Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.147 (Canal Zander Carnage)

I slipped, quite unintentionally of course, into what can only be described as “retirement mode” on Friday afternoon. Not the pipe-and-slippers version, mind you, but the far more dangerous variety that begins with the innocent phrase: “Shall I just get the bus?” Now, any man who willingly boards a £3 bus on a Friday afternoon alongside what I can only affectionately describe as the purple rinse brigade is either embracing life… or has quietly given up. I’m still undecided which camp I fall into.

There we were, trundling along at a pace that would concern a tortoise, surrounded by a symphony of boiled sweet wrappers, unsolicited life advice, and one chap loudly explaining his knee replacement to a woman who clearly hadn’t asked. Still, three quid to Stratford-Upon-Avon ain't too bad. You couldn’t drive there for that unless your car runs on optimism and loose change.

Naturally, no cultured outing is complete without a swift one in Spoons, where I parted with another £3 for a port stout that tasted like it had been brewed in Shakespeare’s own sock drawer. I say that with love, of course. There’s something wonderfully reassuring about a Wetherspoons: sticky carpets, questionable lighting, and a clientele that looks like they’ve all just wandered in from different decades.

Suitably refreshed (or at least numbed), I met the Wife at the Red Lion, freshly done out and looking like it had ambitions far above my budget. Now, when a place is described as “newly refurbished,” what it really means is they’ve doubled the price of everything and put a plant where the fruit machine used to be. Still, fair play it was a cracking late lunch, and for a brief moment I felt like a man of refinement rather than someone who had just arrived on a pensioners’ bus tour.

Of course, Stratford was already heaving. The kind of busy that makes you question whether there’s been a secret national memo telling everyone to go there at once. With the half marathon looming and Shakespeare’s Birthday Parade on the horizon, it was clear that by the weekend it would resemble a medieval mosh pit. Lovely weather, mind you the sort that tricks you into thinking everything in your life is under control.

Which brings us neatly to the garden. Now, I have a complicated relationship with gardening. By complicated, I mean I hate it with the burning intensity of a thousand suns. Yet somehow, every year, I find myself out there, mower in hand, pretending I know what I’m doing. Lawns were cut, the deck was jet washed (or “pressure blasted into submission”), and I stood there afterwards surveying the chaos thinking, “That’s still a lot of work.” Gardens, I’ve decided, are just outdoor to-do lists that grow.

And then—fatal mistake—I checked the price of skips. I nearly needed one just to dispose of my own disbelief. Honestly, for what they charge, you’d expect it to come with a butler and a complimentary weekend in Benidorm . I’m fairly certain I could book a cheap flight to Spain, stay in a questionable hotel, and return with a mild sunburn for less than the cost of having a metal box dropped on my driveway.

Still, once the chores were done, the reward came in the form of a proper BBQ on Saturday. Just me, the Wife, a plate of slightly overconfident Cajun chicken and burgers, and the unmistakable sound of 80s and 90s classics pumping out of the JBL Partybox like we were hosting Glastonbury in the back garden. There’s something magical about that moment—cold white wine in hand, meat on the grill, and absolutely no intention of doing anything productive for the rest of the weekend.

Which, naturally, brings us to today. Because no matter how relaxed you get, there’s always that itch. That little voice whispering, “Go on… just one cast.” So there I was, gear already in the car (because preparation is key, or laziness the night before—same thing), with a stash of roach deadbaits quietly fermenting in the back like a biological experiment gone wrong.

The plan? A cheeky after-work mission to tempt a canal zander. Nothing too serious, just a quick dabble, a flick of the rod, and the vague hope of glory. Because that’s the thing about fishing it doesn’t matter how busy life gets, how expensive skips become, or how many lawns need mowing. There’s always time, somehow, to stand by the water, stare into the murky depths, and convince yourself that today… today might just be the day.

And if not, well… at least it beats gardening, still enough of the preamble were they biting ?

Well I swear on a dented keepnet and a half-squashed tin of luncheon meat, some sessions begin with a plan and others begin with destiny giving you a cheeky wink from under the surface. This, dear reader, was very much the latter. 

There I was, en route to my intended hotspot (a place that, historically speaking, owes me fish, money, and an apology), when the canal itself practically shouted, “Oi! Over here, genius!” A suspicious ripple turned into a full-blown aquatic commotion — the kind of surface disturbance that makes a seasoned canal botherer like myself go weak at the knees and slightly cross-eyed with excitement.

Now, when you’ve spent enough time peering into murky water like a hopeful heron with a caffeine problem, you develop a sixth sense for nonsense. And this was not nonsense. This was fish. Proper fish. Plural. A gathering. A convention, even. The water was so shallow that every subtle movement translated into surface signals little “burps” and flickers like the canal was gossiping about what lurked beneath. 

Naturally, I abandoned all previous plans with the decisiveness of a man who’s just heard the chippy is doing half-price chips. Rod out. Float in. Game on.

Within seconds and I mean blink-and-you’ll-miss-it seconds the left float dipped like it had been insulted. Strike! Missed it. Classic. But that was enough. 

That was confirmation. These weren’t your average canal loafers. Oh no. These were Zander the underwater equivalent of moody nightclub bouncers with teeth. I dropped the rig back in with the composure of a man pretending he didn’t just fluff his first chance, when suddenly… bob… bob… wallop! Right under my feet! I struck again and this time connected with something that clearly had places to be and no intention of including me in its itinerary.

What followed was less “graceful angling battle” and more “brief but intense disagreement.” The rod hooped over, the fish bolted, I muttered things that would make a barbel blush, and after a couple of determined runs it begrudgingly allowed itself to be netted. Now, at first glance, I thought, “Nice fish, five-pound-ish.” Then I actually looked at it. Length like a ruler. Girth like it had been on a steady diet of other fish with poor life choices. Scales gleaming. Attitude intact. On the scales: 6lb 14oz. A proper canal Zander. The sort of fish that makes you stand a little taller and immediately forget every blank you’ve ever suffered.

Back it went, no fuss, no drama — just a respectful nod between predator and fool-with-a-rod. Naturally, I carried on fishing because, let’s be honest, you don’t just leave a situation like that. That would be madness. Enter: Dog Walker. Every good session needs one. Fresh to the area, curious, slightly bewildered by the sight of a grown adult grinning at a canal like it just told him a joke. As I explained what was occurring (with the calm authority of a man who absolutely did not expect any of this), the canal decided to show off. Two more Zander. Bang-bang. Practically on cue. I’m talking bites lining up like buses.

Boats started chugging through, holidaymakers waving, probably assuming I’d trained the fish to perform. The Dog Walker looked at me like I was some sort of wizard. I gave him a few pointers you know, passing on the ancient, sacred knowledge of “put bait in water where fish are.” He mentioned he could fish from the bottom of his garden, at which point I briefly considered moving in with him. Strictly for research purposes, obviously.

Now, they weren’t spawning — not yet — but they were definitely behaving like a group that had pencilled it into their diaries. Tight, active, slightly chaotic. A few dropped runs followed (because Zander are nothing if not committed to keeping your blood pressure interesting), another fish, a couple of near misses… absolute canal carnage. The sort of session where everything happens quickly and you’re never quite sure if you’re in control or just being politely tolerated by the universe.

And then, just like that, it felt right to leave them to it. No point overstaying your welcome when you’ve already gate-crashed the party and eaten all the good snacks. Less than two hours. Multiple fish (2-3lb). One proper lump. A Dog Walker converted. Plans abandoned. Spirits lifted.

Job. Done.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.146 (Canal Zander)

Ah, St George’s Day when the flags flutter, the ale settles warm in the gut, and a man feels duty-bound to face his own private dragon. Mine, of course, has fins, sulks in the margins, and answers when it answers at all to the name of Zander. Like the saint himself, one must approach with a blend of misplaced confidence and stubborn ritual: a well-thumbed lure box instead of a lance, and faith that somewhere beneath that sullen, tea-stained water, something wicked eyes your offering with grudging intent.

For Zander are no patriotic celebrants. They care not for saints nor songs, only for the slow, deliberate trespass of your bait through their dim dominion. And so, while others toast St George with cheer, I stand towpath side, engaged in my own quiet crusade half myth, half madness hoping, just once, to strike true and feel that unmistakable, dragonish resistance on the line.

Now It was one of those evenings where the sun is doing its absolute best to convince you it’s spring, while the air quietly reminds you that winter hasn’t packed its bags just yet. A nippy wind it was, out of the sun. The sort of nippy wind that sneaks up your sleeves and sits there, grinning. Still, the canal was calling, and like a mug with a fishing rod, I answered. 

The big zander? Nah, they’re still in their winter sulk, probably sat somewhere deep writing passive-aggressive notes about water temperature. But after a day at work, expectations were lower than a limbo stick at a worm’s birthday party.

I wandered down the towpath with that familiar “might just have a quick chuck” optimism, which, as we all know, is a complete lie we tell ourselves before losing two hours and most of our dignity. Bright sunshine blazing away like it’s auditioning for July not ideal for zander, who prefer a bit of gloom and mystery, like teenagers or tax returns. Still, I had a plan. A line of narrowboats sat there, all smug and floaty, casting lovely shady patches beneath them. Perfect ambush spots. If I were a zander, that’s exactly where I’d be tucked under a hull, waiting to mug some unsuspecting scooby snack drifting past like it hadn’t a care in the world.

Now, I’ll be honest, my fishing mojo lately has been wobblier than a jelly in a tumble dryer. One minute I’m obsessed, next minute I’m wondering if I should take up something sensible like stamp collecting or competitive napping. But the weather had that “go on, you know you want to” vibe, so off I went, chasing that elusive tug on the line and a brief escape from reality (and emails).

Anyway, there I am, creeping along like a canal-side ninja, when I nearly stepped in what can only be described as a biological weapon. Dog poo. Not just any dog poo the stealth kind. The kind that blends into the towpath like it’s been trained by special forces. And it got me thinking… we’ve got all this fancy tech in cars now — sensors, cameras, things that beep at you if you so much as think about reversing near a leaf. Advanced Driver-Assistance Systems, they call it. ADAS. Sounds very impressive. Makes you feel like your car’s got a PhD.

So why, in the name of all things fishy, can we not have the same for anglers on towpaths? Imagine it: a lightweight head-mounted device. 

Bit like a futuristic fishing hat. Built-in smell sensors, ultra-HD cameras, maybe even a polite but firm voice that says, “Oi, watch it pal, that’s a size 5 Labrador special at two o’clock.” It could map hazards in real-time. Sync it to your phone. 

Towpath Navigation Mode. Avoidance protocols engaged. You’d look like a complete plonker, obviously, but you’d have clean boots — and frankly, that’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.

I’d invest. No hesitation. In fact, I’m calling it now — if anyone out there is building this masterpiece, put me down first on the Crowdfunder. Early adopter. 

Beta tester. Chief Avoidance Officer. Because nothing ruins a perfectly good fishing session faster than that slow, sickening realisation that your boot has just found something it really shouldn’t have.

Anyway, back to the fishing. Did I catch anything?

Well There are days in fishing when you feel less like an angler and more like a mobile garden ornament strategically placed, mildly optimistic, and largely ignored by anything with fins. 

This, I can confirm, was one of those days. The plan had all the hallmarks of genius: canal Zander, moody conditions, a roach suspended temptingly beneath an over-depth float practically a Michelin-starred offering in piscine terms. 

Naturally, the fish responded with the enthusiasm of Starmer at Prime Ministers Question time. 

An hour passed in what can only be described as “leapfrogging the armada” that familiar canal ballet of edging past moored boats, muttering polite apologies to potted geraniums, and wondering if one more cast might finally convince a Zander that today was, in fact, the day. It wasn’t. 

Not even a murmur. The float remained as motionless as a taxidermy exhibit, while my optimism quietly packed its bags and left without so much as a forwarding address.

The towpath, however, was in full swing. A steady procession of humanity drifted by, including a pair of Labradors operating at what can only be described as glacial speed, accompanied by owners who appeared to be rehearsing for a very slow-motion remake of “When I’m 64.”  (the name of their boat) They passed once. 

Then, in a twist that no one saw coming (except everyone), they returned ten minutes later, retracing their steps with the same leisurely determination. Their boat, I must say, was lovely tastefully adorned with what can only be described as an honest display of laundry. Nothing says “living the dream” quite like underpants fluttering proudly in the spring breeze.

With the sun doing its best impression of a spotlight on an empty stage, I conceded defeat on the bright stretch and slipped over to the darker side a place of shadows, mystery, and significantly fewer Labradors. Fishing tight to some thick cover, I battled not only the elements but also an ongoing conspiracy of drifting grass cuttings and a surface tow that seemed personally invested in moving my float anywhere but where I’d placed it.

Then, just as I was considering composing a heartfelt apology to my tackle for wasting its time, it happened. A bite. Not just any bite a proper, unmistakable Zander take. The left-hand rod sprang to life with all the subtlety of a car alarm, and I struck into something solid. 

Now, I’ll admit, it didn’t exactly bend the rod into a heroic arc, but at that point I’d have happily accepted a mildly enthusiastic stickleback. A fish is a fish is a fish, and this one saved me from the dreaded blank a result celebrated by anglers with the quiet dignity of someone who’s just avoided public embarrassment. 

I gave it another half hour, partly out of hope and partly because packing up immediately would have felt like admitting the fish had only shown up out of pity. No further bites materialised, but that hardly mattered. There had been fresh air, a generous helping of spring sunshine, and—most importantly—proof that I hadn’t entirely forgotten how to catch something. All things considered, it was a success. Not a triumphant, chest-beating, “write to the magazines” sort of success, but a modest, contented nod-to-self kind. And in fishing, as in life, those are often the ones that matter most.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.8

I arrived at Tramp Alley armed with a noble ambition: to experience the tranquil dignity of the South Stratford Canal. This lasted approximately eleven seconds, or until I slipped on something that may once have been either duck-related or philosophical in origin. Thus began my immersive historical re-enactmentless “Industrial Revolution transport artery,” more “man mildly at odds with mud.” 

The canal itself lounged beside me in that deeply unimpressed way only water can manage. One could almost hear it muttering, “I was completed in 1816, you know,” as if this justified the presence of suspiciously wobbly towpath edges and a duck with the moral authority of a parish councillor. I nodded respectfully, as one does when being silently judged by infrastructure. 

Tramp Alley, I am told, was once a place of spa-going refinement, where genteel visitors sipped mineral waters and discussed ailments with enthusiasm bordering on performance art. I too sampled the local atmosphere, though my intake consisted primarily of midges and regret. It felt authentic. Possibly too authentic. There is something delightfully absurd about canals. Built with grand visions of commerce and empire, they now host slow-moving boats piloted by people named Clive who wave as if they’ve just conquered something. 

History, I reflected, is less about progress and more about who manages to stay upright the longest. As I continued along the towpath, I considered the heroic restoration efforts of the 1960s. Brave souls dredged, rebuilt, and resurrected this waterway from near oblivion. Meanwhile, I struggled to resurrect my dignity after misjudging a puddle of deceptive depth. Their legacy lives on; mine will likely be absorbed into the silt.

I set off for the roach with the kind of misplaced optimism usually reserved for lottery tickets and “quick five-minute jobs” that somehow consume entire afternoons. The air had that crisp, early-morning enthusiasm about it, the sort that suggests great things are about to happen, or at the very least something mildly competent. Naturally, I took this as a sign that today would be a triumphant return to angling glory. Rods packed, bait prepared, dignity loosely attached I marched toward the towpath like a man about to be gently but firmly corrected by reality.

It’s always the same with canals they sit there like retired generals, full of stories, completely unimpressed by your presence, and faintly amused by your inevitable mistakes. I found my first swim, settled in, and within minutes had two small roach. “Ah,” I thought, with dangerous confidence, “today is the day.” This, as it turns out, was the exact moment the universe decided I’d had quite enough encouragement for one morning.

What followed can only be described as an extended masterclass in not catching fish. I moved swims with the optimism of a man rearranging deckchairs on a very uncooperative Titanic. Each new spot looked promising—“That’s got to hold something,” I muttered, as though the fish were listening and considering my proposal. They were not. The canal, meanwhile, maintained its serene composure, as if to say, “You may continue if you wish, but I wouldn’t expect much.”

There is a particular kind of silence that descends when the fish have collectively decided to ignore you. It’s not peaceful it’s pointed. Every ripple feels like a private joke you’re not in on. A duck drifted past at one stage and gave me a look that can only be described as professionally judgmental. If it had a clipboard, I’m certain it would have made a note: “Angler—enthusiastic, but ultimately ineffective.” I considered asking it for advice, but I suspected it would suggest bread and a different career path.

By the second swim, I had entered what experts might call “hope management mode.” This involves lowering expectations in carefully measured increments until success is redefined as “not actively falling into the water.” Bites? Optional. Fish? A luxury. Remaining upright and relatively dry? Now we’re talking. I cast out with renewed determination, which the canal acknowledged by doing absolutely nothing whatsoever.

The third swim was less a strategic decision and more a reluctant acceptance that I had run out of convincing places to blame. “This one,” I told myself, “this is the one.” It wasn’t. At this point, even the midges seemed to lose interest in me, which felt like a new low. When insects that normally regard you as an all-you-can-eat buffet decide you’re not worth the effort, it’s time to reassess your situation.

Still, there’s something wonderfully absurd about it all. Fishing, particularly on canals, has a way of humbling you with surgical precision. One day you’re pulling in fish like a seasoned pro, nodding knowingly at passersby as if you’ve unlocked some ancient aquatic secret. The next, you’re staring at a motionless float, questioning your life choices and wondering if the fish have all relocated to a different postcode out of sheer spite.

I couldn’t help but admire the stubborn charm of the place, though. The canal doesn’t change for anyone. It doesn’t care about your previous success, your carefully chosen bait, or your optimistic early start. It simply exists quietly, persistently, and with just enough unpredictability to keep you coming back. It’s less a hobby and more a long-term negotiation with something that has no intention of meeting you halfway.

Eventually, I packed up with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who has accepted defeat but would prefer not to draw attention to it. Two small roach to show for the effort not exactly headline material, but technically not a blank, which in angling terms is the equivalent of a moral victory. A very small, slightly damp moral victory, but a victory nonetheless. As I trudged back along the towpath, boots carrying more canal than they started with, I reflected on the morning’s events. 

It had been cold, unproductive, mildly humiliating—and oddly enjoyable. Because that’s the thing about fishing: even when it’s terrible, it’s still somehow good. The promise of the next trip, the next cast, the next “this might be the one” moment keeps you hooked far more effectively than any fish ever could. So yes, a short session, a tough morning, and a canal that firmly put me in my place. But give it a day or two and I’ll be back, full of confidence, entirely convinced that this time it will be different. It won’t be, of course—but that’s never really the point, is it?