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.

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.