Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.1

Back out on the big roach canal hunt then, because apparently I don’t learn. The rivers, having spent most of the winter impersonating runaway fire hoses, finally closed in a sulk, leaving me stood in the garage staring at my trotting rods like an abandoned Victorian orphan. Weeks on end they were up, angry, brown, and absolutely uninterested in my dreams of gliding floats and thick-set chub. Every time the level dropped a fraction and hope dared to raise its head, bang more rain, more floodwater, and more footage of fields doing a convincing impression of freshwater aquariums.

Trotting? Not a chance. Smaller streams? Forget it. I’d barely finished tying a stick float rig before the Environment Agency website looked like a graph of my blood pressure during Christmas dinner and the post port and cheese. 

And so, like many anglers, I could have packed it in. Hung the rods up. Pretended I enjoy “other hobbies”. But no. Needs must. And needs, in this case, look suspiciously like turbid Warwickshire canals and a deep-seated refusal to sit indoors being productive.

I’m quite lucky really. There are canals everywhere near me, slithering through the countryside like forgotten shoelaces. Some are five minutes away, others half an hour if the traffic gods smile upon me. Last closed season I stayed fairly local, which sounds sensible and mature until you realise the results were… let’s say inconsistent. 

Yes, I had a PB roach from a short drive away a moment of glory that I will dine out on until at least 2037 but for every success there were long, soul-searching blanks punctuated only by the sound of distant engines and closer digestive activity from dogs.

Usually, I’d be off like a shot the moment narrowboats started moving “in anger”. There’s something about a 70-foot floating shed grinding past your float that tests even the calmest angler. But this year is different. 

This year there is a challenge. And when there’s a challenge, you adapt. Or at least you bring more rods and convince yourself it’s a strategy.

So the main approach will be bread under a float (Drennan discontinued Glow Tip Antenna's no less) , fished with a centrepin, because I enjoy watching things move slowly and pretending it’s all very traditional and skillful. 

There’s something deeply satisfying about a centrepin the gentle spin, the soft purr, the way it makes you feel superior to absolutely nobody. Bread, too, is a wonderful bait. It catches everything, nothing, and sometimes your own expectations all at once.

But because the canals I fish are often the colour of old gravy, I’ll also from time to time try a quivertip rod with, a Cadence Wand, no less, which sounds like something you’d use to summon fish rather than catch them. 

On the end of that will be a humble worm, because if you can’t see your bait, you might as well offer something that looks like it’s alive and vaguely panicking.

In theory, the worm might single out a bigger fish. In practice, it will sit there nobly while I stare at the tip, mentally willing it to move. The quivertip will twitch. Or maybe it won’t. Either way, I’ll convince myself something nearly happened.

Naturally and I say this like it’s perfectly reasonable I’ll also have a sleeper zander rod with me. Because canal zander are brilliant, and because hope springs eternal. 

There is always the possibility that a big, toothy predator will appear out of nowhere and validate the extra effort of carrying yet another rod along a towpath designed in 1793.

Speaking of towpaths, it’s time once again to tread the dog poo-riddled ribbon of despair that runs alongside our nation’s canals. These paths are a minefield. Every step is a moral choice. Is that mud? Is that goose muck? Or is that something deposited by a dog that’s been raised on raw meat and unresolved anger?

You develop a special walk. A sort of cautious, mincing shuffle that says, “I am alert, but I am also resigned.” Your eyes flick between the water, your rods, and the ground like a paranoid meerkat. Somewhere behind you, a cyclist is judging you.

Still, there’s something oddly comforting about it all. The murky water. The graffiti that appears to have been written mid-argument. The sound of a narrowboat approaching just as you’ve finally settled into a swim. You’ll hear it before you see it a low mechanical rumble that sends your float drifting sideways and your optimism into early retirement.

And yet… you wait. You watch. You convince yourself the float lifted half a millimetre. You strike, miss everything, and nod thoughtfully as if that was all part of the plan. You adjust the depth by a fraction, because doing something feels better than admitting the fish have unionised against you.

Then, occasionally, gloriously, it happens. The float slides away or lifts out of the water with purpose. The centrepin spins. The rod bends. And into the net comes a proper canal roach slabby, broad, and utterly unimpressed by your excitement. For a moment, everything makes sense. The floods, the closed rivers, the dog poo, the extra rods, all of it.

So yes, while others wait patiently for June, I’ll be out there. Bread under a float. Worm on a quivertip. Zander rod brooding quietly. Back on the canals, chasing big roach in water that looks like soup, along towpaths that test both balance and faith.

Because this is fishing. And frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now then.

That float definitely moved that time.

Didn’t it?

Late afternoon, the sort of time when optimism goes fishing and reality brings a chair, I found myself watching a float that had all the enthusiasm of a civil servant on a Friday. Earlier, mind you, things had briefly threatened competence a Zander had a go, charged about like it owned the canal, and turned the swim into something resembling a budget white-water course. Naturally, this rendered my carefully laid plans about as useful as a chocolate keepnet. I sat, I waited, I questioned my life choices.

Eventually, the tow died down and with it my patience, so out came the bread—classic, dependable, the angler’s equivalent of “this will definitely work.” I’d seen fish topping here days before, rolling about like they were auditioning for a nature documentary. Today, however, they’d clearly been tipped off. Two hours passed. Not a tremor, not a dimple, not even a courtesy nibble. The float remained as still as a Starmer under questioning.

In a move born of desperation (and mild delusion), I trudged fifteen minutes to another swim, convinced this one would be different. Of course it would. New water, new luck, new me. Half an hour later—BANG the float didn’t just lift a nadger, it attempted orbit. I struck with the confidence of a man who absolutely knew what was on the end.

And yes, I did know. That slow, stubborn, wet-sock resistance… the unmistakable charisma vacuum of a bream. A proper “Sean from Snagged Bro special,” as tradition dictates. Not so much a fight as a prolonged disagreement. Still, I landed it, admired it in the way one admires a tax bill, and pretended this was all part of the plan.

I carried on until the float vanished into the gloom, less from fish activity and more from the sun giving up. A session that promised much, delivered little, and yet somehow still felt like fishing—glorious, baffling, mildly infuriating fishing. On to the next one, where I fully expect the fish to continue their campaign of psychological warfare.

Warwickshire Trout - River Alne Pt.15

It was, I must report with all due ceremony, one of those days that begins with suspicion and ends with smugness. The sort of day that makes you glance skyward and mutter, “You’re up to something,” only to be proven entirely correct within minutes. For only the day before had been, in the finest British vernacular, absolutely pants. Not mildly disappointing. Not a touch inconvenient. No—full-on, elastic-gone, dignity-lost pants. And yet here we were, basking in a meteorological mood swing so violent it could have been narrated by a soap opera voiceover artist.

Sunshine one minute, hailstones the size of ambitious peas the next. A gentle breeze transforming, without so much as a polite warning, into something that would have had small dogs reconsidering their life choices. It was the kind of weather that makes you carry both sunglasses and emotional baggage. Naturally, I took this as a sign that things were aligning beautifully for a spot of fishing. As any seasoned angler knows, terrible logic is the backbone of great optimism.

Before any rods were flourished or heroics attempted, there were errands. Real-life errands. The sort that chip away at your soul while convincing you that you are, in fact, a productive member of society. Chief among them: cleaning my house-proud mum’s oven door. Yes. The oven door. Not the oven. Not the kitchen. The door. A singular pane of greasy defiance that had apparently become the Everest of domestic expectations. I emerged victorious, though spiritually diminished, with the faint scent of industrial cleaner lingering about me like a badge of questionable honour. 

Next, the laptop my faithful, wheezing companion—was delivered into the capable hands of workplace IT, who assured me they would “just run a few updates,” which is corporate code for “we will return this to you unrecognisable and slightly resentful.” and we still don't know when you will be back working. 

Still, with these civic duties completed, I found myself staring down the barrel of something rare and magical: an afternoon entirely my own.

Naturally, I chose to spend it standing in cold water, waving bits of plastic at fish that had absolutely no interest in me.

The destination: the River Alne. A stretch I have persistently fished with all the success of a man trying to win the lottery using vibes. 

I do not know why I return. Perhaps nostalgia. Perhaps stubbornness. Perhaps a deep-seated belief that today will be the day everything changes, despite overwhelming historical evidence to the contrary. Downstream, I once belonged to a delightful little syndicate where trout of respectable size, along with obliging dace and chub, would occasionally grace me with their presence. Up here? Well. Character-building, let’s call it.

The water, I must say, was glorious. Gin clear. The sort of clarity that turns fishing into theatre. You can see everything—the shadows, the flickers, the sudden, heart-stopping lunges when a trout appears from nowhere like an aquatic assassin. It’s addictive, this kind of fishing. Utterly addictive. Like gambling, but with more waterproof trousers.

Then I opened the car door.

Good grief.

The smell. The smell was not merely unpleasant it was an experience. A full-bodied, nose-wrinkling, soul-questioning odour that announced itself with the confidence of a man who knows he has overstayed his welcome. Upstream, a Severn Trent poo processing plant sat quietly, doing whatever it is such places do, which I can only assume involves brewing something unspeakable. Two workers in orange stood in a nearby field, casually existing amidst the olfactory apocalypse. I briefly considered applauding their resilience before deciding I valued my lungs too much.

Undeterred (or perhaps simply not very bright), I pressed on downstream, convincing myself that fresher air and eager fish awaited. The spot looked promising. It always does, doesn’t it? That’s half the problem. Every pool whispers sweet nothings: “Cast here,” it says. “This is the one.” And like a fool in waders, I listen every time.

Two hours followed.

Two long, hopeful, increasingly questionable hours of casting, retrieving, adjusting, and repeating. Not a follow. Not a swirl. Not so much as a mildly interested glance from anything with fins. The river might as well have been a decorative feature in a garden centre. The only life encountered came in the form of the occasional minnow, which appeared less impressed and more confused, as though I had interrupted an important meeting.

There’s a particular kind of silence that settles in during such sessions. Not peaceful silence. 

No. This is the silence of quiet judgement. The river, the trees, the distant sheep they all seem to be watching, collectively agreeing that perhaps this isn’t your day. Or your river. Or, if we’re being honest, your sport.

And yet…

And yet, standing there in the sunlight—because of course the weather had decided to behave itself by then—I couldn’t help but feel rather pleased. 

No fish, no glory, no tales of heroism to bore people with later. Just fresh air, ridiculous conditions, and a gentle reminder that sometimes the point of it all isn’t the catching. 

It’s the being there. The casting. The quiet. The absurd hope that keeps you coming back.

Also, and crucially, the fact that I did not spend the afternoon cleaning anything else.

So yes, a blank. A glorious, aromatic, wind-battered blank. But a fine day nonetheless. And as I trudged back to the car, faintly scented by Eau de Treatment Plant and existential reflection, I knew one thing for certain:

I’ll be back.

Because clearly, I haven’t learned a thing. Still the pint was nice before fishing part 2....

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 !!