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 !!!

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.