Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.137 (Canal Zander)

So this blog ticked over 2 Million Views yesterday which was good, and even better the river season is nearly with us, for many like an impatient heron eyeing up a breakfast buffet, I find myself doing that thing again pacing around the garage over the last week, peering at my fishing rods like they're distant relatives I haven’t called in months. Truth be told, the closed season hasn't exactly had me leaping out of bed with bait box in hand. Odd that, considering I still enjoy being on the bank once I’ve actually prised myself away from the sofa, the biscuit tin, and the occasional existential crisis about the meaning of life 

But inspiration struck in an unlikely place the other day: Stratford-Upon-Avon. Shakespeare's stomping ground. I’d gone in search of coffee and perhaps a slice of existential drama, but instead found something considerably louder: a Ferrari Purosangue Italy’s answer to the age-old question “What if a lion mated with a spaceship?” 

The first Ferrari SUV, four doors, four seats, four-wheel drive and, presumably, four heart attacks per mile if you even dare scratch it. It looked, frankly, better than its publicity shots a bit like me, but in reverse. If I had the sort of money that gets casually lost down the back of Roman Abramovich’s sofa, I’d probably give it a whirl. Although I’d need to buy matching trousers just to be seen driving it.

Meanwhile, in news that made me feel equal parts proud and prematurely nostalgic, my time at Polestar is drawing to a close as I've applied for VR and it's been accepted, as sadly no more cars to develop are heading to the UK business side, which is a shame. But to be fair, I did get to work on the Polestar 5 from the first sketch right through to production with all 900 horsepower whispering like a caffeinated silent lion. 

Last week I was in the workshop surrounded by around 40 of the prototypes an oddly calming experience, like being in a very sleek, very Swedish zoo. I admit, it's a fine-looking beast. Let’s just hope the motoring press don’t get distracted by how many cupholders it has and forget to mention the fact it basically turns electroheads into poetry reciters. Sadly 400 jobs will be reduced to 130 or so, and it's time to move on with a few quid in my back pocket. 

What’s next? Well, there’s a whisper of something new, possibly back in a design studio, potentially working alongside clay modellers and 3D geniuses and many familiar faces. And let me tell you, there’s something weirdly satisfying about seeing a car go from Play-Doh blob to showroom sculpture. Of course, it all depends on a certain ‘thing’ being sorted what that is, exactly, remains classified, mostly because I haven’t figured it out yet. Still, fingers, toes, and even eyebrows crossed.

In the meantime, desperate to break the funk and remind myself what fresh air smells like, I headed down to the local canal for a quick zander session. My logic was: catch a couple before the river season kicks in, then retire the canal rods and ceremoniously dust off the river ones like a knight preparing for battle or at least mild wrist ache.

First chuck under some cover, and boom bite within seconds. Zander in the net, thank you and goodnight. Cast again to the same shady lair, another instant take two in the net before I’d even had time to grumble about my coffee being lukewarm. Small zander, mind you. About the size of an angry slipper. But still, fish are fish, especially when they arrive with the punctuality of a German train.

Of course, as fishing laws dictate, the action didn’t last. One more bite in two hours, and that one kept picking up the bait like it was doing a taste test, then spitting it out in disgust. Clearly not a monster the deadbait looked like it had been chewed by a toddler with commitment issues.

So, I packed up and headed home, fish tally at three, mood moderately perked. And then came a surprise: a Father’s Day present waiting for me a Lego Kingfisher. I hadn’t built Lego in years, not since the Great Pirate Ship Collapse of 1993. 

But Sam, recently 14 and already a grandmaster of the brick arts, reckons he can guide me through the construction without calling me an amateur more than three times. Which is progress.

So here I sit, torn between the anticipation of opening day on the river, the strange finality of leaving a fantastic job behind, the mild terror of building a Lego bird, and the unmistakable feeling that the best adventures whether on the bank or behind a design desk are just about to begin.