Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.13

The other evening found me in one of those familiar moods that every angler of a certain persuasion will understand only too well. You know the sort. The kettle had boiled, the tackle had already been checked twice despite not having moved since the previous outing, and yet there I sat staring into the middle distance at some temporary traffic lights wondering where on earth to go. 

Not because there aren’t places to fish mind, but because after enough years wandering canal towpaths and riversides you begin to realise that the venue matters less than the feeling you are searching for. Some evenings demand adventure, others solitude, and some merely ask for a quiet float to slide beneath the surface while the world busies itself elsewhere.

Earlier in the week Sam had stood before his class to give a talk about fishing. Fishing! Imagine that in this modern age where attention spans seem shorter than a size 24 hooklength and most youngsters know more about touchscreens than towpaths. Yet there he was, calmly explaining the virtues of angling to classmates who probably regard sitting beside water in the rain as a form of medieval punishment. 

I must admit I felt immensely proud reading what he had written entirely under his own steam. Not just because he spoke about fishing itself, but because somehow he had already grasped what takes many people years to understand  that fishing is rarely about fish alone.

He had written about peace, patience and observation. About slowing down long enough to notice the world around you. About wildlife and quietness and the strange satisfaction that comes from doing something where success is never guaranteed. In truth, many adults could probably benefit from hearing those lessons. Fishing teaches you to fail gracefully, to persevere quietly and to appreciate moments most people walk straight past without ever seeing.

Perhaps that was why my thoughts drifted toward an old stretch of canal on the way home from work. A modest place really, the sort of waterway most people would drive past without a second glance. No grand scenery, no famous pegs, no tackle shop gossip attached to it. Yet a memory had lodged itself somewhere in the dusty corners of my angling brain. A couple of years earlier, while wandering there in pursuit of zander, I had encountered something so rare it nearly caused me to drop the rod entirely — another angler actually catching fish on the float.

Now canal anglers are a suspicious breed at the best of times. See another fisherman and the immediate assumption is that he must either know something you don’t or be entirely mad. This chap however looked reassuringly ordinary. An old landing net, well-used float rod and that unmistakable look of concentration peculiar to anglers watching a float. More importantly, every now and then he was striking into fish. Not a monster by any means, but enough to convince me there was life present beneath the surface gloom.

The area itself has an interesting little history attached to it. One of the neighbouring properties backs directly onto the canal and the owners clearly possess both affection for the place and respect for its heritage. 

Visible nearby still stands part of the old bridge structure from 1917, once carrying the railway line over the canal in a time when industry ruled these waterways rather than dog walkers and cyclists. The ironwork remains as a reminder of another age, rusting quietly yet stubbornly refusing to disappear altogether. This stretch I've filmed Otters a few times, once two at the same time milling around the lock and then another time when one was eating an eel, were there any fish left ?

The garden attached to the property is immaculate. The sort of lovingly maintained place where every flowerbed appears carefully considered and where even the ducks seem somehow better behaved than usual. More importantly from an angling perspective, the owners feed the ducks regularly and generously. Bread rains upon the water with admirable consistency and where food gathers, fish are rarely too far away. At least that was the theory occupying my mind as I unloaded the tackle.

Theory and practice of course are entirely different matters in fishing.

The evening carried that slightly heavy atmosphere canals often possess in summer. The water dark and sluggish beneath overhanging trees, occasional bubbles rising mysteriously from nowhere, distant traffic humming softly beyond the hedgerow.

Somewhere a moorhen complained noisily while pigeons shuffled about in the bridge girders overhead. It felt fishy, though experienced anglers know that waters often look their absolute best immediately before refusing to produce so much as a sniff. Still, confidence is a strange and valuable thing in angling. Once you convince yourself fish are present, every tiny movement suddenly appears meaningful. The bird song was amazing on this lovely evening and 17 species were recorded via the Merlin app within half an hour, very nice indeed.

Anyway for bait I kept things beautifully simple. Mashed bread mixed with a little groundbait to create a soft cloud of attraction, combined with bread flake on the hook itself. Bread remains one of those timeless canal baits that somehow survives every fashionable trend in modern fishing. While others debate pellets, wafters, flavours and attractors costing more per kilo than decent steak, bread continues quietly catching fish exactly as it always has. Cheap, effective and wonderfully nostalgic.

 There is also something deeply satisfying about fishing simple baits on traditional tackle. No alarms screaming across the cut, no endless gadgets clipped onto rod rests. Just float, line, bait and concentration. Angling reduced to its purest essentials.

I had also decided to tinker slightly with the lift-bite rig arrangement. During previous sessions I’d been plagued by missed bites. Not loads admittedly, but enough to irritate me. 

The float would lift beautifully, hesitation would build, strike… and nothing. Either tiny fish were playing games with me or my arrangement wasn’t converting bites effectively enough.

This time I moved the shot from roughly an inch and a half from the hook to nearer four inches away. Not a dramatic alteration perhaps, but often these tiny refinements separate frustrating evenings from memorable ones. 

Canal fishing especially tends to reward subtle adjustments. Fish in such venues inspect baits carefully and feed with caution born from surviving cormorants, boats and generations of anglers waving dubious concoctions at them.

The float settled nicely after the first cast, cocked perfectly against the dark water. There is immense pleasure in watching a properly shotted float settle. 

It sounds ridiculous explaining it to non-anglers of course. “I spent twenty minutes admiring a tiny coloured stick.” Yet every fisherman understands. The float becomes your connection to an unseen world beneath the surface. Every tremor, dip or lift suddenly carries significance.

The first half hour passed quietly save for occasional trembles that could have been tiny fish or drifting debris. Canal water darkened further until the reflections of nearby foliage blurred into shadowy streaks. A duck wandered suspiciously close, eyeing the bread mash with criminal intent.

The canal was flat calm, moody, faint smell of old leaves, dog poo, diesel and broken dreams. The sort of evening where you convince yourself you’re about to outwit a thirty-pound canal carp using a bit of bread and blind optimism. In other words, proper fishing. None of this commercial puddle nonsense where the fish queue up like pensioners outside a garden centre café. No, this was a proper natural venue. A place where mystery lurks beneath every ripple and where disappointment is never more than one strike away.

The first proper bite came as a textbook lift. The float rose beautifully, elegantly, like a ballerina emerging from Swan Lake. I struck immediately with all the confidence of a man who absolutely knew he’d connected with a fish. Naturally, I hit thin air instead. Nothing. Not even a scale. The canal had mugged me off before I’d even settled in.

So out came another lump of bread. Lowered in delicately. Except the float never settled properly this time. 

Something had intercepted it on the drop. “Aha!” I thought. “They’re having it now.” I struck again with the precision of a seasoned matchman and once again connected with absolutely sod all. Outstanding angling. Two bites. Two misses. I was fishing like a man wearing boxing gloves.

Then it happened.

The next bite was different. Proper different. I struck and hit something that felt less like a fish and more like I’d accidentally hooked the Northbound Titanic. 

 It just held there, deep and solid, before slowly plodding off to my right as if late for a dentist appointment. I couldn’t do a thing with it. No head shakes. No panic. Just pure underwater authority. The sort of fish that pays council tax.

At this point my imagination was working overtime. Was it a giant canal carp? One of those old leather-skinned warriors with fins like shovel blades? A prehistoric bream the size of a dustbin lid? Or perhaps a pike that had casually inhaled the bread because it fancied a change from murdering perch all day? Whatever it was, it felt BIG.

Somehow I managed to turn it. The rod finally bent properly and for one glorious second I thought, “This is it. This is the fish.” It started swimming toward me and to my left and then — because canal fishing is essentially organised suffering — the hook pulled.

PING.

The float exploded out of the water like a Polaris missile and flew straight into the tree above me with a crack. I just stood there staring into the branches while my soul quietly left my body. Somewhere in the darkness the mystery fish carried on with its evening, probably laughing.

And then came the true tragedy.

The float returned minus the insert. Not just any insert either. Oh no. This was a discontinued Drennan Glow Tip Antenna. Rarer than honesty in a tackle shop. You can’t buy these anymore. They exist only in old seatbox drawers and whispered legends passed between ageing canal anglers in waterproof trousers. Man down. Float down. Catastrophe. I briefly considered climbing the tree and holding a small memorial service.

Still, the canal gods weren’t quite finished humiliating me.

I reset the tackle and carried on because that’s what anglers do. We suffer endlessly while pretending it’s relaxing. Then, thankfully, another classic lift bite arrived. I struck and this time actually connected with a fish. Admittedly it fought with all the determination of a damp tea towel, but after recent events I’d have accepted a hooked traffic cone.

Sure enough, a canal bream surfaced. Not a monster either. Just your standard issue bronze bin lid with the charisma of wet cardboard and the delightful ability to make your landing net smell like a blocked drain for the next fortnight. Still, a fish is a fish. I nodded respectfully at it as one might acknowledge an elderly drunk outside a pub. 

By now the sun had crept round behind the trees and was blasting directly into my face like an interrogation lamp. The swim died completely. No fizzing. No movement. No signs of life whatsoever apart from a moorhen looking mildly disappointed in me. I was also well past curfew, which meant it was time to pack up before I had to explain myself at home like a teenager sneaking in after midnight.

So what did the session produce? One lost mystery beast. One violated glow-tip float. One small stinky bream. And yet somehow, driving home, I couldn’t stop smiling. Because that’s canal fishing. It’s weird. It’s frustrating. It’s mysterious. Every swim feels like it might hold either the fish of your dreams or an abandoned bicycle. Sometimes both. 

And honestly? That’s exactly why natural venues will always beat commercials for me. On a canal, anything can happen. Usually something disastrous, admittedly, but still… anything.