Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.10

The alarm went off at an hour normally reserved for milkmen, insomniacs, and people who have made deeply questionable life choices the night before. Naturally, I sprang into action with all the urgency of a damp sponge, eventually peeling myself from the duvet and setting off for Tramp Alley Canal with the kind of optimism that only a fisherman—or a fool—can truly muster. 

The sky, bless it, was a perfect overcast grey, the sort of sky that whispers, “Today, my friend, you will either catch a fish… or develop character.” I packed light, confident, and—crucially—maggotless. Because today was not a day for wriggling protein. No. Today was bread day. A full-scale, no-holds-barred, gluten-fuelled assault.

The plan, inspired by the legendary George Burton method (a man who I suspect once bullied a roach into submission using nothing but a crust and a stern glance), was simple in theory and ludicrous in practice. 

Two slices of bread sacrificed themselves heroically, mashed into what can only be described as a stodgy, beige soup of destiny. The idea being that the smaller fish—those finned freeloaders—would gorge themselves senseless, waddling off in bloated defeat, leaving the larger, more distinguished roach to saunter in like aristocrats at a buffet. It was a beautiful theory. Nobel Prize-worthy, even. Unfortunately, fish have not yet read the same textbooks.

Upon arrival, I was greeted not by serenity, but by betrayal. A boat. Not just any boat, mind you, but one moored precisely where I had mentally placed myself catching a personal best. It sat there smugly, like it knew. I considered knocking on it and politely asking it to move along for the sake of destiny, but thought better of it. Instead, I trudged further down the canal, settling opposite a stretch of reeds that looked vaguely fishy, or at least less offensively boat-shaped.

Out came the gear, and with it, the pièce de résistance: the lift bite setup, complete with a Drennan glow-tip antenna float. A float so rare and precious it might as well have been forged in Mordor. I handled it with the reverence usually reserved for fine china or last biscuits. For added luxury, I even brought a seat this time. Yes, a seat. I sat upon it like a king surveying his watery kingdom, albeit a king who had just mashed bread into soup and was about to throw it into a canal.

The first bite came after 25 minutes with all the subtlety of a firework display. The float didn’t just lift—it launched. I’m fairly certain it achieved temporary orbit. Reflexes engaged! Strike! Nothing. Not a sausage. Not even a sniff of a fin. “Ah,” I thought, “just a tester.” A reconnaissance nibble. The fish equivalent of knocking on the door and running away. But then it happened again. And again. And again. Seven times in total. Seven glorious, dramatic, heart-stopping lift bites… and seven complete and utter failures to connect.

At one point, the float shot up with such enthusiasm I’m convinced it could have been spotted from low Earth orbit. Somewhere, an astronaut probably turned to his colleague and said, “What in the name of Neptune was that?” Meanwhile, I was on the bank, striking like a man swatting invisible flies. 

Was it small fish? Was it line bites? Was it me reacting with the speed and precision of a tranquilised sloth? The answer, as always, was probably “yes.”

I adjusted. Oh, how I adjusted. I scaled the bread down, from “hearty breakfast” to “polite canapé.” I moved spots like a restless ghost, trying two additional swims that offered all the excitement of a damp sock. Not a bite. 

Not even a suspicious ripple. Meanwhile, fish were topping mockingly in the distance, breaking the surface like they were auditioning for a nature documentary titled “Look What You’re Not Catching.”

Time ticked on. Three hours passed in a blur of anticipation, disappointment, and increasingly creative internal monologues. My landing net remained tragically dry, its mesh unstained by victory. 

It looked at me, I swear it did, with a kind of quiet judgment. “You had one job,” it seemed to say. And I, in return, could only shrug and mumble something about bread soup and orbital floats.

In the end, I packed up with all the dignity of a man who has just been thoroughly outwitted by creatures with brains the size of a garden pea. No fish. No glory. Just memories, mild humiliation, and the lingering suspicion that somewhere beneath that canal surface, a particularly smug roach was recounting the morning’s events to its mates, complete with impressions.

But fear not. This is not the end. Oh no. This is merely Chapter One in what will undoubtedly become a gripping saga of persistence, questionable tactics, and bread-based optimism. Because one day—mark my words—a 2lb roach will grace my net. It will happen. It must happen. And when it does, I shall nod knowingly, as if it was all part of the plan.

Until then… watch this space.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.9

After a rather nice impromptu late lunch with Mrs Newey with some thai nibbles in the beer garden of a local pub I got back and wondered what the hell I'm going to fish for the following morning. But then there are moments in angling that feel less like fishing and more like stumbling into a watery conspiracy.  One minute you’re minding your own business, unhooking what can only be described as a canal mud sifter with delusions of grandeur, and the next—bang—the surface erupts like someone’s dropped a family-sized bath bomb into the cut. 

Not subtle, not polite, not the sort of thing a well-mannered roach would RSVP to. No, this was a full-on aquatic kerfuffle. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of surface signs. The gentle sip of a roach, like a librarian quietly judging your choice of bait. 

The confident swirl of a rudd, all swagger and no apology. But this? This was neither tea nor coffee—it was a full English breakfast of disturbance. Boils, swirls, the odd flick that suggested something down there had either found religion or lost its temper.

And here’s the thing—this wasn’t gin-clear, aquarium-style water where you can name the fish and ask after their families. This was proper coloured canal water. The sort that looks like it’s been steeped in builder’s tea and regret. Normally, you’re fishing blind in conditions like this, relying on instinct, experience, and the vague hope that something with fins shares your optimism. Yet here were signs. Actual, undeniable signs. Fishy graffiti on the surface saying, “We’re here, mate. But good luck guessing who we are.”

Naturally, this triggered the ancient angler’s reflex: curiosity mixed with mild delusion. Only one way to find out, I thought, which is usually the prelude to either brilliance or embarrassment. Sometimes both. So for this session, out came the lift float—my old, faithful conspirator in all things roachy—paired with a bit of groundbait and maggots, because if there’s one thing roach love, it’s a free buffet with questionable hygiene standards. 

The morning itself was one of those rare gems. Quiet. Still. The sort of calm that makes you feel like you’ve accidentally walked into a postcard. Birds chirping, the occasional ripple, and at one point what I can only assume was a lamb expressing itself in a deeply personal way. Nature, as ever, keeping it classy. 

I'd only a few hours with a busy ahead as with family stuff in the afternoon I was heading to a DJ gig in Brum with Lloyd Barwood one of progressive houses brightest new talents being both a producer and DJ and a lovely fella he is too, this picture taken before the gig started and a nice chat about him living his dream. 

I'd seen him in Liverpool not long back warming up for Sasha before he went b2b with his hero, but this time the Hare and Hounds a venue where UB40 performed their first gig was ideal to showcase his banging beats of repetitiveness. 

In contrast to quiet fishing with only bird song or a lamb trumping the solitude but variety is the spice of life you know. Anyway, beneath this serene surface, there was mischief. You could feel it. Every now and then, another swirl. Another hint. Like the canal was winking at me, saying, “You’re close… but not that close.” The float behaved itself for the most part—lifting here and there with just enough suggestion to keep the brain ticking. Classic roach behaviour. Delicate. Thoughtful. The sort of bite that says, “I’ll take it… but I’m not happy about it.”

But then !!

The canal, in its infinite wisdom (and questionable hygiene), decided that today was not a day for heroes but for mongrels those suspicious, vaguely fish-shaped entities that look as though they were assembled from leftover parts in a damp shed. Out they came to play, nudging at liquidised bread like pensioners at a reduced bakery shelf, while my maggots dangled with all the dignity of a soggy chandelier. 

I fished one swim, then another, then another—like a man searching for a lost remote in increasingly unlikely places—only to discover that the fish had the collective enthusiasm of a committee meeting.

What did I catch? Ah yes—creatures. Not fish in the proud, silver-flanked sense, but… beings. Tatty little customers, each looking like it had lost a bar fight with a shopping trolley. Not one of them particularly large, mind you, though each carried itself with the baffling confidence of something that believes it ought to be bigger. Canal fishing, as ever, served up its daily special: unpredictability with a side of mild disappointment. You turn up expecting a story; you leave with a shrug and a faint smell of skimmer regret.

Still, there were bites little taps of encouragement, like the canal whispering, “Go on, keep trying, this might improve.” It did not improve. And where, pray tell, were the roach? Not a single one. Vanished. Evaporated. Possibly attending a conference elsewhere on more agreeable waters. It’s the sort of mystery that keeps anglers awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if the fish are unionising.

And so, with spirits neither lifted nor entirely crushed just gently sat upon I packed up. Another session concluded, another tale added to the ever-growing anthology of “well, that happened.” Onwards to the next outing, where expectations will once again be inflated beyond reason, only to be expertly punctured by a canal that knows exactly what it’s doing and refuses to explain itself.

Back to the full-on bread attack, I think—this isn’t going too well. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.148 (Canal Carp Pandemoniun)

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.

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.