Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.141 (Canal Zander)

The canals again. Of course they are. Like a bad kebab or an ex you swore you’d never text, they have a funny way of pulling you back in. Not that I’m complaining (I absolutely am), but when you’ve spent years chasing Zander, you start to realise yesterday’s hotspot is today’s fishless trench. The fish haven’t disappeared they’ve just moved, probably laughing at you while doing so, fins up, watching you stubbornly cast into the aquatic equivalent of a deserted car park.

And the thing is, you know this. Every logical part of your brain is telling you, “They’re not here anymore.” But logic doesn’t stand a chance against angler optimism. 

Because the next cast could be the one. It’s always the next cast. It’s never the last fifty you’ve just fired out with all the conviction of a man slowly losing the plot.

Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about leapfrogging along a stretch of canal like a slightly unhinged heron. 

One minute you’re convinced this is the swim you’ve analysed it, felt it in your bones, practically written the catch report in your head. The next minute, nothing. 

Not a twitch, not a knock, not even the courtesy of a missed bite to keep the dream alive. So off you go again, marching down the towpath with all the grace of a man who’s just realised he’s been casting into absolutely nothing.

But that’s Zander fishing. They could be anywhere and usually are just not where you are.

You start noticing things you’d normally ignore. The way the light hits the water. The subtle changes in depth. That one overhanging bush that looks fishy but has betrayed you more times than you’d care to admit. You tell yourself this time will be different. It never is. But still, you cast there anyway. Tradition, at this point.

Boats, mind you, are a different story. Most anglers curse them muttering under their breath as the peaceful canal turns into a churning mess. Me? I welcome them like a long-lost mate. Honestly, I’m half tempted to wave them down and ask them to do another pass.

Nothing gets the canal stirred up quite like a narrowboat chugging through, turning the water into a murky soup of opportunity. It’s chaos but it’s productive chaos. The silt lifts, visibility drops, and suddenly everything feels alive. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch underwater. Dinner time.

In my head, the Zander are snapping into action, darting about like opportunistic little thieves, picking off anything that looks remotely edible. Meanwhile, I’m stood there trying to look like I planned it all along, as if I personally arranged for this boat to come through at precisely the right moment. In reality, I’m just as reactive as the fish scrambling to get a bait back in the water before the moment passes.

Timing, as always, is everything. And I’m usually just slightly off it.

So for this grand return to canal life, I opted for convenience. No big expedition, no overthinking—just simple, efficient fishing. Four-minute drive, short stroll, rods out. Done. The kind of session you tell yourself is “low pressure,” which of course immediately turns it into the exact opposite.

I’d even splashed out on £40 worth of deadbaits—a serious investment, or so I thought. The sort of purchase that makes you stand a little taller, like you’ve properly committed. No shortcuts today. Premium bait. Premium results. That was the plan. 

Turns out, they were basically free.

Courtesy of what can only be described as a floral disaster of Olympic proportions.

Now, I’m no flower expert but I know enough to recognise when something meant to impress has gone catastrophically wrong. What arrived looked less like a thoughtful gift and more like the aftermath of a long-distance desert crossing. Limp, lifeless, and about as inspiring as a blank session in January. Even the wrapping seemed embarrassed. There’s a particular kind of disappointment when you open something expecting a reaction and instead get… that. You can’t even fake enthusiasm. You just sort of nod, like, “Yes. These are… definitely flowers.”

To their credit, the M&S customer service team sorted it sharpish. Refund on the way, apologies made, crisis averted. And just like that, those £40 deadbaits transformed from a questionable financial decision into what felt like a gift from the angling gods themselves.

Funny how quickly perspective shifts.

Anyway, back to the fishing.

The canal looked… well, like a canal. Slightly questionable water colour, that faint earthy smell you pretend not to notice, the odd ripple that could mean everything or absolutely nothing. Classic. There’s always that feeling when you arrive the quiet uncertainty. You’re either about to have a session you’ll talk about for weeks, or you’re about to spend several hours politely pretending this was “still enjoyable.”

There is no in-between.

I set up with that cautious optimism every angler knows. Not too hopeful—you don’t want to jinx it—but not completely defeated either. Just enough belief to keep you casting. The first few casts felt good. Always do. Everything’s fresh, the bait’s perfect, your confidence hasn’t taken any hits yet.

Then time starts to stretch.

Ten minutes. Nothing.
Twenty minutes. Still nothing.
Half an hour… and now you’re starting to think.

Was that a knock? Probably not.
Should I move? Maybe.
Are they even here? …let’s not go there yet.

Then, just as doubt starts creeping in properly, a boat appears in the distance. Slow, steady, inevitable.

Perfect.

I reposition slightly, get ready, make sure everything’s set. As the boat pushes through, the water transforms clear lines replaced by swirling clouds of silt, the whole canal suddenly alive with movement. This is it. This is the window.

Cast out. Let it settle. Wait.

Every second feels louder now. You’re tuned in, hyper-aware, watching for anything. A tap, a twitch, the slightest sign.

And then—

Maybe something. Or maybe not.

That’s the thing with Zander fishing. It plays with your head. Half the battle is figuring out what’s real and what’s just you wanting it to be real. You convince yourself you felt something, strike into nothing, and stand there hoping no one saw.

Still, you keep going. Move a little further. Try another spot. Adjust, adapt, repeat.

Leapfrogging down the canal, chasing that one moment where everything lines up. Where instinct, timing, and a bit of luck finally agree to cooperate.

Because eventually, it does happen.

Not always. Not even often.

But just enough to keep you coming back.

So… how did I do?

I pulled up at the swim full of optimism, only to be immediately greeted by what can only be described as a thoughtfully pre-packaged gift from the local canine community. Nothing says “welcome back to the canals” like a dog poo bag just slung on the floor the bag swinging gently in the breeze like some sort of grim bunting. Ah yes, the great outdoors nature at its finest, lovingly gift-wrapped by strangers.

Anyway, plans changed quicker than a politician’s promises, and my grand 2.5-hour session was ruthlessly trimmed down to a measly 1.5 thanks to last-minute domestic negotiations (which I lost, obviously). Still, rods out, dignity slightly dented, and spirits cautiously high, I got down to business.

Then bang! Ten minutes in and I’m into a fish. Not just any fish, mind you, but a Zander with the temperament of a caffeinated ferret. It went absolutely berserk the moment it felt steel, thrashing about like I’d insulted its entire bloodline. After a brief but spirited argument, I managed to persuade it into the net.

I gave it a quick eyeball estimate 3lb 8oz. Turns out I was only an ounce off. Frankly, I’m considering a side career as a human weighing scale. Job done. Efficient. Clinical. Almost suspiciously competent. Buoyed by success (and clearly now an angling prodigy), I spent the rest of the session rotating through four more swims like a man convinced lightning would strike twice. It didn’t. Not even a sniff. The fish had clearly clocked off early, probably laughing about me somewhere underwater.

Still, one lively Zander, a bit of sunshine, and only minor psychological damage from the dog poo incident overall, a solid return to the canal. Back on the scoreboard, dignity mostly intact, and with just enough success to guarantee I’ll be back for more punishment soon.

Warwickshire Avon - Barbelistic and Bedraggled

The final day of the river season always arrives a bit like the last day of school equal parts excitement, nostalgia, and the quiet suspicion that something mildly ridiculous will happen before the bell rings. This year was no exception. I awoke with grand plans of sneaking off early, rod in hand, making the most of those precious final hours before the curtain came down on another season. Unfortunately, those plans collided head-on with domestic reality. 

The Wife, quite reasonably it must be said, had declared that an early Mother’s Day outing in Stratford-upon-Avon was required, preferably involving a respectable amount of food and an irresponsible quantity of white wine. 

My role in this arrangement was simple: chauffeur, payer, and general dogsbody. Naturally, I accepted my fate with the stoicism of a man who knows that resistance is both futile and likely to reduce future fishing permissions.

The morning progressed well enough. Stratford was looking as picturesque as ever tourists wandering about looking for Shakespeare, swans behaving like they owned the place, and restaurants happily removing money from my wallet in exchange for lunch. 

The Wife was in excellent spirits, which generally translates to “another large glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.” Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, a tiny angling alarm clock was ticking away. The river season was ending, the light would fade eventually, and somewhere out there a barbel might be considering its final bite before the great closed-season fast. Still, all things considered, it was a pleasant enough diversion. I even convinced myself that perhaps the fish would appreciate the extra rest before my arrival.

Then came the mattress incident.

What was meant to be a “quick stop” at a bed shop for Sam’s new mattress turned into the sort of retail expedition normally reserved for Arctic explorers. Apparently modern mattress purchasing involves computers, posture analysis, demonstrations, and what I can only describe as interpretive lying down. One moment we were “just popping in,” and the next thing I knew we were being guided through the building like VIP guests at some sort of bedding museum. 

I glanced at my watch repeatedly, each time discovering that another half hour had vanished into the great commercial void. Two hours somehow turned into four out. Four! By the time we escaped with a mattress suitable for a teenager (who, incidentally, could probably sleep perfectly well on a pile of coats), I was already composing my fishing obituary in my head.

Still, hope springs eternal in the heart of an angler.

With Saturday’s match cancelled due to high water conditions, I reasoned that a quick visit to the legendary Piccadilly Circus stretch would be ideal. 

Only ten minutes away, and historically about as reliable as river fishing ever gets. If a barbel was going to save my season, that swim had form. The Wife and the rabble were safely deposited at home, and I set off like a man chasing the final bus of the evening. Upon arriving at the official car park, I had a brief moment of blissful optimism. Empty. Not a car in sight. For a fleeting second I imagined I’d have the whole place to myself. But angling optimism is a fragile thing. 

As I approached the first field I spotted a vehicle parked brazenly by the gate over the footbridge. Now, this field is meant strictly for match days, but clearly some enterprising soul had decided that rules were more of a suggestion than a requirement. Ah well, I thought, perhaps they’d wandered off somewhere else.

No such luck.

Sure enough, when I reached the bank there they were: one match angler and his mate. The mate, incidentally, had arrived on a motorbike (yes a motoebike) and parked it directly behind him like they were staging a fishing-themed remake of Easy Rider. I must admit I had a little chuckle to myself. Outside of the clique there’s often much muttering about rules and etiquette, but within the inner circle it seems to be more of a “park where you fancy and crack on” arrangement. Still, they turned out to be decent blokes, which is always worth more than perfect parking discipline.

The match angler was fishing meat and had already landed a tidy barbel of about seven pounds. Lovely fish and a promising sign. He was in good spirits too, mentioning that the club could do with some positive reports after all the gloom following that fish kill a couple of years back. “Let us know if you catch one,” he said. “We need a bit of good news.” No pressure then.

By now it was creeping towards five in the afternoon. The day had been lovely, but the breeze had taken on that sharp edge that reminds you winter hasn’t quite given up yet. Standing in the shade felt like someone had quietly opened a fridge door behind you. Still, the river looked perfect—coloured water sliding along nicely, the sort of conditions that whisper “barbel” to any optimist holding a rod.

I decided to go all in with a Robin Red attack. 15m drilled pellet and a matching paste wrap. A PVA bag of krill freebies and if ever there was a bait that could persuade a barbel to have one last reckless munch before the closed season, it’s that spicy little wonder. I settled into the swim and waited for the magic to begin.

Forty-five minutes later I was still waiting.

Not even a polite chub rattle. Nothing. The rod tip might as well have been carved from oak. Eventually boredom got the better of me and I shuffled a couple of pegs upstream to a swim where I’d landed a near-double back in December during proper flood conditions. If lightning was going to strike twice, this seemed as good a spot as any.

Twenty minutes later: still nothing.

At this point I began to suspect the fish had held a secret meeting earlier that afternoon and voted unanimously to ignore me. So back I went to the original swim for one last attempt. The sun had dipped below the horizon by now and the light was fading in that slow, quiet way rivers seem to specialise in. It was one of those evenings where every sound feels slightly louder and every ripple seems important.

And then it happened.

Thump. Thump.

The rod tip knocked twice like someone tapping politely on a door… and then absolutely melted down. Line peeled off the reel and suddenly the whole world snapped into focus. Barbel! it, charged downstream like it had somewhere urgent to be. Unfortunately that destination appeared to be a submerged tree, which meant I had to apply a firm amount of persuasion to convince it otherwise. The rod bent, the reel protested, and after a few tense seconds I managed to turn it away from disaster.

What followed was a thoroughly enjoyable scrap. Not a monster by any means, but strong enough to remind me why barbel are such magnificent creatures. Eventually the fish slid over the net cord and I let out the sort of satisfied sigh normally reserved for finishing a difficult DIY project without swearing too much.

After a well deserved rest in the landing net, a quick photograph in the dull light, and a moment of admiration, the fish was returned to the coloured water where it vanished with a flick of its tail. A perfect end-of-season gesture.

By then the match angler and his motorbike-support crew had packed up and left, which was a shame because he’d asked me to report any barbel captures. I like to think somewhere out there the rumour mill eventually delivered the news: one final barbel to round things off.

I fished on until curfew, but that was the only bite of the evening. Curiously the chub didn’t show up at all, which is odd because that swim has recently resembled chub soup. Rivers are funny like that. One week they’re bustling with fish, the next week they’re as quiet as a library.

Still, I couldn’t complain.

A barbel on the last evening of the season feels rather poetic. The past few weeks have actually been a bit of a purple patch for me, which naturally means I’m now fully expecting my fortunes to return to their usual level of “character building” once the season reopens on the 16th of June.

But that’s fishing.

You endure the quiet days, the mattress shops, the motorbike anglers, the freezing breezes and the endless blank spells… all for those moments when the rod tip thumps and the reel screams.

And if you can end the season with a barbel in the net and a good story to tell, well, that’s not a bad result at all.

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.50

Back at the syndicate stretch again, embarking on that most noble of late-season quests: winkle out a half-respectable chub before the curtain comes down. I’d grand plans of sneaking into Piccadilly Circus for a cheeky afternoon-into-dusk session rod tips trembling with anticipation, the kettle working overtime, and me settling in like a man with absolutely nowhere else to be.

Alas, domestic life executed one of those last-minute pirouettes wives seem professionally trained in. Suddenly the dream of riverbank reverie evaporated and I was back on dad duties instead of watching the tip for that tell-tale knock.

To be fair, the Wife had endured what can only be described as a Vag Cam appointment 24 hours earlier (yes, exactly what it sounds like). Mercifully it hadn’t been too grim, and by Friday afternoon she’d decided she was perfectly fine to head off to yoga  despite having a uterus reportedly filled with enough water to make even a grown man wince in sympathy.

So off she went, limbering up, while I stayed home performing my own form of advanced flexibility: bending my fishing plans around family logistics. Bugger.

The weather was doing its best impression of a wind swept and damp flannel and my knee was still staging a protest after that Glasgow jaunt. Over sixty thousand steps in two days what was I thinking? At my age that’s practically an ultramarathon. 

The shin splints have migrated north and taken up residence on the inside of my right knee like an unwelcome squatter. Still, between ice packs and a liberal smear of Voltarol, I’m hobbling along well enough to pursue matters piscatorial. 

Roving the swims was the plan, dodgy knee or not, because sometimes the chub don’t come to you, you have to go knocking on their door like an overly persistent Jehovah’s Witness with a landing net.

Tactics were simplicity itself: bread in the feeder, cheesepaste on the hook, and faith in the river gods. Proper chub fishing none of this space-age nonsense.

Word had reached the grapevine that fellow syndicate member Ade Busby author of Barbel Under the Bridge and part-time tormentor of lesser anglers like myself had recently bagged a 6lb 6oz chub on this stretch. 

Daylight had produced nothing for him, mind you, and then the moment the light dipped… bang. Typical chub behaviour really: sulking all afternoon like teenagers and then suddenly deciding they’re ravenous once you can barely see your rod tip.

The river was rising, which I greeted with cautious optimism. A bit of extra colour can be a chub angler’s best mate like fishing behind frosted glass where the fish can’t quite see you fluffing the cast. Sadly, it wasn’t quite the rich, chocolatey broth I’d been hoping for. More of a piss weak tea job. Still, hope springs eternal when there’s cheespaste in the bag and time on the clock.

I ambled onto the stretch with all the confidence of a man who had absolutely no evidence to support it. George Burton and Dave Williams were already stationed along the bank like two thoughtful garden gnomes contemplating the mysteries of the universe or more accurately, why the river looked so perfect yet so completely unwilling to give up a fish. 

After a brief riverside conference (which mostly consisted of scratching chins and saying “they’ve got to be here somewhere”), I decided to go on the rove, which in fishing terms means wandering about pretending you have a plan.

Off I went, creaking my way from swim to swim like an elderly heron that had done one yoga class too many in the 1980s and never quite recovered. The feeder plopped into crease lines, slid under suspicious looking bushes, and landed in those delightfully “chubby” swims where you just know a fish the size of a small sausage dog should be lurking with bad intentions. Each cast had that wonderful moment where the rod tip quivered ever so slightly and the imagination instantly leapt ahead to the weigh-in speech: “Well lads, I did say they were having it…”

Alas, the river had other plans. Swim after swim looked magnificent  the sort of swims that appear in glossy magazines with captions like ‘Guaranteed Chub Holding Area’ yet contained absolutely nothing except water, mild disappointment, and the distant echo of my own optimism quietly deflating. I switched to bread at one point, which felt like a tactical masterstroke until several tiny fish arrived to nibble it like pensioners sampling free cheese at a supermarket. Encouraging, yes. Useful, no. Meanwhile, the chub whom I shall now refer to as “Me Chub” had clearly taken the day off.

Eventually curfew crept up the bank like a bailiff with a clipboard. I packed up and left George and Dave to it, wishing them luck in the sort of tone usually reserved for people about to assemble flat-pack furniture without the instructions. As it turned out, they fared exactly the same as me. Three anglers, a lovely river, decent rising river conditions… and not a single fish among us. A perfect blank. Still, tomorrow is another day the final day of the river season. Which of course means the chub will almost certainly decide to feed like piranhas five minutes after we’ve all packed up for the year. 🎣