Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.145 (Canal Zander)

I rewatched Altered States the other night and was reminded that long before any of us were overthinking a canal float, John C. Lilly was busy climbing into isolation tanks, experimenting with things like LSD and ketamine, and asking his brain what it fancied doing without the inconvenience of reality. Dolphins, tanks, chemicals proper commitment to the idea that consciousness might be more elastic than a length of worn-out pole elastic. And watching it, I couldn’t help thinking: this is just roach fishing taken to its logical extreme.

 Because when you’re after a proper canal two-pounder, you’re not that far off yourself. Sit still long enough, stare hard enough at a motionless float, and eventually something shifts not in the water, but in you. Time stretches, thoughts wander, and you start to suspect the roach are operating on a level you’ve yet to access.

Then the float lifts. Just slightly. Enough.

No tank required. No dolphins either. Just you, the canal, and a brief glimpse into something deeper about two pounds of it, if you’re lucky.

Now getting back on track there are moments in life when a man must confront two unavoidable truths: firstly, that his body is no longer the finely tuned angling machine it once was and my back and knee are still not 100%, and secondly, that sometimes the fish have simply formed a union and voted unanimously against being caught. 

The past few canal sessions had delivered precisely that sort of democratic resistance floats motionless, maggots unmolested, and me sat there like an unpaid extra in a very dull documentary about still water. So, being forcibly removed from the bankside for a few days was, in hindsight, less a tragedy and more a state-sponsored recovery programme for a creaking carcass that had begun to sound like a bag of snapped twigs every time I lifted the landing net.

Of course, the reason for this enforced sabbatical was 16 year old Ben, who required entertaining and looking after whilst the better half and Sam were away gallivanting in Chester with what I can only assume involved excessive chatter, laughter, and absolutely no appreciation for the delicate art of float watching. 

Now, experience has taught me that dragging a youngster along to the canal in the vague hope he’ll share your enthusiasm is a risky strategy. Last time resulted in approximately seven minutes of interest, followed by an hour of existential boredom and in Ben's different mind most likely a critique of why fishing is “basically just sitting.” So this time, I pivoted. Parks, snacks, mild chaos anything but subjecting him to the hypnotic non-event that had become my recent fishing trips.

By the time everyone reconvened for a curry the Saturday evening an event which, incidentally, required far more stamina than any canal session I was already plotting. Because Sunday morning loomed large, and with it, opportunity. The rods practically hummed in anticipation, or possibly that was just me trying to stand up after the aforementioned curry. Either way, the decision was made: back to the towpath, back to familiar territory, back to the scene of previous roach-based encouragement.

The alarm did its duty at 5:30am, but as I peeled myself out of bed and shuffled downstairs, the world outside looked less like promise and more like punishment. A proper hoolie still tearing through, though the sky mockingly was crystal clear. I gave it a long enough stare to convince myself I’d made the effort, muttered the inevitable “not today,” and retreated to the sanctuary of a couple of over-generous pillows. Sensible? Perhaps. Honest? Definitely.

Truth be told, the canals still haven’t got under my skin this close season. I’ve given them a fair crack, but there’s a certain lifelessness about it all at the minute hard to put your finger on, but you know it when you feel it. This morning’s frost won’t have helped either; just another little nudge in the wrong direction when you’re already struggling to muster enthusiasm.

Sunday, then, became what Sundays sometimes ought to be—unhurried. A wander for a bit of fresh air, pale sunshine doing its best to pass as spring, followed by a proper beef dinner that did far more for morale than any blank session could. By the time the plates were cleared and the light began to soften, the itch returned quietly, but persistently.

So the Zander gear was dusted off and readied. No grand expectations, no heroic notions just that familiar pull to be near the water again after work. Because for all the false starts, frosty mornings, and fleeting enthusiasm, the truth remains: it only takes one bite to put everything back into perspective.

And that’s usually reason enough.

 Anyway I set off with the kind of optimism only a close-season angler can muster the delusional belief that today, finally, everything would go exactly to plan. 

Of course, within minutes it became clear that the only thing going exactly to plan was the local dog population’s coordinated effort to carpet the entire stretch in what can only be described as tactical deposits. It wasn’t a path, it was an assault course. 

A brown minefield. One wrong step and you’re carrying eau de Labrador all the way home. Still, with the grace of a bomb disposal expert and the foresight of a man armed with pink marker paint, I negotiated the worst of it and lived to cast another day.

Now, this particular bit of cover and I use the word “cover” loosely, because it’s about as deep as a puddle in a car park has always intrigued me.

 It’s barely a couple of feet deep, yet the Zander seem to treat it like a five-star retreat. Why? No idea. Perhaps they enjoy the thrill. Perhaps they’re just showing off. 

Either way, last season it produced a 6 and a 7, which in angling terms is enough evidence to convince you it’s basically the Amazon. So naturally, I was back, creeping along like a hopeful burglar, laying traps.

Ten minutes. That’s all it took. Ten minutes of smug self-satisfaction before the right-hand float suddenly sprang into life like it had seen a ghost. Off it went, darting under the cover with purpose. I tightened into the circle hook, felt that glorious resistance… and then chaos. 

The fish bolted right like it had remembered an urgent appointment, the rod finally hooped over and ping. Gone. Just a swirl, a disturbance, and me stood there blinking like I’d just been mugged by a fish. “Damn it,” I muttered, in the understated way of a man absolutely fuming inside.

Undeterred (translation: stubborn beyond reason), I got the bait back out. And apparently, the culprit hadn’t read the “once bitten, twice shy” handbook, because within five minutes the left float did exactly the same dance. This time I was ready. Tightened in, rod bends, and yes — we’re attached. A proper scrap ensued, none of this polite nibbling nonsense. After a spirited tussle and a few muttered negotiations, a Zander slid into the net. Not a monster, no, but in that moment it might as well have been a record-breaker. A blank saver. A morale booster. A fish that said, “Alright, you’re not completely useless.”

The plan had only ever been a couple of hours, and to be honest, the conditions weren’t exactly rolling out a red carpet. A bit of chop on the water, some tow dragging everything sideways, and enough floating debris to start a small island forming around my line. It was less “precision fishing” and more “ongoing battle with nature.” I worked my way down the stretch, probing each bit of sparse cover, but aside from the earlier excitement, it all went a bit quiet. No more takes, no more drama  just me, the wind, and the ever-present threat of stepping in something regrettable.

And that was that. Rods packed away, boots (miraculously) still clean, and the fishing itch well and truly scratched. No monsters, no heroics, but a tale to tell and dignity mostly intact  which, given the circumstances, feels like a win.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.6

There are days, rare as a perfectly hooked tench in a gin-clear margin, when the alarm clock is silenced not by necessity but by indulgence. A Tuesday, no less. A day that ordinarily hums along unnoticed, filed away between the reluctant grind of Monday and the distant promise of Friday. Yet here it was, laid out like a well-trodden towpath under a forgiving sky mine to squander, mine to savour. And squander it I nearly did, though not without the usual negotiations with bones and sinew that seem, of late, to have developed opinions of their own.

The previous evening had been one of those defiant affairs the kind where common sense is politely ignored in favour of rhythm, nostalgia, and a stubborn refusal to concede to the creeping frailties of age. The 808 State acid house gig had loomed as a question mark rather than a certainty. My back, much like Nic’s from Avon Angling, had been issuing stern warnings all week. 

There is a particular tone to that kind of pain not sharp, not urgent, but insistent, like a bailiff tapping at the door. Still, fortified by a couple of rum and cokes and a mindset that could best be described as wilfully optimistic, I found myself there, upright, mobile, and for a few fleeting hours, entirely unconcerned with tomorrow’s consequences.

Tomorrow, of course, arrived.

The knee, never one to be outdone in these matters, had its say early doors. There’s a peculiar irritation in fluid build-up around a joint not agony, not even pain in the traditional sense, but a dull, swollen protest that makes every step feel like a negotiation. Ice helped, as it always does, though it carries with it the quiet admission that things are not quite as they once were. Still, plans had been made. Snitterfield Reservoir had been pencilled in, crucians the intended quarry, and for a brief moment the idea held together.

But fishing, like life, has a way of adjusting itself to the weakest link in the chain. Nic’s back had worsened overnight, tipping the scales decisively toward postponement. There’s no heroism in forcing these things not anymore. Experience teaches you that the fish will wait, but injuries, once aggravated, tend to linger like unwelcome guests. So we shelved it. Another day, another attempt.

Which left me, mid-morning, with that curious mixture of freedom and restlessness that only an unexpected change of plan can bring. After a lie-in that felt both deserved and slightly indulgent, I turned my thoughts to a spot Neil from the garage had mentioned one of those whispered recommendations, delivered with the kind of confidence that suggests either hidden brilliance or mild exaggeration. “Full of fish,” he’d said. “Fish the oxygenated swim bites all day.”

Well, that was enough for me.

Arrival came just after eleven, the sun already working its quiet magic. T-shirt weather proper t-shirt weather the sort that encourages optimism before a single cast has been made. The swim itself was exactly as described: shallow, barely two and a half feet in places, with a modest inlet offering perhaps three metres of purposeful flow before surrendering to stillness. It had all the hallmarks of a productive spot — oxygen, movement, structure. The kind of place where fish should, by all rights, queue politely to be caught.

I set up with a simplicity born of experience. Maggots for the float, a bit of sloppy groundbait to encourage interest, and a sleeper rod positioned with quiet hope a smelt resting beneath the surface, waiting to tempt a passing zander. Bread sat in reserve, a backup plan rather than a primary tactic. It all felt right. It all looked right.

And yet, for the first hour, it was nothing short of a masterclass in inactivity.

There is a particular kind of frustration reserved for waters that look perfect but refuse to deliver. It gnaws at you, quietly at first, then with increasing insistence. You begin to question everything depth, presentation, feeding pattern even the very presence of fish. Meanwhile, the world continues around you. The towpath, invigorated by the sunshine, had become a thoroughfare. Walkers, cyclists, the casually curious — all drawn to the water, and inevitably, to the angler beside it.

“Caught anything?”

At first, it’s a harmless enough enquiry. By the tenth iteration, it becomes something else entirely.

The zander rod remained motionless, its stillness almost mocking in its certainty. I repositioned it once, twice, searching for that elusive line where predator meets opportunity. Nothing. Not even a tremor.

It was only when I shifted my attention — and my float— to the far side of the swim that things began, tentatively, to stir. A smaller inlet, less obvious, but still pushing a modest current into the main body. Sometimes it’s these overlooked details that hold the key. A trickle of maggots, introduced sparingly, began to draw a response. The float dipped. Then again.

At last, some life.

The fish, however, were not the stuff of dreams. Roach, small and obliging, very much on the lower end of the size spectrum. Zander snacks, if anything. Still, bites are bites, and after a blank spell, even the smallest fish carries a certain satisfaction. 

For a brief window, it felt as though things might build that the swim might come alive in the way Neil had promised.

But as quickly as it began, it faded.

The bites dried up, the water returned to its earlier indifference, and the sun now fully committed to its role began to assert itself. Warmth spread, not just across the landscape but through the bones. It was, undeniably, a lovely day.

And that, perhaps, was the turning point.

There comes a moment, occasionally, when the act of fishing becomes secondary to everything else. When the discomfort of a complaining back, the repetition of unanswered questions, and the stubborn refusal of fish to cooperate all align to nudge you gently but firmly in another direction. I could feel it then. That quiet realisation that I was no longer truly invested in the outcome.

My back, ever the opportunist, chose that moment to reintroduce itself. Not sharply, not dramatically — just a dull, persistent ache that suggested it had been patient long enough.

And so, with no great ceremony, I made the decision.

Pack up. Move on.

There’s no shame in it. No sense of defeat. If anything, there’s a peculiar kind of satisfaction in recognising when enough is enough. The gear was stowed, the swim left as it was found, and the promise of something altogether different began to take shape.

A pint. A proper pint. Followed, ideally, by something substantial enough to qualify as lunch.

The local pub obliged, as they so often do. There’s a comfort in those places — a familiarity that requires no effort. The first sip, cool and steady, washed away the lingering frustrations of the morning. Food followed, hearty and unpretentious, the kind that settles both stomach and spirit in equal measure.

From there, the day found a new rhythm.

A short trip into Stratford, a wander through the familiar haunts, and the practicalities of tomorrow began to take precedence. Meat for the BBQ. Charcoal. The quiet anticipation of another warm day, perhaps even warmer whispers of 23 degrees hanging in the air like a promise.

Work looms, as it always does, but days like this — imperfect, meandering, quietly satisfying — serve as a reminder that not every outing needs to be measured in fish landed or targets achieved. Sometimes, it’s enough to simply be there. To try, to adapt, to accept, and ultimately, to enjoy whatever the day chooses to offer.

And if that happens to include a pint and a decent lunch, well… there are worse ways to spend a Tuesday. (The diet starts soon, honest !!)

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.