Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.135 (Canal Zander)

There are moments in an angler’s life when he questions everything: his decisions, his tactics, even his alarm clock. This was one of those mornings. Closed season? Yes. Motivation levels? Somewhere between "should I bother?" and "what’s the point?" But still, like a stubborn terrier with a scent, I headed out because Zander don’t catch themselves, and my enthusiasm, though wavering, was just enough to push me through the door before sunrise.

Target for the day: canal Zander. Location: one of my local hotspots. Method: the old faithful—leapfrogging stretches of cover with a small roach deadbait, float set overdepth for that delicious visual take. It’s the kind of fishing that still gets the heart racing, even after years of chasing those spiky-finned vampires.

And bless the canal gods within minutes of my first cast, the float bobbed, trembled, and then zipped off like a toddler chasing a balloon. Strike! A modest schoolie, lightly hooked, clearly confused but compliant. Quick pic. Back he went. Then, not twenty minutes later, another one of similar size. Perhaps they'd missed the closed season memo.

But as it always does, the action slowed, and with it, my legs began to fidget. Time for a rove.

Now, if fishing teaches you anything, it's that anglers are a rare breed: part hunter, part philosopher, part caffeine-addled weather forecaster however, I bumped into a lure angler currently blanking and hoping a bit of chat would change his fortunes. 

We exchanged tales, tactics, and mutual grumbles about the absence of anything over 2lb in that stretch of the Grand Union.

Then BAM! My float, resting like a lazy duck just moments ago, suddenly shot left with all the subtlety of a speedboat in a no-wake zone. A textbook Zander strike. And there it was: another schoolie, not huge, but feisty enough to remind me why I do this. My lure-flinging companion looked mildly betrayed, but also impressed. The float method strikes again.

We parted ways, him still fishless, me smugly a few up up, and wouldn't you know it, one more Zander fell for the roach routine just as I was considering packing up. Four in total. All clones. No Grand Union monsters today apparently they were all having a lie-in or possibly off at some Zander conference discussing the ethics of float-fishing.

But time was ticking, and duty called. Not to work, not to errands but to the BBQ. Pulled pork doesn't slow cook itself, and my Weber kettle had a date with a lump of pork shoulder and an unhealthy dose of smoky ambition. There’s something sacred about prepping meat for hours of slow alchemy while reminiscing about a productive morning on the water.

As I laid out the charcoal and fired up the tunes Steve Parry and Selador pumping through the JBL a hawk moth the size of a Cornish pasty appeared. Not for the pork, I don’t think, but possibly to vibe to the beats. Fair play, moth. You've got taste.

And so, a morning of modest fish, a natter, and an accidental rave with local wildlife came to a close. The big Zander may have snubbed me, but the little ones danced. And so did the moth. Less than a month to the closed season chaps, I really cannot wait.