Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.144 (Canal Perch and Zander)

There are moments in life when everything feels finely balanced, delicately poised like a well-shotted waggler on a calm canal… and then, without warning, someone boots the rod rest, knocks your tea over, and sets fire to the landing net. Last Thursday, somewhere between a mid-morning brew and a half-hearted attempt at productivity in the automotive design studio, that exact feeling descended upon us except instead of fire, it was IT. Which, in many ways, is worse.

It began innocently enough. A little pop-up. Bottom right corner. The digital equivalent of a polite cough before chaos. “Attempting to access IP address…” it said, or something equally sinister and vaguely unhelpful. Being seasoned professionals, we collectively shrugged and carried on, because if you reacted to every strange IT message, you'd never get anything done. Besides, the organisation was “blocking it,” which sounded reassuring in the same way a garden fence reassures you about an approaching rhinoceros.

By late afternoon, however, the studio had begun to unravel like a cheap spool of line under pressure. Systems started dropping out one by one. Drives vanished. Applications wheezed their last. Wi-Fi went funny. The general mood shifted from mild curiosity to that quiet, creeping dread normally reserved for when you realise you've left the landing net in the garage.

Friday brought hope, or at least the illusion of it. There were “workarounds” that marvellous IT phrase which translates roughly to “this might function if you don’t breathe on it.” I clung onto my CATIA licence like a carp angler grips his last boilie during a blank session, managing to work locally and avoid the increasingly haunted Indian network. Forty-plus hours ticked off by lunchtime, I clocked out feeling smug and slightly heroic, convinced the tech wizards would wave their digital wands over the weekend and restore order, despite the main IT guy gone AWOL.

Blog readers they did not.

Monday arrived like a damp bivvy morning grey, disappointing, and smelling faintly of something gone wrong. The systems were not just broken; they were caput. Not resting. Not updating. Not “experiencing issues.” Properly, gloriously dead. The design studio had all the functionality of a chocolate teapot. By midday, I’d been reassigned to “A2MAC1 benchmarking duties,” which is a polite way of saying “find something to do that doesn’t involve working systems.”

And then came the bombshell. IT, those brave custodians of cables and confusion, admitted defeat. “Not anytime soon,” they said. “See you next Tuesday.” Next Tuesday. As if we were discussing a casual pint rather than my entire working week evaporating like mist off a canal at sunrise. As a jobber on an hourly rate, this wasn’t a quirky inconvenience it was financial vandalism. A forced holiday, unrequested and entirely unpaid. The sort of surprise nobody enjoys.

Naturally, I approached Tuesday with a sense of purpose. By which I mean I did absolutely nothing. A lie-in, a leisurely clean of the Jimny, a bit of rod sorting the kind of day that feels productive until you realise you’ve achieved nothing of actual consequence. Still, there are worse ways to spend time than tinkering with fishing gear and pretending you’re preparing for greatness.

Sam, meanwhile, had a rare day off school with a dodgy tummy and a level of honesty that cut through the morning like a sharp hooklink. “Don’t want to poo myself in school, Daddy,” he declared. “I’d be known as the kid who sh*t himself.” LANGUAGE !! A fair point, delivered with the clarity of someone who understands the brutal social economy of the playground. Some reputations, once earned, are impossible to shake.

Just as I began to contemplate a proper fishing session the next day to salvage the week, fate intervened once more. A message from 16 year old Ben’s special needs hub in Stratford-Upon-Avon arrived the night before: boiler issues. Closed. No warmth, no learning, no peace. Plans shifted again. Fishing window reduced to a couple of hours a frantic dash rather than a leisurely campaign.

Still, a couple of hours is better than none, and with a tip-off from Buffalo Si's mate Security Neil about a local perch spot, I was off. The venue was an inlet from a lock above, a place where the water moved just enough to make things interesting. The sort of swim that whispers promise while simultaneously reminding you that gongoozlers, and the ever-present dog poo bag waving brigade are never far away.

Thankfully, there’s always a way. A bit of manoeuvring over the rather high lock paddles and I found myself tucked away from the main towpath, in a spot that felt almost… peaceful. The flow was perfect either tight to the wall or a metre out where it behaved like a miniature river. A proper little gem.

Out went the perch bobber, maggots and worms from my own wormery doing their duty like loyal soldiers. Alongside it, a sleeper rod for zander, armed with a roach deadbait and quiet optimism. The kind of setup that says, “I’m here for anything that fancies a nibble.”

And nibble they did.

Perch came first six or seven of them. Not monsters, but spirited little fighters with that trademark aggression that makes them such a joy. Each one a reminder that fishing doesn’t need to be monumental to be meaningful. Sometimes, it’s just about the rhythm the cast, the drift, the strike.

Then, about an hour in, the sleeper rod came alive.

Now, a zander doesn’t do things politely at this time of year. There’s no gentle enquiry, no tentative nibble. It’s a proper take, followed by a scrap that feels far bigger than the fish itself. This one was no exception. All fins, fury, and indignation, it fought like it had somewhere important to be and I was very much in the way.

Eventually, though, persistence wins. Into the net it came a cracking fish. Five pounds on the nose, full of spawn, and absolutely brimming with attitude. The kind of capture that makes the whole chaotic week fade into the background. Even the obligatory selfie felt like a victory rather than a chore, despite the fish’s clear disapproval.

By nine, the sun crept out and, as it so often does, switched the feeding off like someone flicking a light. Bites dried up. The moment passed. Time to pack up.

Back home, it was straight into Dad mode taking Ben out for what can only be described as a “liquid lunch” in Spoons and a pizza for him while his mum handled dinner lady duties. Sitting there, pint in hand, reflecting on a week that had veered wildly from digital disaster to unexpected angling success, I couldn’t help but think… I could get used to this.

Not the IT collapse, mind you. But the fishing. Definitely the fishing.

Roll on retirement !!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.143 (Canal Zander)

There are moments in angling that refuse to fade, etched into the mind with a clarity that rivals the sharpest winter dawn. This was one of those sessions. 2 years ago almost to the day. 

Now it began, as many good tales do, with a message urgent, insistent, and brimming with promise. Buffalo Si, out on the cut and into the fish, had stumbled upon something special. 

Zander, and not just the odd wanderer, but a proper shoal feeding, willing, and there for the taking. “Get yourself here now,” he’d said. And when a man like that calls with his eyes and ears to these towpaths, you don’t dawdle.

The canal, that quiet ribbon of water we so often underestimate, had come alive. I arrived with that blend of excitement and disbelief half expecting it to have all been a fleeting dream. But it wasn’t. The fish were there, just as promised. It didn’t take long before the first take came, that distinct, unmistakable zander bite indicated on the float finding the deadbait. 

A short scrap later and a solid six-pounder lay in the net, all glassy eyes and sharp intent. Another followed, then one nudging close to seven pounds a proper canal fish by any measure. There’s a certain satisfaction in such moments, not just in the catching, but in being there when everything aligns.

Those fish stayed with me. Not just their size or number, but the way the session unfolded unplanned, generous, shared. It’s the sort of angling that reminds you why you keep going back, why you endure the blanks and the bitter winds. And so, inevitably, the thought crept in during the following days: were they still there?

Anyway work finished, as it always does, with that gentle pull toward the water. The canal lay conveniently on the route home, almost inviting a detour. This time it would be a shorter affair, a dipping of the toe rather than a full immersion. Dusk would be settling in, that magical hour when the world softens and predators stir. If ever there was a chance to winkle one out, this was it.

The walk to the swim very nearly turned into an audition for “Britain’s Got Rabies” when, a couple of hundred yards off, a dog the size of a small hatchback locked eyes on me and decided my fishing rods were clearly weapons of mass biscuit destruction. Now, I’ve been barked at before, but this lad went off like I’d personally cancelled Christmas. 

The owners did that thing where they say “he’s fine” while holding on like they’re mooring a boat in a hurricane. “He just doesn’t like fishing rods,” they said. Brilliant. Of all the things for a towpath dog to dislike, he’s chosen the one thing I’m carrying that looks like a set of radio aerials. Anyway, once he’d finished his performance and realised I wasn’t invading Normandy, peace was restored and I carried on, only mildly traumatised and smelling faintly of fear.

With no boats moored towpath side I had a lovely run of cover to explore, so out went the overdepth float rods  smelt on one, roach on the other  like a man hedging his bets in a very slow, very wet casino. The banker swim got a full half hour, which in my world is basically a long-term relationship, but not a sign. 

So I started leapfrogging down the cover like a slightly overweight heron with a tackle addiction. Fourth swim finally a bite! I struck into absolutely nothing, which is always a lovely emotional rollercoaster. That could well have been my only chance, and the canal went back to being about as lively as a librarian’s tea party.

I tried a flyer beyond the bridge against some thick cover biteless. By now the light was dropping, the towpath was busy, and the nearby train line sounded like the 8:15 to Everywhere was running every three minutes. I wasn’t really enjoying it if I’m honest; it felt like fishing in the middle of a transport documentary. 

So, in true last-gasp fashion, I went back to the swim where I’d had that earlier bite and flung the smelt rod out. The float didn’t even settle properly which usually means either you’ve made a mess of the cast or something with fins has just mugged you on the drop. I gave it a little nudge and the float set off like it had remembered it left the oven on.

This time, as it headed for the cover, I leaned into the circle hook and there it was fish on, and unmistakably a Zander. It didn’t put up the full angry crocodile routine they sometimes do, but I wasn’t about to complain. Soon enough it was in the net and I may or may not have said “A fish! A fish! A fish!” out loud like a man who hasn’t seen one in several years. 

Not the biggest Zander in the world, but at that point it might as well have been a river monster. Blank avoided, dignity partially restored, and suddenly the dog, the trains, and the circus towpath all felt worth it. Funny how one fish can turn a grumble into a great evening fishing’s a strange game like that.

Eventually, practicality called time. Rods were packed away, boots shuffled back toward the car, and thoughts turned from fish to food. There’s a rhythm to these evenings effort followed by reward, even if the reward isn’t piscatorial. Tonight it would be curry, good company, and something decent in a glass.

The Craftsman provided the latter, as it often does. A place of many taps and varied temptations, but one in particular stood out. VAULT CITY’s DDF MARS DOUBLE DEEP FRIED IMPERIAL STOUT an unapologetic mouthful in both name and nature. 

At 15.5%, it demanded respect before the first sip was even taken. And yet, it delivered not with brute force, but with surprising finesse. Rich, warming, with that almost rum-cask character lingering at the edges it was a drink to savour rather than sup. Not cloying, not overly sweet, but balanced in a way that made you pause and appreciate it.

Sitting there, 1/3 pint in hand, the evening seemed to settle into place. The earlier question were the zander there? felt less pressing now. Perhaps they were, perhaps they weren’t. Fishing, after all, isn’t always about certainty. It’s about the pursuit, the possibility, the stories that emerge whether the nets are wet or dry.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.142 (Canal Zander)

There are few acts in modern life more heroic, more ambitious, and ultimately more fragile than a man deciding with absolute conviction that he is going fishing early in the morning. Not just any morning either, but a Saturday. A sacred morning. A morning traditionally reserved for sleeping like a log that’s recently been hit over the head. And yet, there I was, awake before the birds had even finished negotiating whether they could be bothered, gear loaded in the car like I was embarking on some grand expedition, and the kettle roaring into life with all the promise of a new beginning.

Now, it’s at this exact point kettle on, boots half-laced, mind brimming with imagined catches that reality likes to quietly tap you on the shoulder and whisper, “You don’t actually have to do this, you know.” It’s never loud. Never dramatic. Just a gentle suggestion. A seed planted. And before you know it, you’re standing there, staring at the kettle like it’s personally wronged you, questioning everything. The canal will be cold. The fish will be moody. Your hands will resemble frozen sausages. Meanwhile, upstairs, your bed sits in serene, judgment-free silence, radiating warmth like a loyal old friend who’s never once let you down.

The kettle clicked off. That was the turning point. Not a bang, not a crash just a quiet, decisive “nope.” The deadbaits, which moments earlier had been symbols of optimism, were solemnly returned to the freezer like soldiers dismissed before battle. And with all the grace of a man who absolutely intended to go fishing five minutes ago, I turned on my heel and went straight back to bed. A tactical withdrawal. A strategic regroup. A complete surrender to comfort. I slept like a champion.

Now, I’d love to say this was a rare lapse in discipline, but that would be a lie of heroic proportions. Until the clocks change, I operate on what can only be described as a seasonal malfunction. The enthusiasm is there oh, it’s there in abundance but it’s buried under layers of frost, darkness, and a deep-rooted suspicion that being horizontal is simply the better option. Come lighter evenings, I’m a different man. A motivated man. A man who actually follows through. But in late winter? I’m essentially negotiating with myself on an hourly basis.

Redemption, however, came in the form of an afternoon trip to Stratford-Upon-Avon a place that feels like it was specifically designed to make you forget you bottled a fishing session. Sam was there on his bike, full of energy and clearly unaware of the psychological battles that had already been fought and lost that morning. The rabble were in attendance too, bringing with them the usual blend of noise, chaos, and inexplicable stick-collecting. It was all very wholesome, very pleasant, and just the right amount of distracting.

Naturally, this wholesome experience was elevated to near perfection with a visit to the Dirty Duck, where a pint was consumed with the kind of satisfaction normally reserved for people who’ve actually achieved something. It didn’t matter. In that moment, I felt like a winner. A well-rested, slightly fraudulent winner, but a winner nonetheless.

Sunday morning, though Sunday was different. Sunday had purpose. Sunday had grit. Sunday had frost so thick it looked like the fields had been dusted with icing sugar by an overenthusiastic baker. It was properly cold. The sort of cold that sneaks into your bones and sets up camp. Naturally, this is exactly the sort of weather that inspires a man to go and stand next to water for several hours.

I headed to a nearby stretch about fifteen minutes away known for occasionally producing a big fish. And when I say “occasionally,” I mean just enough to keep hope alive while simultaneously destroying your confidence over time. A classic relationship, really.

The plan was simple: rove about, cover water, find fish. A smelt on one rod, a roach on the other a dynamic duo of optimism. The zander in this stretch have a distinct black tinge to them, which gives them a slightly villainous appearance, like they’ve been plotting something. Not that I saw any. But I know they’re there. Watching. Judging.

An hour in the first swim a swim that has, in the past, been generous produced absolutely nothing. Not even a courtesy nibble. It was the aquatic equivalent of being ignored in a conversation. The only real entertainment came from a group of lambs in the field opposite, who were bouncing around with reckless joy, completely oblivious to the fact that I was slowly losing the will to feel my fingers. Honestly, they were having a better session than me.

And so, the roving began in earnest. Five swims. Five fresh starts. Five opportunities to turn things around. Each one approached with renewed enthusiasm and left with slightly less dignity than the last. The water was crystal clear  the kind of clarity that makes fish behave like paranoid conspiracy theorists. Every movement, every shadow, every slightly suspicious-looking human with a landing net  all immediately noted and avoided.

What I needed was a boat. Just one. A nice, inconsiderate boat to come chugging through, stirring everything up, giving me half a chance. I waited. I listened. I even glanced into the distance like a man expecting reinforcements. Nothing. Not a ripple. It was as if the entire canal network had collectively agreed to ruin my day.

There was, however, a moment  a brief, electrifying moment when the float snapped from flat to vertical like it had just remembered an urgent appointment. Heart racing, eyes locked, brain firing on all cylinders. 

This was it. The bite. The moment. The story. Except… no. Nothing. It just… stopped. Like a joke with no punchline. I was left staring at it, trying to process what had just happened, like a man who’s just waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at him.

They’ve been dredging along that stretch too, which has transformed one of the nicest swims known affectionately as Bream Bay into something resembling a construction site. 

Piles of silt dumped on the side, the whole place looking like it’s been through a rough breakup. It’s still fishable, technically, but it’s lost a bit of its soul. You can tell.

Four and a half hours later, the result was undeniable: a blank. A proper, honest, can’t-even-blame-the-moon-phase blank. 

The kind that strips things back and reminds you exactly what this pastime is all about prolonged optimism followed by quiet disappointment.

The frustrating part? The conditions were absolutely perfect for float fishing for smaller species. Calm water. 

Hardly any movement. The sort of scenario where you could probably catch something… anything… just to avoid total humiliation. Naturally, I had committed fully to not doing that.

The walk back to the car was a slow one. Not dramatic. Not tragic. Just… reflective. 

The gear seemed heavier, the cold a bit sharper, and my internal commentary had shifted firmly into sarcasm. 

Still, there’s always a safety net in these situations. A reliable, comforting, slightly frothy safety net.

The pub.

A pint of Theakston’s Old Peculiar was secured, and let me tell you it tasted like success. Not actual success, obviously. More like emotional compensation. 

But at that point, I was more than willing to accept it. And now here we are. Gear still in the car. Hope, somehow, still intact. The itch returning, as it always does. 

Because despite everything the blanks, the cold, the self-inflicted misery there’s always that tiny voice saying, “Next time.”

So, after work, I’ll head back out. Evening this time. Different light. Different mood. Same questionable decision-making. Will I catch a zander? Possibly. Probably not. But that’s never really the point, is it?

Next time, a different stretch.

Definitely.

Almost certainly.

Unless the bed gets involved again. Anyway if you want to entertainment watch this !!!