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.”
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.
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