Warwickshire Trout - River Alne Pt.15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I opened the car door.

Good grief.

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

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

Two hours followed.

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

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

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

And yet…

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll be back.

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

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.144 (Canal Perch and Zander)

There are moments in life when everything feels finely balanced, delicately poised like a well-shotted waggler on a calm canal… and then, without warning, someone boots the rod rest, knocks your tea over, and sets fire to the landing net. Last Thursday, somewhere between a mid-morning brew and a half-hearted attempt at productivity in the automotive design studio, that exact feeling descended upon us except instead of fire, it was IT. Which, in many ways, is worse.

It began innocently enough. A little pop-up. Bottom right corner. The digital equivalent of a polite cough before chaos. “Attempting to access IP address…” it said, or something equally sinister and vaguely unhelpful. Being seasoned professionals, we collectively shrugged and carried on, because if you reacted to every strange IT message, you'd never get anything done. Besides, the organisation was “blocking it,” which sounded reassuring in the same way a garden fence reassures you about an approaching rhinoceros.

By late afternoon, however, the studio had begun to unravel like a cheap spool of line under pressure. Systems started dropping out one by one. Drives vanished. Applications wheezed their last. Wi-Fi went funny. The general mood shifted from mild curiosity to that quiet, creeping dread normally reserved for when you realise you've left the landing net in the garage.

Friday brought hope, or at least the illusion of it. There were “workarounds” that marvellous IT phrase which translates roughly to “this might function if you don’t breathe on it.” I clung onto my CATIA licence like a carp angler grips his last boilie during a blank session, managing to work locally and avoid the increasingly haunted Indian network. Forty-plus hours ticked off by lunchtime, I clocked out feeling smug and slightly heroic, convinced the tech wizards would wave their digital wands over the weekend and restore order, despite the main IT guy gone AWOL.

Blog readers they did not.

Monday arrived like a damp bivvy morning grey, disappointing, and smelling faintly of something gone wrong. The systems were not just broken; they were caput. Not resting. Not updating. Not “experiencing issues.” Properly, gloriously dead. The design studio had all the functionality of a chocolate teapot. By midday, I’d been reassigned to “A2MAC1 benchmarking duties,” which is a polite way of saying “find something to do that doesn’t involve working systems.”

And then came the bombshell. IT, those brave custodians of cables and confusion, admitted defeat. “Not anytime soon,” they said. “See you next Tuesday.” Next Tuesday. As if we were discussing a casual pint rather than my entire working week evaporating like mist off a canal at sunrise. As a jobber on an hourly rate, this wasn’t a quirky inconvenience it was financial vandalism. A forced holiday, unrequested and entirely unpaid. The sort of surprise nobody enjoys.

Naturally, I approached Tuesday with a sense of purpose. By which I mean I did absolutely nothing. A lie-in, a leisurely clean of the Jimny, a bit of rod sorting the kind of day that feels productive until you realise you’ve achieved nothing of actual consequence. Still, there are worse ways to spend time than tinkering with fishing gear and pretending you’re preparing for greatness.

Sam, meanwhile, had a rare day off school with a dodgy tummy and a level of honesty that cut through the morning like a sharp hooklink. “Don’t want to poo myself in school, Daddy,” he declared. “I’d be known as the kid who sh*t himself.” LANGUAGE !! A fair point, delivered with the clarity of someone who understands the brutal social economy of the playground. Some reputations, once earned, are impossible to shake.

Just as I began to contemplate a proper fishing session the next day to salvage the week, fate intervened once more. A message from 16 year old Ben’s special needs hub in Stratford-Upon-Avon arrived the night before: boiler issues. Closed. No warmth, no learning, no peace. Plans shifted again. Fishing window reduced to a couple of hours a frantic dash rather than a leisurely campaign.

Still, a couple of hours is better than none, and with a tip-off from Buffalo Si's mate Security Neil about a local perch spot, I was off. The venue was an inlet from a lock above, a place where the water moved just enough to make things interesting. The sort of swim that whispers promise while simultaneously reminding you that gongoozlers, and the ever-present dog poo bag waving brigade are never far away.

Thankfully, there’s always a way. A bit of manoeuvring over the rather high lock paddles and I found myself tucked away from the main towpath, in a spot that felt almost… peaceful. The flow was perfect either tight to the wall or a metre out where it behaved like a miniature river. A proper little gem.

Out went the perch bobber, maggots and worms from my own wormery doing their duty like loyal soldiers. Alongside it, a sleeper rod for zander, armed with a roach deadbait and quiet optimism. The kind of setup that says, “I’m here for anything that fancies a nibble.”

And nibble they did.

Perch came first six or seven of them. Not monsters, but spirited little fighters with that trademark aggression that makes them such a joy. Each one a reminder that fishing doesn’t need to be monumental to be meaningful. Sometimes, it’s just about the rhythm the cast, the drift, the strike.

Then, about an hour in, the sleeper rod came alive.

Now, a zander doesn’t do things politely at this time of year. There’s no gentle enquiry, no tentative nibble. It’s a proper take, followed by a scrap that feels far bigger than the fish itself. This one was no exception. All fins, fury, and indignation, it fought like it had somewhere important to be and I was very much in the way.

Eventually, though, persistence wins. Into the net it came a cracking fish. Five pounds on the nose, full of spawn, and absolutely brimming with attitude. The kind of capture that makes the whole chaotic week fade into the background. Even the obligatory selfie felt like a victory rather than a chore, despite the fish’s clear disapproval.

By nine, the sun crept out and, as it so often does, switched the feeding off like someone flicking a light. Bites dried up. The moment passed. Time to pack up.

Back home, it was straight into Dad mode taking Ben out for what can only be described as a “liquid lunch” in Spoons and a pizza for him while his mum handled dinner lady duties. Sitting there, pint in hand, reflecting on a week that had veered wildly from digital disaster to unexpected angling success, I couldn’t help but think… I could get used to this.

Not the IT collapse, mind you. But the fishing. Definitely the fishing.

Roll on retirement !!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.143 (Canal Zander)

There are moments in angling that refuse to fade, etched into the mind with a clarity that rivals the sharpest winter dawn. This was one of those sessions. 2 years ago almost to the day. 

Now it began, as many good tales do, with a message urgent, insistent, and brimming with promise. Buffalo Si, out on the cut and into the fish, had stumbled upon something special. 

Zander, and not just the odd wanderer, but a proper shoal feeding, willing, and there for the taking. “Get yourself here now,” he’d said. And when a man like that calls with his eyes and ears to these towpaths, you don’t dawdle.

The canal, that quiet ribbon of water we so often underestimate, had come alive. I arrived with that blend of excitement and disbelief half expecting it to have all been a fleeting dream. But it wasn’t. The fish were there, just as promised. It didn’t take long before the first take came, that distinct, unmistakable zander bite indicated on the float finding the deadbait. 

A short scrap later and a solid six-pounder lay in the net, all glassy eyes and sharp intent. Another followed, then one nudging close to seven pounds a proper canal fish by any measure. There’s a certain satisfaction in such moments, not just in the catching, but in being there when everything aligns.

Those fish stayed with me. Not just their size or number, but the way the session unfolded unplanned, generous, shared. It’s the sort of angling that reminds you why you keep going back, why you endure the blanks and the bitter winds. And so, inevitably, the thought crept in during the following days: were they still there?

Anyway work finished, as it always does, with that gentle pull toward the water. The canal lay conveniently on the route home, almost inviting a detour. This time it would be a shorter affair, a dipping of the toe rather than a full immersion. Dusk would be settling in, that magical hour when the world softens and predators stir. If ever there was a chance to winkle one out, this was it.

The walk to the swim very nearly turned into an audition for “Britain’s Got Rabies” when, a couple of hundred yards off, a dog the size of a small hatchback locked eyes on me and decided my fishing rods were clearly weapons of mass biscuit destruction. Now, I’ve been barked at before, but this lad went off like I’d personally cancelled Christmas. 

The owners did that thing where they say “he’s fine” while holding on like they’re mooring a boat in a hurricane. “He just doesn’t like fishing rods,” they said. Brilliant. Of all the things for a towpath dog to dislike, he’s chosen the one thing I’m carrying that looks like a set of radio aerials. Anyway, once he’d finished his performance and realised I wasn’t invading Normandy, peace was restored and I carried on, only mildly traumatised and smelling faintly of fear.

With no boats moored towpath side I had a lovely run of cover to explore, so out went the overdepth float rods  smelt on one, roach on the other  like a man hedging his bets in a very slow, very wet casino. The banker swim got a full half hour, which in my world is basically a long-term relationship, but not a sign. 

So I started leapfrogging down the cover like a slightly overweight heron with a tackle addiction. Fourth swim finally a bite! I struck into absolutely nothing, which is always a lovely emotional rollercoaster. That could well have been my only chance, and the canal went back to being about as lively as a librarian’s tea party.

I tried a flyer beyond the bridge against some thick cover biteless. By now the light was dropping, the towpath was busy, and the nearby train line sounded like the 8:15 to Everywhere was running every three minutes. I wasn’t really enjoying it if I’m honest; it felt like fishing in the middle of a transport documentary. 

So, in true last-gasp fashion, I went back to the swim where I’d had that earlier bite and flung the smelt rod out. The float didn’t even settle properly which usually means either you’ve made a mess of the cast or something with fins has just mugged you on the drop. I gave it a little nudge and the float set off like it had remembered it left the oven on.

This time, as it headed for the cover, I leaned into the circle hook and there it was fish on, and unmistakably a Zander. It didn’t put up the full angry crocodile routine they sometimes do, but I wasn’t about to complain. Soon enough it was in the net and I may or may not have said “A fish! A fish! A fish!” out loud like a man who hasn’t seen one in several years. 

Not the biggest Zander in the world, but at that point it might as well have been a river monster. Blank avoided, dignity partially restored, and suddenly the dog, the trains, and the circus towpath all felt worth it. Funny how one fish can turn a grumble into a great evening fishing’s a strange game like that.

Eventually, practicality called time. Rods were packed away, boots shuffled back toward the car, and thoughts turned from fish to food. There’s a rhythm to these evenings effort followed by reward, even if the reward isn’t piscatorial. Tonight it would be curry, good company, and something decent in a glass.

The Craftsman provided the latter, as it often does. A place of many taps and varied temptations, but one in particular stood out. VAULT CITY’s DDF MARS DOUBLE DEEP FRIED IMPERIAL STOUT an unapologetic mouthful in both name and nature. 

At 15.5%, it demanded respect before the first sip was even taken. And yet, it delivered not with brute force, but with surprising finesse. Rich, warming, with that almost rum-cask character lingering at the edges it was a drink to savour rather than sup. Not cloying, not overly sweet, but balanced in a way that made you pause and appreciate it.

Sitting there, 1/3 pint in hand, the evening seemed to settle into place. The earlier question were the zander there? felt less pressing now. Perhaps they were, perhaps they weren’t. Fishing, after all, isn’t always about certainty. It’s about the pursuit, the possibility, the stories that emerge whether the nets are wet or dry.