Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.146 (Canal Zander)

Ah, St George’s Day when the flags flutter, the ale settles warm in the gut, and a man feels duty-bound to face his own private dragon. Mine, of course, has fins, sulks in the margins, and answers when it answers at all to the name of Zander. Like the saint himself, one must approach with a blend of misplaced confidence and stubborn ritual: a well-thumbed lure box instead of a lance, and faith that somewhere beneath that sullen, tea-stained water, something wicked eyes your offering with grudging intent.

For Zander are no patriotic celebrants. They care not for saints nor songs, only for the slow, deliberate trespass of your bait through their dim dominion. And so, while others toast St George with cheer, I stand towpath side, engaged in my own quiet crusade half myth, half madness hoping, just once, to strike true and feel that unmistakable, dragonish resistance on the line.

Now It was one of those evenings where the sun is doing its absolute best to convince you it’s spring, while the air quietly reminds you that winter hasn’t packed its bags just yet. A nippy wind it was, out of the sun. The sort of nippy wind that sneaks up your sleeves and sits there, grinning. Still, the canal was calling, and like a mug with a fishing rod, I answered. 

The big zander? Nah, they’re still in their winter sulk, probably sat somewhere deep writing passive-aggressive notes about water temperature. But after a day at work, expectations were lower than a limbo stick at a worm’s birthday party.

I wandered down the towpath with that familiar “might just have a quick chuck” optimism, which, as we all know, is a complete lie we tell ourselves before losing two hours and most of our dignity. Bright sunshine blazing away like it’s auditioning for July not ideal for zander, who prefer a bit of gloom and mystery, like teenagers or tax returns. Still, I had a plan. A line of narrowboats sat there, all smug and floaty, casting lovely shady patches beneath them. Perfect ambush spots. If I were a zander, that’s exactly where I’d be tucked under a hull, waiting to mug some unsuspecting scooby snack drifting past like it hadn’t a care in the world.

Now, I’ll be honest, my fishing mojo lately has been wobblier than a jelly in a tumble dryer. One minute I’m obsessed, next minute I’m wondering if I should take up something sensible like stamp collecting or competitive napping. But the weather had that “go on, you know you want to” vibe, so off I went, chasing that elusive tug on the line and a brief escape from reality (and emails).

Anyway, there I am, creeping along like a canal-side ninja, when I nearly stepped in what can only be described as a biological weapon. Dog poo. Not just any dog poo the stealth kind. The kind that blends into the towpath like it’s been trained by special forces. And it got me thinking… we’ve got all this fancy tech in cars now — sensors, cameras, things that beep at you if you so much as think about reversing near a leaf. Advanced Driver-Assistance Systems, they call it. ADAS. Sounds very impressive. Makes you feel like your car’s got a PhD.

So why, in the name of all things fishy, can we not have the same for anglers on towpaths? Imagine it: a lightweight head-mounted device. 

Bit like a futuristic fishing hat. Built-in smell sensors, ultra-HD cameras, maybe even a polite but firm voice that says, “Oi, watch it pal, that’s a size 5 Labrador special at two o’clock.” It could map hazards in real-time. Sync it to your phone. 

Towpath Navigation Mode. Avoidance protocols engaged. You’d look like a complete plonker, obviously, but you’d have clean boots — and frankly, that’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.

I’d invest. No hesitation. In fact, I’m calling it now — if anyone out there is building this masterpiece, put me down first on the Crowdfunder. Early adopter. 

Beta tester. Chief Avoidance Officer. Because nothing ruins a perfectly good fishing session faster than that slow, sickening realisation that your boot has just found something it really shouldn’t have.

Anyway, back to the fishing. Did I catch anything?

Well There are days in fishing when you feel less like an angler and more like a mobile garden ornament strategically placed, mildly optimistic, and largely ignored by anything with fins. 

This, I can confirm, was one of those days. The plan had all the hallmarks of genius: canal Zander, moody conditions, a roach suspended temptingly beneath an over-depth float practically a Michelin-starred offering in piscine terms. 

Naturally, the fish responded with the enthusiasm of Starmer at Prime Ministers Question time. 

An hour passed in what can only be described as “leapfrogging the armada” that familiar canal ballet of edging past moored boats, muttering polite apologies to potted geraniums, and wondering if one more cast might finally convince a Zander that today was, in fact, the day. It wasn’t. 

Not even a murmur. The float remained as motionless as a taxidermy exhibit, while my optimism quietly packed its bags and left without so much as a forwarding address.

The towpath, however, was in full swing. A steady procession of humanity drifted by, including a pair of Labradors operating at what can only be described as glacial speed, accompanied by owners who appeared to be rehearsing for a very slow-motion remake of “When I’m 64.”  (the name of their boat) They passed once. 

Then, in a twist that no one saw coming (except everyone), they returned ten minutes later, retracing their steps with the same leisurely determination. Their boat, I must say, was lovely tastefully adorned with what can only be described as an honest display of laundry. Nothing says “living the dream” quite like underpants fluttering proudly in the spring breeze.

With the sun doing its best impression of a spotlight on an empty stage, I conceded defeat on the bright stretch and slipped over to the darker side a place of shadows, mystery, and significantly fewer Labradors. Fishing tight to some thick cover, I battled not only the elements but also an ongoing conspiracy of drifting grass cuttings and a surface tow that seemed personally invested in moving my float anywhere but where I’d placed it.

Then, just as I was considering composing a heartfelt apology to my tackle for wasting its time, it happened. A bite. Not just any bite a proper, unmistakable Zander take. The left-hand rod sprang to life with all the subtlety of a car alarm, and I struck into something solid. 

Now, I’ll admit, it didn’t exactly bend the rod into a heroic arc, but at that point I’d have happily accepted a mildly enthusiastic stickleback. A fish is a fish is a fish, and this one saved me from the dreaded blank a result celebrated by anglers with the quiet dignity of someone who’s just avoided public embarrassment. 

I gave it another half hour, partly out of hope and partly because packing up immediately would have felt like admitting the fish had only shown up out of pity. No further bites materialised, but that hardly mattered. There had been fresh air, a generous helping of spring sunshine, and—most importantly—proof that I hadn’t entirely forgotten how to catch something. All things considered, it was a success. Not a triumphant, chest-beating, “write to the magazines” sort of success, but a modest, contented nod-to-self kind. And in fishing, as in life, those are often the ones that matter most.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.8

I arrived at Tramp Alley armed with a noble ambition: to experience the tranquil dignity of the South Stratford Canal. This lasted approximately eleven seconds, or until I slipped on something that may once have been either duck-related or philosophical in origin. Thus began my immersive historical re-enactmentless “Industrial Revolution transport artery,” more “man mildly at odds with mud.” 

The canal itself lounged beside me in that deeply unimpressed way only water can manage. One could almost hear it muttering, “I was completed in 1816, you know,” as if this justified the presence of suspiciously wobbly towpath edges and a duck with the moral authority of a parish councillor. I nodded respectfully, as one does when being silently judged by infrastructure. 

Tramp Alley, I am told, was once a place of spa-going refinement, where genteel visitors sipped mineral waters and discussed ailments with enthusiasm bordering on performance art. I too sampled the local atmosphere, though my intake consisted primarily of midges and regret. It felt authentic. Possibly too authentic. There is something delightfully absurd about canals. Built with grand visions of commerce and empire, they now host slow-moving boats piloted by people named Clive who wave as if they’ve just conquered something. 

History, I reflected, is less about progress and more about who manages to stay upright the longest. As I continued along the towpath, I considered the heroic restoration efforts of the 1960s. Brave souls dredged, rebuilt, and resurrected this waterway from near oblivion. Meanwhile, I struggled to resurrect my dignity after misjudging a puddle of deceptive depth. Their legacy lives on; mine will likely be absorbed into the silt.

I set off for the roach with the kind of misplaced optimism usually reserved for lottery tickets and “quick five-minute jobs” that somehow consume entire afternoons. The air had that crisp, early-morning enthusiasm about it, the sort that suggests great things are about to happen, or at the very least something mildly competent. Naturally, I took this as a sign that today would be a triumphant return to angling glory. Rods packed, bait prepared, dignity loosely attached I marched toward the towpath like a man about to be gently but firmly corrected by reality.

It’s always the same with canals they sit there like retired generals, full of stories, completely unimpressed by your presence, and faintly amused by your inevitable mistakes. I found my first swim, settled in, and within minutes had two small roach. “Ah,” I thought, with dangerous confidence, “today is the day.” This, as it turns out, was the exact moment the universe decided I’d had quite enough encouragement for one morning.

What followed can only be described as an extended masterclass in not catching fish. I moved swims with the optimism of a man rearranging deckchairs on a very uncooperative Titanic. Each new spot looked promising—“That’s got to hold something,” I muttered, as though the fish were listening and considering my proposal. They were not. The canal, meanwhile, maintained its serene composure, as if to say, “You may continue if you wish, but I wouldn’t expect much.”

There is a particular kind of silence that descends when the fish have collectively decided to ignore you. It’s not peaceful it’s pointed. Every ripple feels like a private joke you’re not in on. A duck drifted past at one stage and gave me a look that can only be described as professionally judgmental. If it had a clipboard, I’m certain it would have made a note: “Angler—enthusiastic, but ultimately ineffective.” I considered asking it for advice, but I suspected it would suggest bread and a different career path.

By the second swim, I had entered what experts might call “hope management mode.” This involves lowering expectations in carefully measured increments until success is redefined as “not actively falling into the water.” Bites? Optional. Fish? A luxury. Remaining upright and relatively dry? Now we’re talking. I cast out with renewed determination, which the canal acknowledged by doing absolutely nothing whatsoever.

The third swim was less a strategic decision and more a reluctant acceptance that I had run out of convincing places to blame. “This one,” I told myself, “this is the one.” It wasn’t. At this point, even the midges seemed to lose interest in me, which felt like a new low. When insects that normally regard you as an all-you-can-eat buffet decide you’re not worth the effort, it’s time to reassess your situation.

Still, there’s something wonderfully absurd about it all. Fishing, particularly on canals, has a way of humbling you with surgical precision. One day you’re pulling in fish like a seasoned pro, nodding knowingly at passersby as if you’ve unlocked some ancient aquatic secret. The next, you’re staring at a motionless float, questioning your life choices and wondering if the fish have all relocated to a different postcode out of sheer spite.

I couldn’t help but admire the stubborn charm of the place, though. The canal doesn’t change for anyone. It doesn’t care about your previous success, your carefully chosen bait, or your optimistic early start. It simply exists quietly, persistently, and with just enough unpredictability to keep you coming back. It’s less a hobby and more a long-term negotiation with something that has no intention of meeting you halfway.

Eventually, I packed up with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who has accepted defeat but would prefer not to draw attention to it. Two small roach to show for the effort not exactly headline material, but technically not a blank, which in angling terms is the equivalent of a moral victory. A very small, slightly damp moral victory, but a victory nonetheless. As I trudged back along the towpath, boots carrying more canal than they started with, I reflected on the morning’s events. 

It had been cold, unproductive, mildly humiliating—and oddly enjoyable. Because that’s the thing about fishing: even when it’s terrible, it’s still somehow good. The promise of the next trip, the next cast, the next “this might be the one” moment keeps you hooked far more effectively than any fish ever could. So yes, a short session, a tough morning, and a canal that firmly put me in my place. But give it a day or two and I’ll be back, full of confidence, entirely convinced that this time it will be different. It won’t be, of course—but that’s never really the point, is it?

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.7

Now there is, if you spend any time among river anglers of a certain persuasion (usually slightly damp, faintly bearded, and carrying at least one item of tackle older than their knees), a particular look that appears when the coarse close season rolls around. 

It is not quite grief, not quite boredom, but something in between like being told your favourite pub has shut for renovations and will reopen as a vape shop. 

This, blog readers, is the moment when the suggestion inevitably arises: “Why not try a lake or even a commercial?” And at this point, a silence falls. A deep, meaningful, slightly horrified silence.

Because to many river anglers, fishing a stillwater in the close season feels less like fishing and more like attending a very damp, mildly competitive picnic where the sandwiches occasionally scream and pull back.

Now, this is not to say stillwaters or commercials, for that matter do not have their place. They do. 

They are, objectively, full of fish. Obscenely full of fish. Fish that appear to have been raised on a strict diet of protein pellets and low self-esteem, willing to fling themselves at anything that vaguely resembles food. 

There is a certain efficiency to it all. You arrive, you sit down, and within minutes something is tugging at your line with all the subtlety of a daily deposit specialist encountering a sausage.

But for the river angler, accustomed to the slow, contemplative rhythm of flowing water, this can feel… unsettling.

On a river in April, during the close season, there is a stillness that borders on the sacred. The banks are empty. The swims lie untouched. 

The only sounds are wind through reeds, the occasional plop of something unseen, and your own thoughts usually revolving around how big that chub definitely was last winter. 

You walk the bank not to fish, but to look, to imagine, to quietly conspire with the water about future plans. It is solitude in its purest form, a kind of gentle conspiracy between angler and river.

Compare this to a stillwater in the same period.

You arrive to a car park already hosting a small festival. There are voices. Many voices. Laughter, shouting, the unmistakable beep-beep-beeeeeep of bite alarms going off with the urgency of a reversing lorry in a supermarket car park. Pegs are lined with bivvies resembling a nylon housing estate. Someone is frying something. Someone else is explaining, at volume, how they “had one over twenty yesterday, mate, absolute unit.”

You sit down, carefully threading your way between keepnets, bait buckets, and a gentleman who appears to have brought his entire garage. You cast out. Within moments BEEEEEEP. A fish. Efficient. Immediate. Undeniable.

And yet…

There is no mystery.

On a river, a bite is a question. On a stillwater, it is more of a notification.

Canals, meanwhile, occupy a peculiar middle ground. They promise something of the old world towpaths, narrowboats, a hint of industrial nostalgia but during the close season they often inherit the same crowded enthusiasm as lakes, gravel pits and commercials. Dog walkers and poop peddlers, cyclists, joggers, entire families of ducks and swans with no regard for personal space. The water itself sits there, straight and slightly suspicious, as if it knows it is not quite a river but would very much like you not to mention it.

Fishing a canal can feel like trying to read a book in a corridor.

The scenery, too, plays its part in this quiet rebellion against “soulless holes.” A river is never the same twice. Light changes it, rain reshapes it, seasons repaint it entirely. One bend might hold deep, shadowed secrets; the next, a shallow glide sparkling like something out of a dream you forgot upon waking. You are not just fishing you are participating in something alive, something that existed long before you and will continue long after you’ve lost your favourite float in a tree.

A stillwater, by contrast, is often… consistent. Reassuringly, relentlessly consistent. The same pegs, the same margins, the same islands placed with geometric certainty. The same fish, too, though perhaps that’s unkind they are individuals, each with their own hopes, dreams, and alarming willingness to eat bright orange spheres. But the setting rarely surprises you. It is designed not to.

And that is, perhaps, the crux of it.

River anglers are, at heart, romantics. Slightly impractical, occasionally muddy romantics. They do not just want to catch fish they want to feel something while doing it. They want the uncertainty, the waiting, the quiet triumph of decoding a stretch of water that initially gave them nothing but suspicion and a nettle sting. They want the story.

On a stillwater, you often get the ending first.

Of course, there are those who happily fish both worlds, slipping between river and lake with admirable flexibility, enjoying each for what it offers. And they are probably healthier, both mentally and in terms of catch rates. But for the dyed-in-the-wool river angler, the close season presents a peculiar kind of exile.

So they walk the banks instead.

They peer into swims like archaeologists of their own past successes. They nod knowingly at overhanging branches. They mutter things like “that’ll do in September” to nobody in particular. And somewhere, in the distance, a bite alarm echoes faintly across a lake, a mechanical birdsong of efficiency. 

The river angler pauses, listens for a moment, and then carries on walking content, slightly smug, and absolutely certain that whatever that noise represents, it is not quite fishing as they understand it.
Anyway to the canal forthwith where I arrived at the stretch with all the optimism of a man who has absolutely no evidence things will go well, but a stubborn belief that today—today—the roach would queue like civilised humans, not feral pigeons. 

The canal lay there motionless, looking less like a thriving waterway and more like someone had spilled a very long puddle and forgotten to mop it up. Still, this was hallowed ground. Legends had been made here, not only decent Zander but there are carp here to be caught as well. Well, one legend. Mine. And I intended to remind the fish of that fact.

The ghosts of past glories were hard to ignore. That old zander the nine-pounder that I caught many moons ago turned into a proper canal heifer had clearly spent its days hoovering up the unfortunate descendants of those 20,000 silver fish that were stocked when maggot peddler Martyn who owns the local tackle shop used to lease the stretch. 

It must have waddled about down there like a chubby underwater landlord. And then of course came the near twelve-pounder from the Hallowed 20 miles away, which I like to think of as the canal’s way of apologising for everything else it’s ever done to me. So naturally, with that sort of history, I fully expected either a record roach or a carp with delusions of grandeur to turn up within minutes.

Tactics, as always, were flawless in theory. A gentle introduction of liquidised bread went in clouding the water like I’d just tipped in a bag of canal-flavoured milkshake followed by maggots under a lift-method float. Classic, elegant, deadly… in magazines. Alongside that, the sleeper rod sat poised with a boilie, alarm set, looking far more professional than anything else in my setup. It’s always nice to have at least one rod that suggests you know what you’re doing, even if the rest of the scene screams otherwise.

Anyway to cut a long story short I arrived at the bank armed with optimism, maggots, and the vague athleticism required to squat down for a couple of hours, only to discover the fish were already in a cooperative mood—either that or they pitied me. Before the first boat rudely announced the concept of “morning traffic” at 8:30, I’d amassed a respectable tally of bites, several of which I gallantly declined to convert into actual fish, purely to keep things sporting. 

The highlight was a plucky hybrid that fought like it had something to prove—unfortunately not its identity as a roach, which would have seen my personal best shattered and my ego inflated to dangerous levels. Still, clear skies and blazing sunshine conspired to suggest fishing should have been dreadful, yet by the ancient and noble technique of “chucking a maggot somewhere vaguely promising,” I managed to prove otherwise. 

The real spectacle, however, was the parade of humanity: six joggers pretending to enjoy themselves, five cyclists dressed like escaped highlighters, and two dog walkers being dragged by creatures with far more purpose than their owners. All in all, not a bad morning—fish caught, dignity mostly intact, and only minimal resentment toward passing boats. Oh and nought on the sleeper rod. 

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.