Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.5

There are moments in life when you begin to question your own sanity, and mine came somewhere between the carrot shelf and the reduced meat section in Aldi. Now, I’m not saying I’m easily excitable, but when you see perfectly respectable vegetables—carrots, garlic, swede, and potatoes (8p) practically being given away like unwanted raffle prizes at a village fête, you do start to wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered into some sort of alternate universe. 

Naturally, I filled the basket with the urgency of a man preparing for the apocalypse. Then came the beef—half price, £7 a kilo, practically winking at me. It was destiny. That beef didn’t choose me, I chose it… repeatedly… until it was in the trolley.

Of course, all this bounty would usually signal one thing in our household: the sacred Sunday roast. A ritual so consistent that even Ben knows to loiter strategically near the table around 5:30pm. However, fate had other ideas this week. 

While the wife and kids were likely dreaming of crispy roast potatoes and gravy lakes, I had other commitments—namely, a jaunt to Brum to meet my mate Simon. Plans included a few drinks (purely for hydration purposes), some Korean food, and an ACID house gig where 808 State would be twiddling knobs with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for men assembling flat-pack furniture. The legendary Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath would be our playground. Roast pork, therefore, has been unceremoniously postponed to Monday. The family will survive. Probably.

Now, before all that urban revelry, I had a far more noble pursuit in mind: fishing. The South Stratford Canal has always been a bit of a favourite—intimate, peaceful, and just the right amount of “I might actually catch something here.” But in a rare moment of adventurous thinking (clearly a mistake), I decided to try a different stretch on the Grand Union Canal. 

It offered a bit of shelter from the wind, which, after the previous night’s visit from what I’ve decided to call Storm Dave, felt like a sensible move. At one point the wife and I stood outside with a glass of wine, staring into the gale like extras in a low-budget disaster film, fully expecting the roof to take flight.

I arrived at the canal at the ungodly hour of 6:30am, which for me is essentially the middle of the night. Spirits were high, optimism intact, and my back… well, my back had other plans. In a spectacular display of athletic incompetence, I managed to tweak it while getting the tackle out of the car. Nothing dramatic, just enough to remind me that my body is now less “elite angler” and more “fragile antique.” Still, onward we marched—or shuffled—into battle.

The first swim is usually a banker. A few casts, a bit of groundbait, maggots doing their thing, and before you know it, you’re into a nice run of fish. Not today. Forty-five minutes passed with absolutely nothing happening. Not even a courtesy nibble. It was like fishing in a bathtub. Normally I’d have moved on much sooner, but the combination of sunshine and a mildly broken back made sitting down seem like a tactical masterstroke rather than laziness.

Eventually, I embraced the inevitable and went on the rove, trying swim after swim with the same result: absolutely naff all. The predator rod sat there looking decorative, the maggots remained insultingly untouched, and I began to suspect I’d somehow offended the fishing gods. Perhaps they’d heard about the Aldi haul and decided I’d had enough luck for one weekend.

In a final act of desperation, I headed to a known zander spot. The “last throw of the dice” scenario. A smelt went out on a circle hook, and for a glorious moment—finally—the float twitched, dipped, and sprang to life. 

Fish on! The zander, clearly unaware it was supposed to behave like a zander, fought like an overexcited chub, darting about under my feet as if auditioning for a circus act. I guided it in, heart pounding, net at the ready… and off it came. Gone. Vanished. Probably laughing.

To be fair, it wasn’t a monster maybe a 2lber, but it would have saved the blank and restored some dignity. Instead, I was left staring at the water like a man who’s just dropped his last chip down the side of the sofa. One final swim on the way back to the car yielded exactly what I’d come to expect by this point: nothing. Not a bite. Not a flicker. Not even a fishy insult. Just me, my thoughts, and a growing suspicion that maggots had suddenly become deeply unpopular overnight.

So there we have it. A morning that promised much and delivered the square root of absolutely nothing. Still, there’s always next time… assuming my back recovers, the fishing gods forgive me, and Aldi hasn’t sold out of everything worth eating.

And if not, well, there’s always Monday’s roast pork to look forward to. Assuming the rabble haven’t staged a revolt by then.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.4

I returned, blog readers, to that most glamorous of venues—Tramp Alley. A name that conjures images of refined solitude and gentlemanly pursuit, but in reality delivers the faint aroma of damp socks, regret, and something that may once have been a kebab. This time, however, I had a plan. An early start. The sort of optimism that only anglers and people who think they’ll enjoy DIY on a Sunday morning possess. The towpaths would be empty, I told myself. The boats would be still. The fish those elusive, silver-sided liars would be queuing up in orderly fashion, awaiting my maggots like patrons at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Naturally, this fantasy lasted approximately four minutes.

No sooner had I set foot on the towpath than I encountered walkers. Walkers! At that hour! What sort of people voluntarily roam canals before breakfast? Fitness enthusiasts, presumably—those peculiar individuals who enjoy suffering without even the decency of a fishing rod to justify it. We exchanged the universal British glance of mutual suspicion, each silently judging the other’s life choices. They likely thought me unhinged. I, of course, knew I was.

Undeterred, I pressed on to the very swim that had betrayed me previously. There had to be fish there. There always are. That’s the thing about fishing it runs almost entirely on blind faith and stubbornness. Mostly stubbornness. Unfortunately, a boat had moored precisely where I intended to fish. Of course it had. The canals, we are often reminded, are for everyone. A charming sentiment, though one that feels less delightful when “everyone” is parked exactly where you want to sit.

Still, I am nothing if not adaptable. Also grumpy, but adaptable. I squeezed into a nearby spot and began setting up, determined to show the canal who was in charge. (It is worth noting that the canal is always in charge.)

As I assembled my gear, a familiar and distinctly herbal aroma drifted into my nostrils. Turning to my left, I spotted him. The same scruffy chap as before, accompanied by what can only be described as a Rottweiler of mythological proportions. This beast looked capable of wrestling a grizzly bear and asking for a rematch. Thankfully, it was on a lead. One assumes reinforced with steel cables and prayers.

“Focus, Mick,” I muttered, dragging my attention back to the task at hand. “You’re here to fish, not to be eaten.”

And so, to the float. Ah, the float! A 3BB Drennan Antenna—an absolute masterpiece. The sort of float that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing, even when all available evidence suggests otherwise. I fish crudely on canals. Always have. There’s no finesse, no delicate artistry just a pragmatic, slightly agricultural approach that seems to work well enough. The fish, bless them, don’t appear to mind

The South Stratford, as ever, was its usual murky self. Years of boat traffic keep it nicely coloured, sparing us the horror of actually seeing how shallow it is. Only during the COVID lockdown, when boats ceased their endless churning, did the canal reveal its secrets namely that it is, in places, little more than a glorified puddle with ambitions.

My setup was simplicity itself. A small olivette anchored between float stops, a couple of inches from the hook, fished using the lift method. It’s a thing of beauty when it works—elegant, precise, and deeply satisfying. Of course, this assumes the fish are in a cooperative mood, which they rarely are.

Time passed. The float sat there, motionless, as if painted onto the surface. I began to question my my bait, and possibly my entire existence. The maggots, slightly past their prime, stared back at me with what I can only interpret as disappointment. “We used to be fresh,” they seemed to say. “Now look at us.” 

And then—at last! A lift. A perfect, unmistakable lift. The kind that sends a jolt of electricity through your entire being. 

I struck, and there it was—a lovely roach. Not enormous, not record-breaking, but honest. A proper canal fish. Soon after came another. And then, as if crashing the party uninvited, a rogue skimmer decided to join in.

For a brief, glorious period, everything worked. The bites, though few, were textbook. The hook-ups flawless. 

5 roach and 1 skimmer, that ain't bad, the biggest heading to 1lb I'd imagine. 

The sort of session that reminds you why you endure all the nonsense—the early mornings, the walkers, the suspicious aromas, and the ever-present possibility of canine mauling.

But, as is tradition, it couldn’t last.

By 8:30, the boats began to move. Slowly at first, then with increasing determination, like a mechanical migration of floating bathtubs. 

The water started towing, the float misbehaved, and the fish—those fickle creatures—vanished once more into whatever secret society they belong to.

I tried a few more spots on the way back, more out of habit than hope. 

Nothing. Not a bite. Not even a polite nibble. Just silence and the creeping realisation that the moment had passed.

Still, progress had been made. Fish had been caught. Dignity had been... partially maintained.

Next time, I think, I’ll explore somewhere new. There are miles upon miles of canal, each stretch holding the promise of better fishing, fewer walkers, and perhaps slightly less cannabis. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere more peaceful.

Though, knowing my luck, it’ll be full of joggers and swans with attitude.

Such is the angler’s lot.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.3

Now there are, blog readers, days in angling when one feels touched lightly, reverently, almost suspiciously by the invisible hand of piscatorial destiny. Days when the float dips with the punctuality of a Swiss train, the fish queue politely beneath your peg like well-mannered theatre-goers, and even the wind seems to whisper, “Go on then, have another one.”

And then there are days like this.

Days when your workplace IT infrastructure collapses with the quiet dignity of a soggy Rich Tea biscuit, and you find yourself staring into the abyss of a login screen that refuses—point blank—to acknowledge your existence. A screen so indifferent it might as well have sighed audibly and muttered, “Not today, mate.”

Our corporate vessel, once a proud ocean liner of productivity and synergy, currently sits somewhere between “adrift” and “being gently nudged toward relevance by a man in a borrowed kayak.” Systems flicker in and out of life like haunted Christmas lights, while hushed conversations circulate about a benchmarking document yes, a benchmarking document being assembled by myself and two equally weary engineers. A document so vast, so unnecessarily thorough, that it may yet be entered into the annals of history as The Most Expensive PowerPoint Ever Created by People Who’d Rather Be Fishing.

But then—glory be—CATIA returned.

Not in triumph. Not with fanfare. More in the manner of a slightly embarrassed guest who left a party early and has now crept back in through the kitchen pretending nothing happened. Still, it was enough. Enough to convince management that progress was occurring. Enough to convince me that I could make a dignified exit without being chased down the corridor by someone wielding a spreadsheet.

And so, with the urgency of a man escaping both digital despair and impending responsibility, I bundled the gear into the car and set off for that most enchanting of destinations: Tramp Alley.

Now, let us be clear. Tramp Alley is not—nor has it ever been—the sort of place that features in glossy angling magazines accompanied by sepia-toned sunrise photography and poetic captions about “nature’s quiet embrace.” No. Tramp Alley is a canal stretch that looks like it has witnessed several minor crimes, at least one major misunderstanding, and possibly a low-budget science experiment involving eels and regret.

The towpath itself is a rich tapestry of humanity. Dog walkers with dogs that appear to be walking them. Cyclists moving at speeds suggesting either urgency or poor planning. Joggers who look as though they’re being pursued by existential dread. And, of course, the occasional nocturnal philosopher who may or may not be arguing with a traffic cone.

It is, in short, character-building.

But—and this is crucial—there are fish.

Proper fish.

Roach with the sort of shoulders that suggest a disciplined regime of canal-based resistance training. Hybrids that look like they’ve made questionable life choices but are committed to them nonetheless. And the occasional chub—broad, knowing, and faintly judgmental like a retired pub landlord who’s seen everything and approved of very little.

I arrived with purpose. Also with wind. Quite a lot of wind, in fact, which had apparently taken a personal interest in my float control. Undeterred (or perhaps simply stubborn), I assembled the delightfully agricultural overdepth float setup: a 2SSG foam pellet waggler perched optimistically on the surface, with an AA shot anchoring matters somewhere near the Earth’s core.

It is not a refined method.

It is, however, a confident one.

Cast tight to features—overhanging branches, submerged mysteries, and at least one shopping trolley that looked like it had given up on life sometime around 2007—and present bread where fish feel safe and anglers feel mildly concerned about their surroundings.

Hookbait: bread.

Feed: liquidised bread.

Philosophy: “Let’s see what happens.”

A couple of teenagers were already fishing nearby, which was genuinely heartening. They reported missed bites always a comforting sign that fish exist, even if they’re currently laughing at someone else. 

I nodded sagely, as though I too had experienced bites that day, and wandered off to a stretch known for producing decent roach.

I fed several swims with the enthusiasm of a man who believes in outcomes. Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Half an hour passed without so much as a twitch. At one point, a lure angler appeared, as if summoned by the collective disappointment of the canal. He delivered a sobering report: years of struggle, rumours of electrofishing, predators now rarer than a functioning printer in the office. It was, frankly, not the pep talk I needed.

Still, I persisted. Because that’s what we do. We persist. We stare at motionless floats and convince ourselves that any second now something magical will occur.

Two hours later, I had achieved precisely nothing—an accomplishment that mirrored my earlier workday with alarming symmetry.

And so, with the quiet dignity of a man reaching for his “get out of jail” option, I packed down and shuffled back toward the car, pausing only at a last-chance swim known to harbour a mixed bag of opportunists: hybrids, roach, and the odd chub with ambitions.

The bread went out.

Five minutes later—five!—the float gave a confident, almost theatrical bob before vanishing beneath the surface like it had remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.

I struck.

Contact.

At last, something alive, something substantial, something that pulled back with the sort of authority that immediately erases two hours of existential doubt. There were head shakes—serious ones—the kind that make you think, “Ah. Now then. This could be the roach. The roach.”

It was not the roach.

It was a chub.

A perfectly respectable, slightly smug, entirely uninvited chub.

Not the target. Not the dream. But in that moment—after the day I’d had—it might as well have been a personal endorsement from the angling gods themselves.

And you know what?

That would do me.