Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.19

Working from home does have its perks. Whilst some people spend their lunch breaks discussing quarterly projections and key performance indicators, I find myself pondering far more important matters, such as whether the charcoal snake on the Weber kettle is progressing nicely and if the pork shoulder is receiving sufficient hickory encouragement. The kids, despite looking like they have seen less meat in their lives than you’d find on a butcher's pencil, appear to have adopted the dietary habits of escaped velociraptors, and are currently consuming protein at a rate usually associated with industrial rendering facilities.

Fortunately, pork remains one of the few things in modern Britain that doesn't require a second mortgage or the signing away of an unneeded kidney. By half past ten, the snake method was lit, the kettle had settled into a contented 120-130 degrees of pure smokey optimism, and my personal confidence levels were considerably higher than they normally are whilst fishing.

The beauty of the snake method is its utter simplicity. Lay it out correctly, avoid the temptation to poke it like a bored child with a stick, and the kettle just gets on with things. Four or five hours in, once the bark had formed and was looking suitably magnificent resembling a meteor that had plummeted from orbit and landed directly in a hickory plantation the foil went on. 

By dinner time, the shoulder was pulling apart like warm butter and disappearing almost as quickly as I could shred it. The domestic carnivores descended with forks drawn, making noises that would have alarmed a seasoned zoologist. Within fifteen minutes, the 2.5kg joint looked like it had been picked clean by piranhas with an attitude problem. Job's a good'un.

With the family pack temporarily subdued and entering a profound, meat-induced coma on the sofa, it was time for a dusk sortie to Tramp Alley on the South Stratford Canal. Regular readers of this parish will know this particular stretch has produced some respectable roach and hybrids over the years, although whether the fish themselves are respectable is another matter entirely. 

Most of them look like they’ve survived a few rounds in a blender or have spent their lives dodging shopping trolleys and discarded lager cans. This evening, however, I fancied a complete change of scenery and a holiday from the usual maggot-drowning routine.

The pint of reds was left securely in the garage to contemplate their life choices, in favour of an all-out bread offensive. I had bread on the hook, liquidised bread as feed, and enough assorted bakery products packed into my car to cause serious alarm to a qualified nutritionist. 

Alongside the traditional lift float, which usually offers a masterclass in watching plastic paint dry, I also decided to deploy the sleeper rod. It featured what can best be described as a scaled-down zander rig designed by an individual with unrestricted access to a tackle box, a surplus of free time, and highly questionable judgement.

The centerpiece of this contraption was a crude but very effective Guru foam pellet waggler. For the uninitiated, this thing sits entirely flat on the surface like a fluorescent orange kayak, anchored down by a substantial SSG shot that looks like a small cannonball. It looks crude, and if we're being completely honest with each other, it is remarkably crude. It possesses all the aerodynamic finesse of a flying house brick, but it works surprisingly well. 

The beauty of the arrangement is that it can sit quietly in the margins doing its own thing, while my primary attention is focused entirely elsewhere. Bites are not exactly subtle; they are blindingly easy to spot, usually involving the yellow kayak vanishing violently into the abyss. Fishing tight to the far-bank brambles often reveals decent fish lurking exactly where sensible anglers, or those who value their expensive carbon tips, would expect them to be.

The plan was straightforward enough, formulated with the kind of tactical precision usually reserved for failed military coups. Fish the main canal track with the lift float, plaster the far cover with the sleeper rod, and hope that somewhere between the two, the local fish population had received the invitation and fancied a carbohydrate blow-out. 

Furthermore, rather than dragging my weary carcass over half a mile down the towpath to my usual, well-trodden peg, I made the executive decision to fish an entirely untried area situated halfway between the hybrid hotspot and the roach spot. 

It’s a stretch running along the back of a sprawling industrial estate. The romance of the British countryside was entirely absent, but out of hours, it possesses one magnificent feature: I can literally park the car directly behind my peg. I’d spotted some fish showing here one morning at dawn whilst pretending to look busy, so the seed of hope had been planted. Were the fish forthcoming?

I squeezed myself between a rusted palisade fence and a particularly aggressive clump of stinging nettles, dropped the sleeper rod right under the overhanging brambles of the far bank, and gently lowered the lift float into the track. 

The industrial estate fell silent, save for the distant hum of an extractor fan and the occasional rustle of a rat navigating a discarded crisp packet. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The bread mash was introduced, forming a ghostly white cloud in the murky canal water that screamed 'free tea' to anything with scales.

Suddenly, the sleeper rod’s pellet waggler after the second swim didn't just twitch; it bobbed twice and then positively bolted sideways, tearing out towards the middle of the cut like a tiny, orange torpedo. I lunged forward, nearly embedding my knee into a discarded spark plug, and struck into something that immediately felt like a wet sack of cement with fins.

It wasn't a world-breaker, but in the tight confines of the South Stratford, a small angry carp trying to wedge itself under a submerged supermarket basket feels like a marlin. The little rod doubled over, the drag gave some protest, reluctant protest, and after a rather epic battle on 4.5lb line and having to steer it away from the nearside metal piling, a wonderfully thick-set, common carp slid over the drawstring of the net. It was fat, completely unbothered by the proximity of a sheet-metal factory, and had completely inhaled the chunk of bread.

Before I could even unhook the brute, the lift float on the match rod gave a classic, heart-stopping wobble, rose entirely out of the water, and lay flat on the surface. 

I dropped the net, grabbed the other handle, and lifted into a solid, thumping resistance. 

This wasn't a hybrid; it was the steady, dignified wet lettuce fight of a small skimmer. 

It came to the top, flashing those lovely silvery flanks in the fading twilight a pristine fish, that looked like it belonged in a Victorian angling print rather than a ditch behind a logistics warehouse. 

Then it went proper dead and no matter what I did I just couldn't get the fish feeding again.

I moved swims, nada, there was fish activity heading in to dusk and the odd nudge on both floats, but the dregs of the liquidised bread floating on the surface showed the culprits, yeap small fry with eyes bigger than their bellies.  When I couldn't see my floats it was time for the off. Still the positives I survived fishing tramp alley in to dusk and a nice carp that gave a great fight on light gear. 3 hours though

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.18

Now every angler has a favourite fishing spot. Some choose vast reservoirs. Others prefer commercial fisheries and mud muddles however during the close season(s) I have spent many a happy hour beside the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal, quietly contemplating life, watching the float, and occasionally remembering that I am actually supposed to be catching fish. What I sometimes forget is that the canal I enjoy so much (well apart from the dog poo), very nearly vanished before I even born.

You see the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal was originally completed in the early nineteenth century, providing an important transport route between Birmingham and the Warwickshire countryside. 

For decades it carried coal, timber, agricultural produce and all manner of goods. Working boats moved steadily through the locks, and the canal became an important part of the region's industrial and agricultural life.

Like many British canals, however, its fortunes declined with the arrival of the railways and later the motor car. Commercial traffic gradually disappeared, maintenance budgets shrank, and sections of the waterway fell into disrepair. 

By the middle of the twentieth century, the southern section of the canal looked less like a navigation and more like an elongated rubbish tip.

The situation became particularly serious in 1948 when the Great Western Railway sought to close the canal permanently. 

In a remarkable episode that has since become legendary among waterways enthusiasts, protesters and canoers challenged the closure plans. Armed with a recently purchased toll ticket, they demonstrated that the public still possessed a statutory right of navigation. 

It was a small piece of paper that helped prevent the canal from disappearing forever. For the next decade, uncertainty continued to hang over the waterway. 

Locks deteriorated, vegetation spread unchecked, and many people assumed that closure was only a matter of time. Had events taken a slightly different course, the canal might have been filled in altogether, leaving future generations with little more than photographs and memories.

Then came the turning point.

In 1959, the National Trust stepped in and acquired the derelict fifteen-mile southern section. Responsibility for the restoration was placed in the capable hands of canal enthusiast David Hutchings, whose determination would become one of the defining stories of the British waterways movement.

What followed was nothing short of extraordinary. Working with an incredibly limited budget, Hutchings pioneered the large-scale use of volunteers. Weekend after weekend, ordinary people arrived armed with shovels, wheelbarrows and enthusiasm. 

They were joined by personnel from the Army and RAF, along with prisoners from Winson Green Prison. Together they tackled a task that many experts believed impossible.

The figures remain astonishing. More than 17,000 tons of rubbish and debris were removed from the canal. Thirty-six neglected locks required extensive repair. Collapsed structures had to be rebuilt. Overgrown sections had to be cleared. What had been written off as a lost cause slowly began to resemble a functioning waterway once again.

Even the lock gates became part of the restoration legend. Traditional gates were expected to cost far more than the project could afford. Instead, a local firm in Wootton Wawen was commissioned to build them at a fraction of the anticipated price. It was practical, community-minded thinking of exactly the kind that kept the restoration alive.

As the years passed, progress accelerated. More volunteers joined the effort. Public support grew. What had begun as an ambitious rescue mission was becoming a national success story.

Then came the great day.

On 11 July 1964, with the restoration complete and navigation fully restored, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother officially reopened the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal. Around 20,000 spectators gathered to witness the occasion. It was a moment of triumph not only for the canal itself but also for everyone who had devoted countless hours to saving it.

The reopening sent a powerful message across Britain. It demonstrated that canals were not obsolete relics destined for burial beneath roads and housing estates. They were valuable pieces of heritage that could be restored and enjoyed by future generations. The success of Stratford-upon-Avon became one of the major inspirations behind the modern canal preservation movement.

Eight years later, in 1972, Mick entered the world.

This timing is important.

Had the restoration failed, I might have grown up never knowing the canal existed. Instead of spending his later years pursuing roach, zander and the occasional fish of highly questionable size, I might been  found wandering around a housing estate wondering why roads had such peculiar curves and why local place names contained references to locks that no longer existed.

Fortunately, the volunteers had already done the hard work.

As I grew up, the canal remained exactly where it was supposed to be: winding peacefully through the Warwickshire countryside, carrying boats rather than weeds, attracting visitors rather than demolition plans. By the time stewardship eventually passed to British Waterways and later the Canal & River Trust, the waterway had become firmly established as one of Britain's restoration success stories.

So today, when I settle into a favourite fishing position and confidently predict that "they'll start feeding any minute now," I am benefiting from thousands of hours of volunteer labour performed years before I was born. Every cast owes something to the people who dug out the rubbish, repaired the locks and refused to accept that the canal's story was over.

So while most anglers spend their time thanking lucky floats, favourite rods or secret bait recipes, I will raise raise a respectful cup of tea to David Hutchings, all those volunteers, the National Trust, the Inland Waterways Association and, of course, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. Without their efforts, the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal might have become little more than a footnote in history, and I would have been left explaining the principles of Piscatorial Quagswagging to a duck pond and a Zander wouldn't have graced my landing net. 

Now with the weather looking about as cheerful as a tax demand and a breeze stiff enough to straighten a corkscrew, I found myself once again wandering down to the legendary Tramp Alley. The venue lived up to its name immediately as I passed a gentleman of no fixed abode with all his possessions on his bike who later relocated to a nearby bench for what appeared to be a championship-level nap.

Armed with maggots and optimism which is usually a dangerous combination I settled in and began fishing. The first bite came quickly. Unfortunately, the fish appeared to have somewhere more important to be and promptly dropped off before introductions could be made.

Undeterred, I lowered another bait into the murky depths. Not long afterwards the float lifted perfectly. I struck and all hell broke loose. The fish tore off to the left, then the right, then seemingly attempted to swim into next week. For a moment I wondered whether I'd hooked an escaped piranha. Eventually a splendid canal roach rolled into the net, nudging just under the pound mark. A cracking fish and proof that not everything in Tramp Alley is slightly suspicious.

Naturally, having dragged such a fine specimen from the swim, I expected the floodgates to open. This expectation lasted approximately three minutes before reality arrived carrying a large hammer. The bites dried up completely. Over the next couple of hours a skimmer and a small hybrid put in token appearances, seemingly out of sympathy.

 Faced with a swim as lively as a cemetery at midnight, I relocated to the chub peg. 

Historically this area has been reasonably reliable, which of course guaranteed it would fish terribly on this particular occasion. 

After half an hour of staring at an unmoving float and questioning my life choices, I finally connected with another hard-fighting hybrid.

And that, as they say, was that.

By now the towpath had become busier than a supermarket on pension day. Cyclists, dog walkers, joggers and assorted wanderers were appearing from every direction. It seemed a sensible moment to retreat before somebody rode through my keepnet.

So the final tally wasn't exactly one for the record books. A handful of bites, long periods of staring into space and enough inactivity to qualify as meditation. Still, a lovely roach and a decent hybrid saved the day. Not prolific by any stretch, but as every canal angler knows, sometimes success is measured not by the number of fish caught, but by catching anything at all while retaining your sanity.

https://www.stratfordcanalsociety.org/

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.17

Back in April I decided to revisit one of my favourite stretches of canal, a place packed with memories and fishy achievements. This was the pound that had produced my personal best roach, a fish so improbably large that I spent longer staring at the scales than I did actually celebrating. It was one of those captures that gets filed away in the memory bank forever, alongside first cars, first pints and the occasional spectacular angling disaster. 

Naturally I expected to arrive, have a wander, admire the scenery and perhaps daydream about another red-finned monster appearing one day. Instead, I rounded the corner and was greeted by something that looked less like a canal and more like an archaeological excavation.

The entire 500-metre stretch between the locks was empty. Not low. Not shallow. Not carrying less water than normal. Empty. Completely and utterly devoid of the very thing canals are generally famous for containing. Water. The scene was surreal. Mud stretched from bank to bank, old shopping trolleys sat exposed like forgotten relics from a lost civilisation and every discarded lure, lead and hook from the past twenty years suddenly became visible. 

It looked as though the canal had decided to empty its pockets onto the floor and reveal all of its embarrassing secrets in one go. I half expected Sir David Attenborough to emerge from behind a bush and begin narrating.

My eyes soon fell upon the lower lock where the mystery quickly became less mysterious. There, as plain as day, was an open paddle. It was rather like arriving home to discover your front door wide open, muddy footprints across the carpet and a burglar standing in the kitchen holding your television. The evidence could scarcely have been more obvious. The water had escaped through the lock and taken a prolonged holiday elsewhere. 

Looking at the scene I couldn't help but think of Hans Brinker, the legendary Little Dutch Boy who supposedly saved his town by plugging a leak with his finger. Sadly there was no Hans on duty that day. Either he'd retired, transferred departments or simply looked at the situation and decided it was somebody else's problem.

The immediate question occupying my mind wasn't about lock maintenance or canal engineering. It was much more important than that. Where on earth had all the fish gone? This wasn't just any old stretch of water. This place contained roach, perch, bream, carp and enough silver fish to keep a pleasure angler happy for years. 

Fish don't simply disappear overnight, at least not without filling in the appropriate paperwork. I spent the next hour wandering up and down the exposed canal bed searching for clues. The only creature that appeared remotely informed was a heron standing motionless near the far bank with the expression of someone who had just won the lottery.

That heron knew something. I am absolutely convinced of it. While I shuffled around looking bewildered, it stood there radiating quiet confidence. It reminded me of one of those old detectives in television dramas who has already solved the crime while everyone else is still interviewing witnesses. Every now and then it would stare into a shallow puddle before returning to its statuesque pose. 

Meanwhile I was peering into muddy depressions hoping to spot a fish. The occasional ripple appeared in isolated pools, enough to suggest there was still life present, but nowhere near enough to satisfy my curiosity. The heron looked well fed. I looked confused. Between us, only one of us was having a successful day. I fished the pound for a while where the fish would have been emptied in to, not a sausage !! ☻

For weeks afterwards I found myself wondering about that canal. Normal people spend their spare moments thinking about holidays, home improvements or perhaps what to have for dinner. Anglers, however, are not normal people. I found myself constructing increasingly elaborate theories regarding the fate of the fish population.

Perhaps they had all retreated into the deepest holes and survived quite happily. Perhaps the canal authorities had carried out a rescue operation. Perhaps the roach had formed a governing council and organised an orderly evacuation. At one point I became so invested in the mystery that I almost convinced myself the carp had marched single file into the adjacent stream and established a new colony.

The frustrating thing was that this wasn't merely another fishing venue. It was a place layered with memories. The stretch was bordered by wild garlic which erupted every spring in such quantities that the entire towpath smelled like an Italian restaurant. The scent drifted across the water while birds sang from the hedgerows and the occasional fish rolled beneath overhanging branches. 

It was one of those locations where time seemed to slow down. You could sit for hours watching a float and somehow never feel bored. Places like that become far more than fishing spots. They become old friends.

 The canal had also been the setting for one of my longest-running carp campaigns. Every angler has a fish that gets under their skin and occupies their thoughts far more than is healthy. Mine lived here. 

For what felt like years it appeared determined to avoid capture while simultaneously making occasional appearances simply to remind me it existed. 

I spent countless sessions trying to outwit it, usually returning home convinced that the carp possessed a better understanding of angling tactics than I did. When I finally caught it, the sense of satisfaction was immense. It felt less like landing a fish and more like concluding lengthy peace negotiations between two stubborn nations.

Adjacent to the canal runs a delightful little stream, another gem hidden away from the modern world. The dace in there fight far above their weight and the roach can grow surprisingly large. Best of all, there is absolutely no mobile phone signal whatsoever. Some people regard that as an inconvenience. I regard it as a luxury. 

There is something wonderfully liberating about being completely unreachable for a few hours. No emails demanding urgent attention. No notifications informing you that somebody you've never met has posted a photograph of their lunch. Just the sound of flowing water and the occasional splash from a fish going about its business.

Eventually curiosity got the better of me. The mystery had lingered long enough. Then came a Friday where I finished work at midday, having already completed my hours for the week. The weather looked decent, my fishing gear was ready and the canal was calling. 

I gathered a bag of maggots, some liquidised bread and a simple groundbait mix before heading off. This wasn't a grand expedition requiring military-level planning. 

It was more of a fact-finding mission. My objective was straightforward. I wanted proof that fish still inhabited the place. One bite would do. One fish would settle months of speculation.

As I approached the canal my expectations remained modest. I wasn't dreaming of record-breaking catches or heroic tales for the angling press. I simply wanted reassurance. 

The sort of reassurance that only a quivering float can provide. Looking across the water, now thankfully restored to its rightful location, it was difficult to believe the same stretch had been bone dry only weeks earlier. 

The wild garlic was flourishing, birds flitted through the trees and the whole place appeared calm and healthy. Nature, as usual, seemed entirely unconcerned by the dramatic events that had caused me so much head-scratching.

Settling into the swim felt like returning home after a long absence. The familiar sights and sounds immediately rekindled memories of previous sessions. I mixed the groundbait, fed a few maggots and watched the surface carefully. Every swirl, every shadow and every tiny movement suddenly seemed significant. 

The anticipation wasn't really about catching fish anymore. It was about discovering whether the place still possessed the same magic. Anglers become attached to waters in peculiar ways. We measure our lives through them. Certain swims become associated with certain years, certain captures and certain moments that remain vivid decades later.

The float settled upright and I found myself smiling at the absurdity of it all. Most people would have forgotten about the drained canal within a day or two. I had spent weeks and weeks pondering the welfare of fish that probably hadn't given the matter a second thought. Such is the peculiar mindset of anglers. 

We become emotionally invested in stretches of water, fish populations and swims that the wider world barely notices. Looking back, perhaps the greatest mystery wasn't where the fish had gone. Perhaps the real mystery was why a grown adult could spend so much time worrying about them. Then again, if anglers were sensible people, we'd probably have chosen a different hobby.

The pound had all the visual appeal of a washing machine on spin cycle. A brisk chop rattled across the surface making float watching about as easy as reading a newspaper through a hedge. Nevertheless, confidence remained high. After all, I'd come armed with a generous helping of groundbait and liquidised bread, enough to attract anything with fins, scales, or a vague interest in carbohydrates. I also slipped a healthy dose of the mix beside a promising line of reeds, hoping word would spread amongst the local fish population.

Settling into the first swim, it wasn't long before the float performed that wonderful little manoeuvre known to anglers everywhere as the "lift bite". It's the sort of indication that instantly transforms a man from mildly interested observer into Olympic-grade striker. The rod bent over and a solid fish charged off before popping to the surface rather quicker than expected. It fought gamely enough to suggest a roach-bream hybrid and after a spirited scrap eventually surrendered to the net.

Upon closer inspection, the poor old thing looked like it had recently lost an argument with half the wildlife in the county. An unpleasant wound adorned one flank and several freeloading flesh-eating passengers had moved in without permission. Feeling charitable, I evicted the squatters and sent the fish on its way, hopefully somewhat relieved and perhaps with a slightly improved opinion of anglers.

Naturally, after such a promising start I expected the floodgates to open. The fish, however, had apparently not received the memo. Forty-five minutes passed with only a few half-hearted indications that could best be described as fish shrugging. Eventually I decided enough was enough and marched over to the prebaited swim by the reeds, convinced that glory awaited. 

Within seconds of casting, the float vanished with all the subtlety of a submarine crash-diving. I struck, felt a fish, and immediately lost it. The tiny hook had barely introduced itself before the fish departed. A few carefully selected words were muttered towards the reeds.

Back out it went.

Twenty seconds later the float disappeared again. This time I connected with something considerably more serious. 

he fish tore off along the reeds to my right like it had remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere. The rod hooped over magnificently. 

For one glorious moment I imagined a proper specimen. Then, just as quickly, everything went limp. The hook pulled free and the line went slack.

Damn it.

Again.

The fish had played me beautifully. Somewhere beneath those reeds a fish was undoubtedly laughing itself breathless while recounting the story to its mates.

Despite the disappointment, spirits remained high. Not long ago this pound had all the life of an abandoned bathtub. Now I'd landed one fish and lost two more in fairly short order. That alone felt like a victory. The mission had been accomplished. Proof existed that fish still inhabited the water and weren't merely mythical creatures spoken of in hushed tones by local anglers.

I gave the far side of the reeds another half-hour, but by now the boat traffic had increased to the point where every passing vessel seemed determined to generate its own weather system. The fish switched off, the bites dried up, and the whole affair began to resemble hard work.

With that, I packed away and headed home via the Stratford Alehouse. Blank avoided, fish located, and evidence gathered that the once-empty pound still held life. Sometimes that's more than enough.

Happy days indeed.