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.
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