be—CATIA returned.

Not in triumph. Not with fanfare. More in the manner of a slightly embarrassed guest who left a party early and has now crept back in through the kitchen pretending nothing happened. Still, it was enough. Enough to convince management that progress was occurring. Enough to convince me that I could make a dignified exit without being chased down the corridor by someone wielding a spreadsheet.

And so, with the urgency of a man escaping both digital despair and impending responsibility, I bundled the gear into the car and set off for that most enchanting of destinations: Tramp Alley.

Now, let us be clear. Tramp Alley is not—nor has it ever been—the sort of place that features in glossy angling magazines accompanied by sepia-toned sunrise photography and poetic captions about “nature’s quiet embrace.” No. Tramp Alley is a canal stretch that looks like it has witnessed several minor crimes, at least one major misunderstanding, and possibly a low-budget science experiment involving eels and regret.

The towpath itself is a rich tapestry of humanity. Dog walkers with dogs that appear to be walking them. Cyclists moving at speeds suggesting either urgency or poor planning. Joggers who look as though they’re being pursued by existential dread. And, of course, the occasional nocturnal philosopher who may or may not be arguing with a traffic cone.

It is, in short, character-building.

But—and this is crucial—there are fish.

Proper fish.

Roach with the sort of shoulders that suggest a disciplined regime of canal-based resistance training. Hybrids that look like they’ve made questionable life choices but are committed to them nonetheless. And the occasional chub—broad, knowing, and faintly judgmental like a retired pub landlord who’s seen everything and approved of very little.

I arrived with purpose. Also with wind. Quite a lot of wind, in fact, which had apparently taken a personal interest in my float control. Undeterred (or perhaps simply stubborn), I assembled the delightfully agricultural overdepth float setup: a 2SSG foam pellet waggler perched optimistically on the surface, with an AA shot anchoring matters somewhere near the Earth’s core.

It is not a refined method.

It is, however, a confident one.

Cast tight to features—overhanging branches, submerged mysteries, and at least one shopping trolley that looked like it had given up on life sometime around 2007—and present bread where fish feel safe and anglers feel mildly concerned about their surroundings.

Hookbait: bread.

Feed: liquidised bread.

Philosophy: “Let’s see what happens.”

A couple of teenagers were already fishing nearby, which was genuinely heartening. They reported missed bites always a comforting sign that fish exist, even if they’re currently laughing at someone else. 

I nodded sagely, as though I too had experienced bites that day, and wandered off to a stretch known for producing decent roach.

I fed several swims with the enthusiasm of a man who believes in outcomes. Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Half an hour passed without so much as a twitch. At one point, a lure angler appeared, as if summoned by the collective disappointment of the canal. He delivered a sobering report: years of struggle, rumours of electrofishing, predators now rarer than a functioning printer in the office. It was, frankly, not the pep talk I needed.

Still, I persisted. Because that’s what we do. We persist. We stare at motionless floats and convince ourselves that any second now something magical will occur.

Two hours later, I had achieved precisely nothing—an accomplishment that mirrored my earlier workday with alarming symmetry.

And so, with the quiet dignity of a man reaching for his “get out of jail” option, I packed down and shuffled back toward the car, pausing only at a last-chance swim known to harbour a mixed bag of opportunists: hybrids, roach, and the odd chub with ambitions.

The bread went out.

Five minutes later—five!—the float gave a confident, almost theatrical bob before vanishing beneath the surface like it had remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.

I struck.

Contact.

At last, something alive, something substantial, something that pulled back with the sort of authority that immediately erases two hours of existential doubt. There were head shakes—serious ones—the kind that make you think, “Ah. Now then. This could be the roach. The roach.”

It was not the roach.

It was a chub.

A perfectly respectable, slightly smug, entirely uninvited chub.

Not the target. Not the dream. But in that moment—after the day I’d had—it might as well have been a personal endorsement from the angling gods themselves.

And you know what?

That would do me.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.2

There are few things in life more suspicious than a “jobbers forced holiday.” It sounds, on paper, like an unexpected blessing like finding a tenner in an old coat pocket but in reality it’s usually the universe’s way of saying, “You’re about to eat too much cheese and question your life choices at 3:17am on Monday morning.” 

And so it came to pass that, thanks to some catastrophic IT meltdown at work (no doubt caused by someone turning it off and on again with malicious intent), I found myself at home for a week. 

Not suffering, you understand—no, no—merely enduring comfort.

Naturally, the Wife and I did what any sensible, mature adults would do in such circumstances: we committed to a full-scale series binge. 

Hours passed. Possibly days. Time became a social construct. Characters we’d never met before became more familiar than our own neighbours. 

Meals became events, and events became excuses to eat again. Which brings me neatly, and with a certain amount of lingering regret, to The Camembert Incident post a rather large roast dinner.

Now, baked camembert is not food. It is an experience. Add to that a garlic bread ring because clearly subtlety is for the weak—and a glass (read: bottle) of white wine, and what you have is less a meal and more a gastrointestinal experiment. At the time, it felt like genius. A culinary masterstroke. A warm, gooey triumph of indulgence. Later, as I lay staring into the abyss of the bedroom ceiling, clutching my chest like a Victorian poet, it felt more like I’d swallowed a lit candle.

Sleep, when it came, was not restful but… cinematic. I found myself wandering into what can only be described as the perfect pub. Not one of these modern affairs with exposed brick and ironic lighting, but a proper place—worn wood, low hum of conversation, and, most importantly, Big Roach Imperial Stout on tap. 

On tap! I nearly wept. And as if that weren’t enough, behind the bar stood a woman who not only knew her ales but was also, improbably, a fisherman. 

A barmaid who could talk rigs and swims. A unicorn in human form. She promised secret spots, monster fish, whispered knowledge of waters unseen. I was ready to abandon reality entirely and live there forever.

Which is, of course, when I woke up. Not gently. Not peacefully. But with the kind of volcanic heartburn that makes you briefly consider writing a will. 

Milk was deployed. Ineffective. Regret was acknowledged. Sleep was abandoned. And so, in a moment of delirious logic, I decided that the best course of action on minimal rest and maximum dairy trauma was to go fishing.

Now, arriving at the canal at an ungodly hour with a head full of dreams and a stomach full of molten cheese, one expects at least a semblance of normality. 

What one does not expect is to find an entire pound… missing. Not metaphorically. Not “oh it looks a bit low.” 

No. Gone. Empty. A canal without water is, as it turns out, just a very disappointing ditch. I stood there, blinking, wondering if the camembert had finally tipped me into hallucination. But no. It was real. Vast. Dry. Confusing.

There were the occasional fish topping, which only added to the mystery. Where had they been hiding? Had they packed little suitcases and relocated overnight? Had there been some sort of piscine evacuation order? Questions, as always, went unanswered.

With the determination of a man who has already committed to the day and therefore cannot back out without losing face (even though no one is watching), I pressed on to the next full pound and set up shop. Out went the zander rod. Out went the bread rod with a lift float rig—a thing of delicate beauty, like a ballet dancer with hooks. There were signs of life. Flickers. Movements. Hope. And then… absolutely nothing.

Now, I am not a patient man. I like fishing, yes but I also like catching. The distinction is important. Forty minutes without a bite feels less like a hobby and more like a personal insult. So off I trudged to Bream Bay, a place that has, in the past, treated me with at least mild respect.

I pre-baited one swim like a professional—methodical, confident, optimistic—and then decided, in a move of tactical genius, to fish fifty yards to the left first. It was here that I discovered that I had placed my zander rod approximately one gnats-nadger away from a dog deposit of impressive scale and questionable intent. Honestly, some of these deposits look less like accidents and more like statements.

Still, public service called. Out came the forestry pink marker spray. If you’re going to suffer, you might as well make it educational for others. Somewhere, a future angler will see that fluorescent warning and silently thank me. Or curse me. Either way, I’ve made an impact.

Back to the fishing. Another forty minutes. Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a sniff. At this point, even a confused leaf drifting into the line would have been welcomed as interaction. So I returned to the pre-baited swim, more out of stubbornness than belief.

And then—miracle of miracles—within five minutes, fish. Two bream. Not glamorous, not heroic, but undeniably present and slightly fragrant. The first took the bread on the drop, which is always a lovely moment like the universe briefly remembering you exist. 

The second produced a lift bite so perfect it could have been choreographed. The float rose with purpose, as if auditioning for a fishing textbook.

“Here we go,” I thought. “This is it. This is the run.” It was not the run.

Silence returned. The swim died. The fish, apparently satisfied with their cameo appearances, departed for more interesting engagements elsewhere. 

I moved swims. I tried again. I tried again again. Nothing. It was like being ghosted by an entire canal.

Eventually, curfew loomed, as it tends to do when one has family obligations and a body running on fumes and dairy. I packed up, slightly defeated but technically not blanking—a small but vital victory.

On the way back, salvation appeared in the form of the canal authorities, who informed me that the Great Disappearing Pound Mystery had a wonderfully simple explanation: “Some idiot left the paddle open.” Of course. Not sabotage. Not natural disaster. Just classic human error. Comforting, in a way.

The day concluded, as all respectable days should, with a couple of drinks, some questionable attempts at F1 arcade simulators (where I discovered I drive like a shopping trolley with commitment issues), and a plate of Thai drunken noodles that may or may not have reignited the earlier heartburn situation.

And so here I am, on the eve of returning to work, reflecting on a week that included dreams of perfect pubs, existential canal mysteries, fluorescent dog warnings, and just enough fish to maintain dignity. The coffers, much like that empty pound, are in desperate need of refilling. Work calls.

Still… if that barmaid ever turns up in real life, I’m quitting immediately.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.1

Back out on the big roach canal hunt then, because apparently I don’t learn. The rivers, having spent most of the winter impersonating runaway fire hoses, finally closed in a sulk, leaving me stood in the garage staring at my trotting rods like an abandoned Victorian orphan. Weeks on end they were up, angry, brown, and absolutely uninterested in my dreams of gliding floats and thick-set chub. Every time the level dropped a fraction and hope dared to raise its head, bang more rain, more floodwater, and more footage of fields doing a convincing impression of freshwater aquariums.

Trotting? Not a chance. Smaller streams? Forget it. I’d barely finished tying a stick float rig before the Environment Agency website looked like a graph of my blood pressure during Christmas dinner and the post port and cheese. 

And so, like many anglers, I could have packed it in. Hung the rods up. Pretended I enjoy “other hobbies”. But no. Needs must. And needs, in this case, look suspiciously like turbid Warwickshire canals and a deep-seated refusal to sit indoors being productive.

I’m quite lucky really. There are canals everywhere near me, slithering through the countryside like forgotten shoelaces. Some are five minutes away, others half an hour if the traffic gods smile upon me. Last closed season I stayed fairly local, which sounds sensible and mature until you realise the results were… let’s say inconsistent. 

Yes, I had a PB roach from a short drive away a moment of glory that I will dine out on until at least 2037 but for every success there were long, soul-searching blanks punctuated only by the sound of distant engines and closer digestive activity from dogs.

Usually, I’d be off like a shot the moment narrowboats started moving “in anger”. There’s something about a 70-foot floating shed grinding past your float that tests even the calmest angler. But this year is different. 

This year there is a challenge. And when there’s a challenge, you adapt. Or at least you bring more rods and convince yourself it’s a strategy.

So the main approach will be bread under a float (Drennan discontinued Glow Tip Antenna's no less) , fished with a centrepin, because I enjoy watching things move slowly and pretending it’s all very traditional and skillful. 

There’s something deeply satisfying about a centrepin the gentle spin, the soft purr, the way it makes you feel superior to absolutely nobody. Bread, too, is a wonderful bait. It catches everything, nothing, and sometimes your own expectations all at once.

But because the canals I fish are often the colour of old gravy, I’ll also from time to time try a quivertip rod with, a Cadence Wand, no less, which sounds like something you’d use to summon fish rather than catch them. 

On the end of that will be a humble worm, because if you can’t see your bait, you might as well offer something that looks like it’s alive and vaguely panicking.

In theory, the worm might single out a bigger fish. In practice, it will sit there nobly while I stare at the tip, mentally willing it to move. The quivertip will twitch. Or maybe it won’t. Either way, I’ll convince myself something nearly happened.

Naturally and I say this like it’s perfectly reasonable I’ll also have a sleeper zander rod with me. Because canal zander are brilliant, and because hope springs eternal. 

There is always the possibility that a big, toothy predator will appear out of nowhere and validate the extra effort of carrying yet another rod along a towpath designed in 1793.

Speaking of towpaths, it’s time once again to tread the dog poo-riddled ribbon of despair that runs alongside our nation’s canals. These paths are a minefield. Every step is a moral choice. Is that mud? Is that goose muck? Or is that something deposited by a dog that’s been raised on raw meat and unresolved anger?

You develop a special walk. A sort of cautious, mincing shuffle that says, “I am alert, but I am also resigned.” Your eyes flick between the water, your rods, and the ground like a paranoid meerkat. Somewhere behind you, a cyclist is judging you.

Still, there’s something oddly comforting about it all. The murky water. The graffiti that appears to have been written mid-argument. The sound of a narrowboat approaching just as you’ve finally settled into a swim. You’ll hear it before you see it a low mechanical rumble that sends your float drifting sideways and your optimism into early retirement.

And yet… you wait. You watch. You convince yourself the float lifted half a millimetre. You strike, miss everything, and nod thoughtfully as if that was all part of the plan. You adjust the depth by a fraction, because doing something feels better than admitting the fish have unionised against you.

Then, occasionally, gloriously, it happens. The float slides away or lifts out of the water with purpose. The centrepin spins. The rod bends. And into the net comes a proper canal roach slabby, broad, and utterly unimpressed by your excitement. For a moment, everything makes sense. The floods, the closed rivers, the dog poo, the extra rods, all of it.

So yes, while others wait patiently for June, I’ll be out there. Bread under a float. Worm on a quivertip. Zander rod brooding quietly. Back on the canals, chasing big roach in water that looks like soup, along towpaths that test both balance and faith.

Because this is fishing. And frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now then.

That float definitely moved that time.

Didn’t it?

Late afternoon, the sort of time when optimism goes fishing and reality brings a chair, I found myself watching a float that had all the enthusiasm of a civil servant on a Friday. Earlier, mind you, things had briefly threatened competence a Zander had a go, charged about like it owned the canal, and turned the swim into something resembling a budget white-water course. Naturally, this rendered my carefully laid plans about as useful as a chocolate keepnet. I sat, I waited, I questioned my life choices.

Eventually, the tow died down and with it my patience, so out came the bread—classic, dependable, the angler’s equivalent of “this will definitely work.” I’d seen fish topping here days before, rolling about like they were auditioning for a nature documentary. Today, however, they’d clearly been tipped off. Two hours passed. Not a tremor, not a dimple, not even a courtesy nibble. The float remained as still as a Starmer under questioning.

In a move born of desperation (and mild delusion), I trudged fifteen minutes to another swim, convinced this one would be different. Of course it would. New water, new luck, new me. Half an hour later—BANG the float didn’t just lift a nadger, it attempted orbit. I struck with the confidence of a man who absolutely knew what was on the end.

And yes, I did know. That slow, stubborn, wet-sock resistance… the unmistakable charisma vacuum of a bream. A proper “Sean from Snagged Bro special,” as tradition dictates. Not so much a fight as a prolonged disagreement. Still, I landed it, admired it in the way one admires a tax bill, and pretended this was all part of the plan.

I carried on until the float vanished into the gloom, less from fish activity and more from the sun giving up. A session that promised much, delivered little, and yet somehow still felt like fishing—glorious, baffling, mildly infuriating fishing. On to the next one, where I fully expect the fish to continue their campaign of psychological warfare.