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.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.16

A friend at work asked me the other day why I still fish canals when I’m not exactly emptying a keepnet after every session. Fair question really. Modern anglers seem to judge success entirely by whether they need a forklift truck to get the fish back into the water, not by completing a quest to catch a stone loach like I did, or how many likes on Instagram they get. Take good mate Nic from Avon Angling for instance who caught a cracking four-pound crucian the other day. Absolute belter. Fish of a lifetime for many anglers. Each to their own though, whatever floats you're boat, and what works for you.

Now I told Nic straight afterwards his next move should be buying a lottery ticket because luck like that only comes round once every Halley’s Comet, well unless you're Nic, because it does seem to happen quite a lot for him.

Problem is, now the venue which was busy anyway now resembles the evacuation scene from Dunkirk. Word gets around, doesn’t it? One decent fish appears on Facebook, YouTube or the dreaded Instagram and suddenly every “specimen hunter” within a fifty-mile radius arrives armed like they’re invading a small country. Pot hunters and all that. 

Rod pods, bite alarms, three-rod set-ups, buckets of pellets and more electronic equipment than NASA had during the moon landing. You can practically hear the crucians underwater. “Oh no. Not those method feeders again.” The poor fish must feel like they’re trapped in a never-ending episode of Groundhog Day. Every five minutes another golf-ball-sized lump of fishmeal crashes into the lake bed while some bloke in camouflage mutters about “building a swim”.

Building a swim? It’s a fishing peg, not an extension on a semi-detached in Wolverhampton. But Nic  and this is where experience matters ignored all that fashionable nonsense. Didn’t sit there behind two motionless rods staring at bobbing'less bobbins like a pensioner waiting for the kettle to boil.

No, he fished properly. A float. A couple of maggots. Watching the water. Old school. And the crucians probably thought, “Hang on lads, this one’s feeding us actual food instead of compressed hedgehog pellets.” Then one of them wandered over all curious-like. “Ooh look Barry, two lovely red maggots.” Five seconds later: “Barry… I’ve made a terrible mistake, damn it !!”

That’s the thing with modern fishing. Everyone follows trends like frightened sheep in waterproofs. One bloke catches on a feeder and suddenly nobody under the age of forty remembers floats exist. I'm guilty of it from time to time, and to be honest there is no getting away from it.

I'm tempted to turn up with a centrepin reel however the other anglers would likely report me to the Angling Trust as some sort of historical reenactor.

Which brings me neatly to canals. I moan about canals as you know, but there are positives because most anglers avoid them like tax audits and family karaoke nights. There’s peace from other rod wavers on the canals. Solitude. Proper atmosphere. 

Often just me, the towpath, a few suspicious ducks and occasionally a dog walker, jogger, biker or gongoozler looking at my landing net resting a fish as though I’m illegally farming minnows. I don’t want anglers either side of me. I don’t want four blokes opposite discussing politics at the volume of an RAF flypast. I don’t want bite alarms sounding every eleven seconds like a reversing lorry convention. And I definitely don’t want to hear somebody explain cryptocurrency while spodding half a tonne of hemp into a lake.

Apparently this makes me a misanthrope, because I probably am. Now that word gets thrown around a lot these days. People assume a misanthrope hates humanity. Not true at all. I don’t hate people, I'm one of those ravers to the grave after all (Next gig in two weeks is Leftfield). Hate takes energy and frankly most people aren’t worth the calories. I simply prefer avoiding humanity where possible. 😁 (I Jest !!)

I’m perfectly polite. I’ll help somebody if they’re struggling. I’ll say hello. I’ll even untangle someone’s disastrous bird’s nest of line while silently judging every life decision that led them there. A professor once described misanthropy beautifully: “To a misanthrope, most people are about as interesting as a really good sandwich.”

 You know the sort. Bloke turns up. “Any out?” No mate, the fish collectively decided to observe Ramadan. Then there’s the tactical genius who asks what bait you’re using immediately after you catch one. 

As if revealing “double maggot” unlocks some ancient mystical code hidden by the Knights Templar. No, Bob. The bait isn’t the issue. 

The issue is you’ve cast twelve times in four minutes and frightened everything except the shopping trolley in the margins. Still, perhaps I’m what you’d call an optimistic misanthrope.

I like people best when they’re over there somewhere. Ideally several postcodes away.

Which is why canals suit me in the closed season I suppose. No bivvies. No glowing tents. No twenty-four-hour carp syndicate veterans discussing bait protein levels like sports scientists. 

Just quiet water and small fish with proper manners. And truth be told, there’s something wonderfully honest about canal roach fishing. 

No glamour. No sponsorship deals. Nobody making dramatic YouTube thumbnails with their mouth hanging open like they’ve just witnessed the Second Coming. Just manky mongrels in the main with the odd gem, delicate floats and occasional existential despair.

Perfect really. So yes, this optimistic misanthrope fancies some fishing again. The canal awaits. Roach are once more on the agenda. Somewhere out there beneath the murky water swims a fish roughly the size of a digestive biscuit that’s about to ruin my entire afternoon. I'd been watching the weather forecast like a bookmaker watches a favourite in the last furlong. 

With the tackle still in the car after the weekend's outing and a handful of maggots left over, I was desperately hoping the rain would give me a couple of hours on the stretch after work where I'd recently lost what I still claim was a carp. Mind you, anglers have been promoting lost fish ever since the first one got away, so it may well have been a particularly ambitious bream.

The last session had been one of those maddening affairs where bites came thick and fast but fish seemed determined to avoid any formal introduction. Fishing large pieces of bread, I had enough float movements to keep my hopes alive, but precious little attached to the end of the line when I struck. 

This time I had maggots. Not many, but enough to convince myself that they were the missing piece of the puzzle. Anglers are wonderfully optimistic creatures. Give us half a pint of maggots and we'll happily overlook the fact that the fish ignored us completely only three days earlier.

Would the maggots do better than the bread? I had no idea. But they couldn't do much worse, unless they climbed off the hook and swam away themselves.

Now there was rain predicted on the drive home from work. "Light rain," they said. A mere inconvenience. A gentle shower. A slight moistening of the atmosphere. Well, a few miles from the spot that "light rain" transformed itself into the sort of biblical downpour that had old blokes checking for pairs of animals walking past. The windscreen wipers were waving the white flag and visibility had reduced to approximately three inches. Damn it.

Naturally, being a man of sound judgement and impeccable decision-making, I carried on regardless. Arriving at the canal, I sat in the car waiting for the rain to ease and ventured out for a quick gander. At that precise moment a boat emerged from nowhere and ploughed straight through the swim I'd planned to fish. Not content with that, it was already heading for the next lock. It was 5pm after all. What did you expect, Mick? A deserted canal and fish queuing up to jump into the landing net?

Thankfully the rain eased off, so I got set up. Maggots, liquidised bread and a bit of groundbait were introduced to proceedings while I plonked the float in the middle track where the canal is all of three feet deep. 

To my astonishment, within ten minutes the float lifted in a manner that screamed "strike now, you fool!" Naturally, I missed it. Fortunately the fish were feeling charitable and another bite followed shortly afterwards. This time the float slid away to the left and I connected with a fish. A small perch emerged from water the colour of builder's tea. Quite how it saw the bait remains one of life's great mysteries.

The float went back out and soon disappeared again. This fish put up a proper scrap and I convinced myself I'd hooked a decent hybrid. As usual, I was wrong. It was a slab of a bream, fully equipped with enough slime to lubricate a medium-sized tractor. The landing net may never recover.

Then disaster struck. The unmistakable sound of a lock being opened somewhere up the cut signalled the arrival of every canal angler's favourite event. Within minutes the canal transformed from a peaceful waterway into the lower reaches of the River Amazon. The float was charging downstream like it had somewhere important to be and, right on cue, a boat appeared. It thundered through the swim without so much as lifting the throttle. Cheers mate. Much appreciated.

Plan B was required. I fed a margin swim to my left which remained vaguely fishable while the rest of the canal resembled a flood relief channel. Twenty minutes passed waiting for the lock to shut and the water to calm down. Unsurprisingly the main line was now deader than my hopes of an uninterrupted evening's fishing.

With curfew approaching and two hours gone, I dropped the float into the margin as a last throw of the dice. Instantly a bite on the drop. Naturally I missed it, although I did manage to briefly inconvenience the fish with the hook point. Lowering the rig back into the two feet of water, I waited. A few minutes later the float buried itself and this time I connected with a proper swinger that rounded the session off nicely.

Was it worth driving through monsoon conditions, watching boats destroy the swim, enduring canal turbulence usually associated with shipping lanes and spending half the session waiting for water to settle? Most definitely. The rain stayed away, the fish fed despite the chocolate-coloured water and, for once, the canal allowed me to leave with a smile rather than a fresh collection of excuses. 

No roach though, I might be wasting my time here !!

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.15

“They Will Kill You” doesn’t so much begin as stagger drunkenly through the fire exit clutching a meat cleaver and screaming obscenities at the concierge. 

Asia Reaves takes what appears to be a straightforward housekeeping job in one of those vast New York apartment blocks where everybody looks fabulously wealthy yet somehow faintly embalmed, as though they’ve all been preserved in artisan vinegar by a Scandinavian undertaker.

Naturally the building turns out to be riddled with disappearances, Satanic shenanigans, homicidal residents and enough occult nonsense to make the average village medium fling her crystals into the canal and take up accountancy instead. 

Before long the entire affair detonates into a glorious cavalcade of axes, katanas, severed limbs and shrieking maniacs hurtling down corridors like middle-aged bargain hunters charging the reduced bakery shelf at Lidl five minutes before closing.

Zazie Beetz storms through the carnage wearing the expression of a woman who’s discovered somebody’s microwaved haddock in the staff kitchen for the third consecutive afternoon and has finally decided murder is a proportionate response. Patricia Arquette appears to be having the time of her life amid the blood geysers and demonic carry-on, while Tom Felton prowls about looking like a man who absolutely knows where several bodies are hidden but is enjoying the suspense too much to say anything. There is also, for reasons best known to the Devil himself, a talking pig’s head on a stick which arrives like something dreamt up after eating suspicious cheese during a thunderstorm.

The whole thing plays like “Kill Bill” after twelve pints of industrial cider, a knock to the temple from a snooker cue and an ill-advised séance conducted in the toilets of a provincial Wetherspoons. It is gloriously excessive, magnificently stupid and sprays claret around with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for Formula One podium celebrations.

Perhaps that explains why, after watching it before bed and drifting happily into thoughts of finally getting back onto the rivers in a fortnight or so rod quiver slung over shoulder, landing net still faintly smelling of last season’s optimism, flask of tea capable of stripping yacht varnish I somehow slept clean through a thunderstorm of Biblical savagery.

The Almighty himself could probably have been hurling wheelie bins through conservatories while roof tiles cartwheeled over the chimney pots like frightened pheasants, and I’d still have been snoring peacefully away dreaming of crease swims, wagtails bobbing along the far bank, damp grass soaking through the knees of me trousers and that first glorious savage yank on the float after far too long away from the water.

Proper Piscatorial Quagswagging bliss.

Anyway enough of that, to the fishing !! Tramp Alley Again

Which is unlike another trip to Tramp Alley where, of late, it’s about the only stretch of canal I’ve managed to locate a few obliging roach that don’t appear to possess the survival instincts of Cold War spies. Everywhere else has been deader than a taxidermist’s workshop after an electrical fire, so naturally I found myself back there again at first light armed with maggots, and the sort of weary resignation normally associated with men queueing at council offices clutching damp paperwork.

The morning itself already had the feel of one of those oppressive summer days where the heat sits on your shoulders and even the pigeons looked exhausted. Still, a maggot approach had worked previously and there seemed little point attempting anything more sophisticated given the fish in this canal generally behave as though they’ve signed a collective non-aggression pact against anglers. A couple of balls of groundbait were introduced with all the hopefulness of a man scattering flower petals onto the M25 in an attempt to improve the scenery.

And then came the waiting.

Not peaceful waiting either. The sort of waiting where you begin by watching the float attentively before gradually descending into a semi-conscious trance of existential collapse, idly wondering whether your knees have finally packed up for good and whether anybody has ever actually enjoyed sitting behind a wheelie bin factory listening to distant scooters and somebody shouting “KEV!” repeatedly across a towpath. It can take 30 minutes for the first bite Mick, "oh yeah I should have remembered that !!"

Truth be told I’ve not really been feeling it lately. The weather simply hasn’t been conducive to fishing now has it. It’s been hotter than Satan’s slow cooker during the week and when you spend all day trapped at work slowly liquefying under overly white LED lighting, the thought of trudging to the canal afterwards versus sitting in the garden beside a barbecue with a cold beer becomes less a difficult decision and more a matter of basic human survival instinct.

There’s only so much enthusiasm a man can muster for staring into murky canal water while perspiration rolls down the crack of his backside like a frightened slug. Particularly when your neighbours are at home flipping sausages, drinking lager and listening to dreadful music from a Bluetooth speaker the size of a tumble dryer. (sorry neighbours) But it's a natural venue with some gems to ne had, always on the canals there are the positives !!

Now it was one of those bright, clear mornings that anglers pretend to enjoy whilst secretly muttering dark things about sunlight. The canal had settled overnight, but there was still a bit of colour in the water, which at least stopped me turning around and going back to bed. A delicate mist clung to the surface, giving the whole place an air of mystery and promise. Naturally, the fish hadn't received the memo.

I settled into the first swim armed with a simple plan: a couple of maggots on a small hook, some liquidised bread, and a bucket of groundbait slop that looked suspiciously like something excavated from a Victorian drain. Confidence was high. The fish, however, remained unconvinced.

Forty minutes later the float finally twitched. It wasn't so much a bite as a fish breathing heavily in the general direction of the bait. I struck at what was probably one of the tiny fish topping when I arrived, but whatever it was had already made its escape and was no doubt laughing with its mates.

Boredom eventually defeated optimism, so I moved swims. Another forty minutes passed with all the excitement of a tax return. Undeterred, I shifted again, settling halfway between the two previous swims. As I dragged the rig into position a tiny perch hurled itself at the maggots like a starving crocodile. It wasn't exactly specimen fishing, but at least it prevented the dreaded blank. Thank you, little perch. Your services will not be forgotten.

This latest move proved more productive. After only ten minutes the float dipped properly and I connected with a fish that actually intended to stay attached. A spirited scrap followed before a lovely roach emerged from the depths. Not a monster, but a very welcome sight. At last, evidence that the canal contained something larger than my hook.

The float barely settled again before disappearing. I struck and immediately found myself connected to something that felt like a submerged wardrobe. It moved with determination but in a most peculiar manner, seemingly attempting to swim backwards. My first thought was a decent eel. The warm water made it possible and several huge boils erupted on the surface, which only strengthened the theory.

The rod was bent into a shape normally associated with longbows, yet I was slowly gaining line. Then the mystery was solved. A tail broke the surface. Then another bit. Then the whole fish appeared. It was a sizeable bream, foul-hooked firmly in the tail. No wonder the thing had been fighting like it was trying to reverse park a caravan. The poor creature looked as surprised as I did.

I feared I'd ruined the swim, but the fish clearly hadn't read the angling textbooks. Bite followed bite. Roach hybrids, perch and assorted canal residents queued up to inspect the maggots. For a glorious period everything worked exactly as it should. The float danced, fish arrived regularly and I briefly entertained dreams of actually knowing what I was doing.

Then came the distant rumble of doom.

A boat.

Not just any boat, but one descending the flight of locks. Slowly the peaceful canal transformed into a raging torrent. The carefully nurtured swim became a hydraulic experiment. Groundbait headed for the next county and the float began travelling faster than some of the local buses.

Eight o'clock in the morning.

Honestly, don't these people have a bacon sandwich to eat? A jigsaw puzzle to finish? A nice lie-in perhaps? Apparently not. Apparently their mission in life was to steam directly through my swim at precisely the moment things were going well.

Still, such is canal fishing. One minute you're contemplating greatness, the next you're watching your float disappear towards Birmingham. Yet despite the interruptions, the backwards-swimming bream, and the fish that took forty minutes to blink at the bait, it was another thoroughly enjoyable session, especially when the half a pint of maggots were gifted to me by Martyn from Stratford Fishing and Outdoors, top-man. 

Best of all, there wasn't another angler in sight AGAIN !!. Just me, the fish, the mist, and a boat skipper who will probably never know how close he came to becoming the subject of a strongly worded letter.

One final lesson emerged from the morning's adventures. Maggots on an size 18 hook produced far fewer missed bites than previous experiments. Sometimes angling breakthroughs arrive not with fanfare and celebration, but quietly, hidden amongst foul-hooked bream and muttered complaints about boat traffic.

That'll do nicely.