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.