Now it all started with a very optimistic plan: Sam and I would rise early, hit the canal marina at the crack of dawn, and gently pluck bream and hybrids from the water like serene, fish-whispering Zen masters. You know, just two chaps enjoying the quiet simplicity of angling, one with nature, rods in hand, sandwiches in pockets. A pure and noble pursuit.
Except we both needed to be prised from our duvets.
By the time we eventually rolled up to the canal, it was less "crack of dawn" and more "brunch with boats." The marina was alive with the chaos of holiday hire boats meandering about like oversized bath toys set loose by excitable toddlers. There was more engine revving and dodgy reversing than a learner driver's convention.
And, of course, all that boat activity stirred up the canal water. The tow was all over the place, so Sam had to stick his rod so high in the air it looked like he was trying to get a signal for canal Wi-Fi. He spent most of the morning adjusting his setup like a frustrated TV aerial technician in 1998.
Still, we gave it a good go. We baited our swims with bread and groundbait, settling in for what we hoped would be a replay of my last glorious bream-catching session. I had visions of thick, bronze-bodied bream sliding smoothly into my net while Sam looked on with the kind of jealousy only fishing buddies can muster.
What actually happened was... absolutely nothing.
Not a nibble. Not a bite. Not even a suspicious bubble. Just us, sat there like a pair of over-equipped statues, quietly pretending we weren’t losing the will to live. And to top it off, the towpath was heaving – like Piccadilly Circus on a Saturday, only with more Lycra-clad cyclists and less regard for personal space. One guy even managed to walk straight through our swim while loudly announcing he was training for a triathlon. We wished him luck and quietly cursed his calves.
Eventually, we reached the universal angler’s conclusion: Sod this.
So, we packed up the rods, took a deep breath, and pivoted to Plan B – magnet fishing. If you’re unfamiliar, magnet fishing is like fishing, but instead of hoping for scaly creatures, you’re trying to haul centuries-old junk out of the murky depths with a magnet that could probably ruin your phone from ten feet away.
We headed to a spot near the locks and bridges, prime magnet fishing locations, which is code for “where a lot of stuff has been accidentally (or drunkenly) thrown in since 1793.”
The sun had come out by then, and the skies were so blue it almost looked Photoshopped but don't be fooled. It was still cold enough to remind us that the British spring is more of a concept than a season.
After a good hour of flinging the magnet into the canal and pulling out increasingly disappointing bits of nothing, Sam finally struck gold metaphorically speaking. He reeled in a solid chunk of metal: an ancient-looking rivet, encrusted with history and canal gunk.
We both stared at it like archaeologists discovering an old Roman toothbrush.
“It’s probably from the South Stratford Canal itself,” I said, with all the confidence of someone who definitely didn’t just make that up. “Built between 1793 and 1816.”
Sam, beaming, declared it was going straight into his collection of tat , a proudly eclectic museum of mysterious metallic odds and ends. One kids’s rubbish is another kids’s weirdly shaped talking point.
So while we didn’t catch any bream, or even see one, the day wasn’t a total loss. We got fresh air, a bit of sun, and the thrill of possibly tetanus-inducing treasure. Not to mention the deep satisfaction of knowing we beat the triathlon guy to the best lockside bench.
All in all, not a bad way to spend a slightly disorganized, thoroughly entertaining morning on the canal.
Moral of the story? Always pack a magnet. The bream might ghost you, but the tat never disappoints.
And here was the prize !!
I don't think I'll be able to retire on it anyway 😃Still Sam went home happy and that's all that mattered !!
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