Now there are meals, blog readers, and then there are life-altering decisions disguised as dinner. The spicy slow cooked Lamb Bhuna from the evening prior was firmly in the latter category. It began innocently enough poppadom's fluttering in like edible confetti, dips lined up with military precision but quickly escalated into a full-scale culinary siege.
Starters were “shared” in the same way politicians share responsibility, followed by a naan so laden with cheese and chilli it could have doubled as industrial sealant, and a garlic rice that insisted on being noticed long after the curtain had fallen. By the end of it, I wasn’t so much full as structurally compromised.
Morning arrived with all the grace of a bailiff. The previously evenings food was now sat heavy and unmoving, like a beanbag filled with regret. Thus, a fasting day was declared not out of some enlightened wellness epiphany, but because the mere thought of food triggered mild flashbacks. Still, the world waits for no man, especially one who’s overindulged in curry, and after a long day at work, I found myself drawn toward the canal like a slightly bloated pilgrim in search of redemption.
Now, this wasn’t just any casual wander. This was prompted by intelligence classified, whispered, and mildly exaggerated—courtesy of Buffalo Si of YouTube notoriety, a man who speaks of fish sightings with the reverence of someone describing UFO encounters. Carp had been seen, he said. Milling. Loitering. Existing in that tantalising way fish do when you’re not there. And so, armed with this information and a stomach still negotiating its terms of service, I set off.
The canal itself is but a five-minute jaunt away, which lulls you into a false sense of convenience. The actual destination, however, requires a walk that feels less like a fishing trip and more like a test of character. I briefly considered taking the bike, but my knee—still recovering from what I’ll generously describe as a “spirited” episode at the Glasgow Deep Dish DJ gig (64,000 steps in two days) suggested otherwise. So, legs it was. Each step a reminder that naan has consequences.
Upon arrival, naturally, the universe decided to have a laugh. There, moored with impeccable comedic timing, was a boat. Not just anywhere, mind you—exactly where I intended to fish. Of all the miles of canal, this floating monument to inconvenience had chosen my spot. After a brief and polite exchange with its owner, who confirmed he’d seen nothing fishy whatsoever (helpful), I trudged on, clinging to optimism like a man who refuses to check his bank balance and headed down to an area where I used to spot them before.
Then, just as doubt began to settle in, a flicker. A disturbance. The unmistakable sign of something alive and worth bothering. As I edged closer, peering through the reeds with all the subtlety of a man trying not to breathe too loudly, I saw them. Two carp. Just… there. Sunbathing. Loafing. Existing without a single care in the world.
They’d positioned themselves perfectly in a patch of sunlight breaking through the trees, like retirees who’d found the best deckchairs on holiday and refused to move. The rest of the canal lay in shadow, moody and uninviting, but here—this golden pocket of warmth—they basked, smug and serene. It was, frankly, offensive.
With the kind of stealth usually associated with burglars in slapstick films, I crept into position and introduced a few pieces of bread into their general vicinity. At first, nothing. They ignored it completely, as if I’d just offered them unsolicited advice. But then something shifted. The larger of the two turned, clocked the bread, and began moving toward it with the kind of slow, deliberate confidence that suggested either supreme intelligence… or none whatsoever.
What followed can only be described as a masterclass in poor decision-making from the fish. It approached the bread like a chub on a summer’s day, casual, carefree, and utterly unbothered by the concept of consequences. A gentle sip, a moment’s pause, and then commitment.
Naturally, I wasted no time. Hook bait deployed. Underarm flick executed with all the grace of a man who’s just remembered he hasn’t eaten all day. The bread landed perfectly. The line, however, sat visibly on the surface—usually enough to spook even the most gullible of fish. But not this one. Oh no. This one had places to be. Specifically, my landing net.
It approached. It inspected. It sucked.
And then—pandemonium.
The strike was immediate, and the response from the fish was less “mild inconvenience” and more “absolute betrayal of the highest order.” It tore off like it had somewhere urgent to be, my rod bending into a shape that suggested it was reconsidering its career choices. My clutch, set tighter than my jeans after the Bhuna, protested accordingly, while my arms began to question the entire premise of recreational fishing.
What followed was a battle. Not elegant, not refined just a full-on, arm-aching, dignity-testing scrap with a fish that had, moments earlier, looked like it couldn’t be bothered to blink. The second carp, understandably, vacated the premises with immediate effect, no doubt filing a mental note titled “Never Trust Floating Bread Again.”
Eventually, through a combination of persistence, mild luck, and what I can only assume was the fish deciding it had made its point, I brought it in. And there it was a proper carp. Solid. Handsome. Slightly annoyed. A fish that, despite its earlier lapse in judgment, had given a thoroughly respectable account of itself.
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I admired it briefly, thanked it silently (as is tradition), and watched it disappear back into the canal, hopefully a little wiser and significantly more suspicious of baked goods. And that, readers, was the lot. No more sightings. No more opportunities. Just a mile of walking, one gloriously obliging fish, and the quiet satisfaction that sometimes, just sometimes, things go your way even if it’s largely due to a carp having a momentary lapse in critical thinking.
As I made the long walk back, arms still humming and stomach finally beginning to forgive me, I couldn’t help but reflect. Angling isn’t always about skill. Sometimes it’s about timing. Sometimes it’s about luck. And occasionally, it’s about being there at precisely the moment a fish decides to behave like an absolute beginner. Mission accomplished. Balance restored. And somewhere beneath that canal’s surface, a slightly embarrassed carp is probably telling its mates it meant to do that all along.
