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.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.1

Back out on the big roach canal hunt then, because apparently I don’t learn. The rivers, having spent most of the winter impersonating runaway fire hoses, finally closed in a sulk, leaving me stood in the garage staring at my trotting rods like an abandoned Victorian orphan. Weeks on end they were up, angry, brown, and absolutely uninterested in my dreams of gliding floats and thick-set chub. Every time the level dropped a fraction and hope dared to raise its head, bang more rain, more floodwater, and more footage of fields doing a convincing impression of freshwater aquariums.

Trotting? Not a chance. Smaller streams? Forget it. I’d barely finished tying a stick float rig before the Environment Agency website looked like a graph of my blood pressure during Christmas dinner and the post port and cheese. 

And so, like many anglers, I could have packed it in. Hung the rods up. Pretended I enjoy “other hobbies”. But no. Needs must. And needs, in this case, look suspiciously like turbid Warwickshire canals and a deep-seated refusal to sit indoors being productive.

I’m quite lucky really. There are canals everywhere near me, slithering through the countryside like forgotten shoelaces. Some are five minutes away, others half an hour if the traffic gods smile upon me. Last closed season I stayed fairly local, which sounds sensible and mature until you realise the results were… let’s say inconsistent. 

Yes, I had a PB roach from a short drive away a moment of glory that I will dine out on until at least 2037 but for every success there were long, soul-searching blanks punctuated only by the sound of distant engines and closer digestive activity from dogs.

Usually, I’d be off like a shot the moment narrowboats started moving “in anger”. There’s something about a 70-foot floating shed grinding past your float that tests even the calmest angler. But this year is different. 

This year there is a challenge. And when there’s a challenge, you adapt. Or at least you bring more rods and convince yourself it’s a strategy.

So the main approach will be bread under a float (Drennan discontinued Glow Tip Antenna's no less) , fished with a centrepin, because I enjoy watching things move slowly and pretending it’s all very traditional and skillful. 

There’s something deeply satisfying about a centrepin the gentle spin, the soft purr, the way it makes you feel superior to absolutely nobody. Bread, too, is a wonderful bait. It catches everything, nothing, and sometimes your own expectations all at once.

But because the canals I fish are often the colour of old gravy, I’ll also from time to time try a quivertip rod with, a Cadence Wand, no less, which sounds like something you’d use to summon fish rather than catch them. 

On the end of that will be a humble worm, because if you can’t see your bait, you might as well offer something that looks like it’s alive and vaguely panicking.

In theory, the worm might single out a bigger fish. In practice, it will sit there nobly while I stare at the tip, mentally willing it to move. The quivertip will twitch. Or maybe it won’t. Either way, I’ll convince myself something nearly happened.

Naturally and I say this like it’s perfectly reasonable I’ll also have a sleeper zander rod with me. Because canal zander are brilliant, and because hope springs eternal. 

There is always the possibility that a big, toothy predator will appear out of nowhere and validate the extra effort of carrying yet another rod along a towpath designed in 1793.

Speaking of towpaths, it’s time once again to tread the dog poo-riddled ribbon of despair that runs alongside our nation’s canals. These paths are a minefield. Every step is a moral choice. Is that mud? Is that goose muck? Or is that something deposited by a dog that’s been raised on raw meat and unresolved anger?

You develop a special walk. A sort of cautious, mincing shuffle that says, “I am alert, but I am also resigned.” Your eyes flick between the water, your rods, and the ground like a paranoid meerkat. Somewhere behind you, a cyclist is judging you.

Still, there’s something oddly comforting about it all. The murky water. The graffiti that appears to have been written mid-argument. The sound of a narrowboat approaching just as you’ve finally settled into a swim. You’ll hear it before you see it a low mechanical rumble that sends your float drifting sideways and your optimism into early retirement.

And yet… you wait. You watch. You convince yourself the float lifted half a millimetre. You strike, miss everything, and nod thoughtfully as if that was all part of the plan. You adjust the depth by a fraction, because doing something feels better than admitting the fish have unionised against you.

Then, occasionally, gloriously, it happens. The float slides away or lifts out of the water with purpose. The centrepin spins. The rod bends. And into the net comes a proper canal roach slabby, broad, and utterly unimpressed by your excitement. For a moment, everything makes sense. The floods, the closed rivers, the dog poo, the extra rods, all of it.

So yes, while others wait patiently for June, I’ll be out there. Bread under a float. Worm on a quivertip. Zander rod brooding quietly. Back on the canals, chasing big roach in water that looks like soup, along towpaths that test both balance and faith.

Because this is fishing. And frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now then.

That float definitely moved that time.

Didn’t it?

Late afternoon, the sort of time when optimism goes fishing and reality brings a chair, I found myself watching a float that had all the enthusiasm of a civil servant on a Friday. Earlier, mind you, things had briefly threatened competence a Zander had a go, charged about like it owned the canal, and turned the swim into something resembling a budget white-water course. Naturally, this rendered my carefully laid plans about as useful as a chocolate keepnet. I sat, I waited, I questioned my life choices.

Eventually, the tow died down and with it my patience, so out came the bread—classic, dependable, the angler’s equivalent of “this will definitely work.” I’d seen fish topping here days before, rolling about like they were auditioning for a nature documentary. Today, however, they’d clearly been tipped off. Two hours passed. Not a tremor, not a dimple, not even a courtesy nibble. The float remained as still as a Starmer under questioning.

In a move born of desperation (and mild delusion), I trudged fifteen minutes to another swim, convinced this one would be different. Of course it would. New water, new luck, new me. Half an hour later—BANG the float didn’t just lift a nadger, it attempted orbit. I struck with the confidence of a man who absolutely knew what was on the end.

And yes, I did know. That slow, stubborn, wet-sock resistance… the unmistakable charisma vacuum of a bream. A proper “Sean from Snagged Bro special,” as tradition dictates. Not so much a fight as a prolonged disagreement. Still, I landed it, admired it in the way one admires a tax bill, and pretended this was all part of the plan.

I carried on until the float vanished into the gloom, less from fish activity and more from the sun giving up. A session that promised much, delivered little, and yet somehow still felt like fishing—glorious, baffling, mildly infuriating fishing. On to the next one, where I fully expect the fish to continue their campaign of psychological warfare.

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....