Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.4

I returned, blog readers, to that most glamorous of venues—Tramp Alley. A name that conjures images of refined solitude and gentlemanly pursuit, but in reality delivers the faint aroma of damp socks, regret, and something that may once have been a kebab. This time, however, I had a plan. An early start. The sort of optimism that only anglers and people who think they’ll enjoy DIY on a Sunday morning possess. The towpaths would be empty, I told myself. The boats would be still. The fish those elusive, silver-sided liars would be queuing up in orderly fashion, awaiting my maggots like patrons at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Naturally, this fantasy lasted approximately four minutes.

No sooner had I set foot on the towpath than I encountered walkers. Walkers! At that hour! What sort of people voluntarily roam canals before breakfast? Fitness enthusiasts, presumably—those peculiar individuals who enjoy suffering without even the decency of a fishing rod to justify it. We exchanged the universal British glance of mutual suspicion, each silently judging the other’s life choices. They likely thought me unhinged. I, of course, knew I was.

Undeterred, I pressed on to the very swim that had betrayed me previously. There had to be fish there. There always are. That’s the thing about fishing it runs almost entirely on blind faith and stubbornness. Mostly stubbornness. Unfortunately, a boat had moored precisely where I intended to fish. Of course it had. The canals, we are often reminded, are for everyone. A charming sentiment, though one that feels less delightful when “everyone” is parked exactly where you want to sit.

Still, I am nothing if not adaptable. Also grumpy, but adaptable. I squeezed into a nearby spot and began setting up, determined to show the canal who was in charge. (It is worth noting that the canal is always in charge.)

As I assembled my gear, a familiar and distinctly herbal aroma drifted into my nostrils. Turning to my left, I spotted him. The same scruffy chap as before, accompanied by what can only be described as a Rottweiler of mythological proportions. This beast looked capable of wrestling a grizzly bear and asking for a rematch. Thankfully, it was on a lead. One assumes reinforced with steel cables and prayers.

“Focus, Mick,” I muttered, dragging my attention back to the task at hand. “You’re here to fish, not to be eaten.”

And so, to the float. Ah, the float! A 3BB Drennan Antenna—an absolute masterpiece. The sort of float that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing, even when all available evidence suggests otherwise. I fish crudely on canals. Always have. There’s no finesse, no delicate artistry just a pragmatic, slightly agricultural approach that seems to work well enough. The fish, bless them, don’t appear to mind

The South Stratford, as ever, was its usual murky self. Years of boat traffic keep it nicely coloured, sparing us the horror of actually seeing how shallow it is. Only during the COVID lockdown, when boats ceased their endless churning, did the canal reveal its secrets namely that it is, in places, little more than a glorified puddle with ambitions.

My setup was simplicity itself. A small olivette anchored between float stops, a couple of inches from the hook, fished using the lift method. It’s a thing of beauty when it works—elegant, precise, and deeply satisfying. Of course, this assumes the fish are in a cooperative mood, which they rarely are.

Time passed. The float sat there, motionless, as if painted onto the surface. I began to question my my bait, and possibly my entire existence. The maggots, slightly past their prime, stared back at me with what I can only interpret as disappointment. “We used to be fresh,” they seemed to say. “Now look at us.” 

And then—at last! A lift. A perfect, unmistakable lift. The kind that sends a jolt of electricity through your entire being. 

I struck, and there it was—a lovely roach. Not enormous, not record-breaking, but honest. A proper canal fish. Soon after came another. And then, as if crashing the party uninvited, a rogue skimmer decided to join in.

For a brief, glorious period, everything worked. The bites, though few, were textbook. The hook-ups flawless. 

5 roach and 1 skimmer, that ain't bad, the biggest heading to 1lb I'd imagine. 

The sort of session that reminds you why you endure all the nonsense—the early mornings, the walkers, the suspicious aromas, and the ever-present possibility of canine mauling.

But, as is tradition, it couldn’t last.

By 8:30, the boats began to move. Slowly at first, then with increasing determination, like a mechanical migration of floating bathtubs. 

The water started towing, the float misbehaved, and the fish—those fickle creatures—vanished once more into whatever secret society they belong to.

I tried a few more spots on the way back, more out of habit than hope. 

Nothing. Not a bite. Not even a polite nibble. Just silence and the creeping realisation that the moment had passed.

Still, progress had been made. Fish had been caught. Dignity had been... partially maintained.

Next time, I think, I’ll explore somewhere new. There are miles upon miles of canal, each stretch holding the promise of better fishing, fewer walkers, and perhaps slightly less cannabis. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere more peaceful.

Though, knowing my luck, it’ll be full of joggers and swans with attitude.

Such is the angler’s lot.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.3

Now there are, blog readers, days in angling when one feels touched lightly, reverently, almost suspiciously by the invisible hand of piscatorial destiny. Days when the float dips with the punctuality of a Swiss train, the fish queue politely beneath your peg like well-mannered theatre-goers, and even the wind seems to whisper, “Go on then, have another one.”

And then there are days like this.

Days when your workplace IT infrastructure collapses with the quiet dignity of a soggy Rich Tea biscuit, and you find yourself staring into the abyss of a login screen that refuses—point blank—to acknowledge your existence. A screen so indifferent it might as well have sighed audibly and muttered, “Not today, mate.”

Our corporate vessel, once a proud ocean liner of productivity and synergy, currently sits somewhere between “adrift” and “being gently nudged toward relevance by a man in a borrowed kayak.” Systems flicker in and out of life like haunted Christmas lights, while hushed conversations circulate about a benchmarking document yes, a benchmarking document being assembled by myself and two equally weary engineers. A document so vast, so unnecessarily thorough, that it may yet be entered into the annals of history as The Most Expensive PowerPoint Ever Created by People Who’d Rather Be Fishing.

But then—glory be—CATIA returned.

Not in triumph. Not with fanfare. More in the manner of a slightly embarrassed guest who left a party early and has now crept back in through the kitchen pretending nothing happened. Still, it was enough. Enough to convince management that progress was occurring. Enough to convince me that I could make a dignified exit without being chased down the corridor by someone wielding a spreadsheet.

And so, with the urgency of a man escaping both digital despair and impending responsibility, I bundled the gear into the car and set off for that most enchanting of destinations: Tramp Alley.

Now, let us be clear. Tramp Alley is not—nor has it ever been—the sort of place that features in glossy angling magazines accompanied by sepia-toned sunrise photography and poetic captions about “nature’s quiet embrace.” No. Tramp Alley is a canal stretch that looks like it has witnessed several minor crimes, at least one major misunderstanding, and possibly a low-budget science experiment involving eels and regret.

The towpath itself is a rich tapestry of humanity. Dog walkers with dogs that appear to be walking them. Cyclists moving at speeds suggesting either urgency or poor planning. Joggers who look as though they’re being pursued by existential dread. And, of course, the occasional nocturnal philosopher who may or may not be arguing with a traffic cone.

It is, in short, character-building.

But—and this is crucial—there are fish.

Proper fish.

Roach with the sort of shoulders that suggest a disciplined regime of canal-based resistance training. Hybrids that look like they’ve made questionable life choices but are committed to them nonetheless. And the occasional chub—broad, knowing, and faintly judgmental like a retired pub landlord who’s seen everything and approved of very little.

I arrived with purpose. Also with wind. Quite a lot of wind, in fact, which had apparently taken a personal interest in my float control. Undeterred (or perhaps simply stubborn), I assembled the delightfully agricultural overdepth float setup: a 2SSG foam pellet waggler perched optimistically on the surface, with an AA shot anchoring matters somewhere near the Earth’s core.

It is not a refined method.

It is, however, a confident one.

Cast tight to features—overhanging branches, submerged mysteries, and at least one shopping trolley that looked like it had given up on life sometime around 2007—and present bread where fish feel safe and anglers feel mildly concerned about their surroundings.

Hookbait: bread.

Feed: liquidised bread.

Philosophy: “Let’s see what happens.”

A couple of teenagers were already fishing nearby, which was genuinely heartening. They reported missed bites always a comforting sign that fish exist, even if they’re currently laughing at someone else. 

I nodded sagely, as though I too had experienced bites that day, and wandered off to a stretch known for producing decent roach.

I fed several swims with the enthusiasm of a man who believes in outcomes. Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Half an hour passed without so much as a twitch. At one point, a lure angler appeared, as if summoned by the collective disappointment of the canal. He delivered a sobering report: years of struggle, rumours of electrofishing, predators now rarer than a functioning printer in the office. It was, frankly, not the pep talk I needed.

Still, I persisted. Because that’s what we do. We persist. We stare at motionless floats and convince ourselves that any second now something magical will occur.

Two hours later, I had achieved precisely nothing—an accomplishment that mirrored my earlier workday with alarming symmetry.

And so, with the quiet dignity of a man reaching for his “get out of jail” option, I packed down and shuffled back toward the car, pausing only at a last-chance swim known to harbour a mixed bag of opportunists: hybrids, roach, and the odd chub with ambitions.

The bread went out.

Five minutes later—five!—the float gave a confident, almost theatrical bob before vanishing beneath the surface like it had remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.

I struck.

Contact.

At last, something alive, something substantial, something that pulled back with the sort of authority that immediately erases two hours of existential doubt. There were head shakes—serious ones—the kind that make you think, “Ah. Now then. This could be the roach. The roach.”

It was not the roach.

It was a chub.

A perfectly respectable, slightly smug, entirely uninvited chub.

Not the target. Not the dream. But in that moment—after the day I’d had—it might as well have been a personal endorsement from the angling gods themselves.

And you know what?

That would do me.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.2

There are few things in life more suspicious than a “jobbers forced holiday.” It sounds, on paper, like an unexpected blessing like finding a tenner in an old coat pocket but in reality it’s usually the universe’s way of saying, “You’re about to eat too much cheese and question your life choices at 3:17am on Monday morning.” 

And so it came to pass that, thanks to some catastrophic IT meltdown at work (no doubt caused by someone turning it off and on again with malicious intent), I found myself at home for a week. 

Not suffering, you understand—no, no—merely enduring comfort.

Naturally, the Wife and I did what any sensible, mature adults would do in such circumstances: we committed to a full-scale series binge. 

Hours passed. Possibly days. Time became a social construct. Characters we’d never met before became more familiar than our own neighbours. 

Meals became events, and events became excuses to eat again. Which brings me neatly, and with a certain amount of lingering regret, to The Camembert Incident post a rather large roast dinner.

Now, baked camembert is not food. It is an experience. Add to that a garlic bread ring because clearly subtlety is for the weak—and a glass (read: bottle) of white wine, and what you have is less a meal and more a gastrointestinal experiment. At the time, it felt like genius. A culinary masterstroke. A warm, gooey triumph of indulgence. Later, as I lay staring into the abyss of the bedroom ceiling, clutching my chest like a Victorian poet, it felt more like I’d swallowed a lit candle.

Sleep, when it came, was not restful but… cinematic. I found myself wandering into what can only be described as the perfect pub. Not one of these modern affairs with exposed brick and ironic lighting, but a proper place—worn wood, low hum of conversation, and, most importantly, Big Roach Imperial Stout on tap. 

On tap! I nearly wept. And as if that weren’t enough, behind the bar stood a woman who not only knew her ales but was also, improbably, a fisherman. 

A barmaid who could talk rigs and swims. A unicorn in human form. She promised secret spots, monster fish, whispered knowledge of waters unseen. I was ready to abandon reality entirely and live there forever.

Which is, of course, when I woke up. Not gently. Not peacefully. But with the kind of volcanic heartburn that makes you briefly consider writing a will. 

Milk was deployed. Ineffective. Regret was acknowledged. Sleep was abandoned. And so, in a moment of delirious logic, I decided that the best course of action on minimal rest and maximum dairy trauma was to go fishing.

Now, arriving at the canal at an ungodly hour with a head full of dreams and a stomach full of molten cheese, one expects at least a semblance of normality. 

What one does not expect is to find an entire pound… missing. Not metaphorically. Not “oh it looks a bit low.” 

No. Gone. Empty. A canal without water is, as it turns out, just a very disappointing ditch. I stood there, blinking, wondering if the camembert had finally tipped me into hallucination. But no. It was real. Vast. Dry. Confusing.

There were the occasional fish topping, which only added to the mystery. Where had they been hiding? Had they packed little suitcases and relocated overnight? Had there been some sort of piscine evacuation order? Questions, as always, went unanswered.

With the determination of a man who has already committed to the day and therefore cannot back out without losing face (even though no one is watching), I pressed on to the next full pound and set up shop. Out went the zander rod. Out went the bread rod with a lift float rig—a thing of delicate beauty, like a ballet dancer with hooks. There were signs of life. Flickers. Movements. Hope. And then… absolutely nothing.

Now, I am not a patient man. I like fishing, yes but I also like catching. The distinction is important. Forty minutes without a bite feels less like a hobby and more like a personal insult. So off I trudged to Bream Bay, a place that has, in the past, treated me with at least mild respect.

I pre-baited one swim like a professional—methodical, confident, optimistic—and then decided, in a move of tactical genius, to fish fifty yards to the left first. It was here that I discovered that I had placed my zander rod approximately one gnats-nadger away from a dog deposit of impressive scale and questionable intent. Honestly, some of these deposits look less like accidents and more like statements.

Still, public service called. Out came the forestry pink marker spray. If you’re going to suffer, you might as well make it educational for others. Somewhere, a future angler will see that fluorescent warning and silently thank me. Or curse me. Either way, I’ve made an impact.

Back to the fishing. Another forty minutes. Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a sniff. At this point, even a confused leaf drifting into the line would have been welcomed as interaction. So I returned to the pre-baited swim, more out of stubbornness than belief.

And then—miracle of miracles—within five minutes, fish. Two bream. Not glamorous, not heroic, but undeniably present and slightly fragrant. The first took the bread on the drop, which is always a lovely moment like the universe briefly remembering you exist. 

The second produced a lift bite so perfect it could have been choreographed. The float rose with purpose, as if auditioning for a fishing textbook.

“Here we go,” I thought. “This is it. This is the run.” It was not the run.

Silence returned. The swim died. The fish, apparently satisfied with their cameo appearances, departed for more interesting engagements elsewhere. 

I moved swims. I tried again. I tried again again. Nothing. It was like being ghosted by an entire canal.

Eventually, curfew loomed, as it tends to do when one has family obligations and a body running on fumes and dairy. I packed up, slightly defeated but technically not blanking—a small but vital victory.

On the way back, salvation appeared in the form of the canal authorities, who informed me that the Great Disappearing Pound Mystery had a wonderfully simple explanation: “Some idiot left the paddle open.” Of course. Not sabotage. Not natural disaster. Just classic human error. Comforting, in a way.

The day concluded, as all respectable days should, with a couple of drinks, some questionable attempts at F1 arcade simulators (where I discovered I drive like a shopping trolley with commitment issues), and a plate of Thai drunken noodles that may or may not have reignited the earlier heartburn situation.

And so here I am, on the eve of returning to work, reflecting on a week that included dreams of perfect pubs, existential canal mysteries, fluorescent dog warnings, and just enough fish to maintain dignity. The coffers, much like that empty pound, are in desperate need of refilling. Work calls.

Still… if that barmaid ever turns up in real life, I’m quitting immediately.