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....

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.144 (Canal Perch and Zander)

There are moments in life when everything feels finely balanced, delicately poised like a well-shotted waggler on a calm canal… and then, without warning, someone boots the rod rest, knocks your tea over, and sets fire to the landing net. Last Thursday, somewhere between a mid-morning brew and a half-hearted attempt at productivity in the automotive design studio, that exact feeling descended upon us except instead of fire, it was IT. Which, in many ways, is worse.

It began innocently enough. A little pop-up. Bottom right corner. The digital equivalent of a polite cough before chaos. “Attempting to access IP address…” it said, or something equally sinister and vaguely unhelpful. Being seasoned professionals, we collectively shrugged and carried on, because if you reacted to every strange IT message, you'd never get anything done. Besides, the organisation was “blocking it,” which sounded reassuring in the same way a garden fence reassures you about an approaching rhinoceros.

By late afternoon, however, the studio had begun to unravel like a cheap spool of line under pressure. Systems started dropping out one by one. Drives vanished. Applications wheezed their last. Wi-Fi went funny. The general mood shifted from mild curiosity to that quiet, creeping dread normally reserved for when you realise you've left the landing net in the garage.

Friday brought hope, or at least the illusion of it. There were “workarounds” that marvellous IT phrase which translates roughly to “this might function if you don’t breathe on it.” I clung onto my CATIA licence like a carp angler grips his last boilie during a blank session, managing to work locally and avoid the increasingly haunted Indian network. Forty-plus hours ticked off by lunchtime, I clocked out feeling smug and slightly heroic, convinced the tech wizards would wave their digital wands over the weekend and restore order, despite the main IT guy gone AWOL.

Blog readers they did not.

Monday arrived like a damp bivvy morning grey, disappointing, and smelling faintly of something gone wrong. The systems were not just broken; they were caput. Not resting. Not updating. Not “experiencing issues.” Properly, gloriously dead. The design studio had all the functionality of a chocolate teapot. By midday, I’d been reassigned to “A2MAC1 benchmarking duties,” which is a polite way of saying “find something to do that doesn’t involve working systems.”

And then came the bombshell. IT, those brave custodians of cables and confusion, admitted defeat. “Not anytime soon,” they said. “See you next Tuesday.” Next Tuesday. As if we were discussing a casual pint rather than my entire working week evaporating like mist off a canal at sunrise. As a jobber on an hourly rate, this wasn’t a quirky inconvenience it was financial vandalism. A forced holiday, unrequested and entirely unpaid. The sort of surprise nobody enjoys.

Naturally, I approached Tuesday with a sense of purpose. By which I mean I did absolutely nothing. A lie-in, a leisurely clean of the Jimny, a bit of rod sorting the kind of day that feels productive until you realise you’ve achieved nothing of actual consequence. Still, there are worse ways to spend time than tinkering with fishing gear and pretending you’re preparing for greatness.

Sam, meanwhile, had a rare day off school with a dodgy tummy and a level of honesty that cut through the morning like a sharp hooklink. “Don’t want to poo myself in school, Daddy,” he declared. “I’d be known as the kid who sh*t himself.” LANGUAGE !! A fair point, delivered with the clarity of someone who understands the brutal social economy of the playground. Some reputations, once earned, are impossible to shake.

Just as I began to contemplate a proper fishing session the next day to salvage the week, fate intervened once more. A message from 16 year old Ben’s special needs hub in Stratford-Upon-Avon arrived the night before: boiler issues. Closed. No warmth, no learning, no peace. Plans shifted again. Fishing window reduced to a couple of hours a frantic dash rather than a leisurely campaign.

Still, a couple of hours is better than none, and with a tip-off from Buffalo Si's mate Security Neil about a local perch spot, I was off. The venue was an inlet from a lock above, a place where the water moved just enough to make things interesting. The sort of swim that whispers promise while simultaneously reminding you that gongoozlers, and the ever-present dog poo bag waving brigade are never far away.

Thankfully, there’s always a way. A bit of manoeuvring over the rather high lock paddles and I found myself tucked away from the main towpath, in a spot that felt almost… peaceful. The flow was perfect either tight to the wall or a metre out where it behaved like a miniature river. A proper little gem.

Out went the perch bobber, maggots and worms from my own wormery doing their duty like loyal soldiers. Alongside it, a sleeper rod for zander, armed with a roach deadbait and quiet optimism. The kind of setup that says, “I’m here for anything that fancies a nibble.”

And nibble they did.

Perch came first six or seven of them. Not monsters, but spirited little fighters with that trademark aggression that makes them such a joy. Each one a reminder that fishing doesn’t need to be monumental to be meaningful. Sometimes, it’s just about the rhythm the cast, the drift, the strike.

Then, about an hour in, the sleeper rod came alive.

Now, a zander doesn’t do things politely at this time of year. There’s no gentle enquiry, no tentative nibble. It’s a proper take, followed by a scrap that feels far bigger than the fish itself. This one was no exception. All fins, fury, and indignation, it fought like it had somewhere important to be and I was very much in the way.

Eventually, though, persistence wins. Into the net it came a cracking fish. Five pounds on the nose, full of spawn, and absolutely brimming with attitude. The kind of capture that makes the whole chaotic week fade into the background. Even the obligatory selfie felt like a victory rather than a chore, despite the fish’s clear disapproval.

By nine, the sun crept out and, as it so often does, switched the feeding off like someone flicking a light. Bites dried up. The moment passed. Time to pack up.

Back home, it was straight into Dad mode taking Ben out for what can only be described as a “liquid lunch” in Spoons and a pizza for him while his mum handled dinner lady duties. Sitting there, pint in hand, reflecting on a week that had veered wildly from digital disaster to unexpected angling success, I couldn’t help but think… I could get used to this.

Not the IT collapse, mind you. But the fishing. Definitely the fishing.

Roll on retirement !!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.143 (Canal Zander)

There are moments in angling that refuse to fade, etched into the mind with a clarity that rivals the sharpest winter dawn. This was one of those sessions. 2 years ago almost to the day. 

Now it began, as many good tales do, with a message urgent, insistent, and brimming with promise. Buffalo Si, out on the cut and into the fish, had stumbled upon something special. 

Zander, and not just the odd wanderer, but a proper shoal feeding, willing, and there for the taking. “Get yourself here now,” he’d said. And when a man like that calls with his eyes and ears to these towpaths, you don’t dawdle.

The canal, that quiet ribbon of water we so often underestimate, had come alive. I arrived with that blend of excitement and disbelief half expecting it to have all been a fleeting dream. But it wasn’t. The fish were there, just as promised. It didn’t take long before the first take came, that distinct, unmistakable zander bite indicated on the float finding the deadbait. 

A short scrap later and a solid six-pounder lay in the net, all glassy eyes and sharp intent. Another followed, then one nudging close to seven pounds a proper canal fish by any measure. There’s a certain satisfaction in such moments, not just in the catching, but in being there when everything aligns.

Those fish stayed with me. Not just their size or number, but the way the session unfolded unplanned, generous, shared. It’s the sort of angling that reminds you why you keep going back, why you endure the blanks and the bitter winds. And so, inevitably, the thought crept in during the following days: were they still there?

Anyway work finished, as it always does, with that gentle pull toward the water. The canal lay conveniently on the route home, almost inviting a detour. This time it would be a shorter affair, a dipping of the toe rather than a full immersion. Dusk would be settling in, that magical hour when the world softens and predators stir. If ever there was a chance to winkle one out, this was it.

The walk to the swim very nearly turned into an audition for “Britain’s Got Rabies” when, a couple of hundred yards off, a dog the size of a small hatchback locked eyes on me and decided my fishing rods were clearly weapons of mass biscuit destruction. Now, I’ve been barked at before, but this lad went off like I’d personally cancelled Christmas. 

The owners did that thing where they say “he’s fine” while holding on like they’re mooring a boat in a hurricane. “He just doesn’t like fishing rods,” they said. Brilliant. Of all the things for a towpath dog to dislike, he’s chosen the one thing I’m carrying that looks like a set of radio aerials. Anyway, once he’d finished his performance and realised I wasn’t invading Normandy, peace was restored and I carried on, only mildly traumatised and smelling faintly of fear.

With no boats moored towpath side I had a lovely run of cover to explore, so out went the overdepth float rods  smelt on one, roach on the other  like a man hedging his bets in a very slow, very wet casino. The banker swim got a full half hour, which in my world is basically a long-term relationship, but not a sign. 

So I started leapfrogging down the cover like a slightly overweight heron with a tackle addiction. Fourth swim finally a bite! I struck into absolutely nothing, which is always a lovely emotional rollercoaster. That could well have been my only chance, and the canal went back to being about as lively as a librarian’s tea party.

I tried a flyer beyond the bridge against some thick cover biteless. By now the light was dropping, the towpath was busy, and the nearby train line sounded like the 8:15 to Everywhere was running every three minutes. I wasn’t really enjoying it if I’m honest; it felt like fishing in the middle of a transport documentary. 

So, in true last-gasp fashion, I went back to the swim where I’d had that earlier bite and flung the smelt rod out. The float didn’t even settle properly which usually means either you’ve made a mess of the cast or something with fins has just mugged you on the drop. I gave it a little nudge and the float set off like it had remembered it left the oven on.

This time, as it headed for the cover, I leaned into the circle hook and there it was fish on, and unmistakably a Zander. It didn’t put up the full angry crocodile routine they sometimes do, but I wasn’t about to complain. Soon enough it was in the net and I may or may not have said “A fish! A fish! A fish!” out loud like a man who hasn’t seen one in several years. 

Not the biggest Zander in the world, but at that point it might as well have been a river monster. Blank avoided, dignity partially restored, and suddenly the dog, the trains, and the circus towpath all felt worth it. Funny how one fish can turn a grumble into a great evening fishing’s a strange game like that.

Eventually, practicality called time. Rods were packed away, boots shuffled back toward the car, and thoughts turned from fish to food. There’s a rhythm to these evenings effort followed by reward, even if the reward isn’t piscatorial. Tonight it would be curry, good company, and something decent in a glass.

The Craftsman provided the latter, as it often does. A place of many taps and varied temptations, but one in particular stood out. VAULT CITY’s DDF MARS DOUBLE DEEP FRIED IMPERIAL STOUT an unapologetic mouthful in both name and nature. 

At 15.5%, it demanded respect before the first sip was even taken. And yet, it delivered not with brute force, but with surprising finesse. Rich, warming, with that almost rum-cask character lingering at the edges it was a drink to savour rather than sup. Not cloying, not overly sweet, but balanced in a way that made you pause and appreciate it.

Sitting there, 1/3 pint in hand, the evening seemed to settle into place. The earlier question were the zander there? felt less pressing now. Perhaps they were, perhaps they weren’t. Fishing, after all, isn’t always about certainty. It’s about the pursuit, the possibility, the stories that emerge whether the nets are wet or dry.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.142 (Canal Zander)

There are few acts in modern life more heroic, more ambitious, and ultimately more fragile than a man deciding with absolute conviction that he is going fishing early in the morning. Not just any morning either, but a Saturday. A sacred morning. A morning traditionally reserved for sleeping like a log that’s recently been hit over the head. And yet, there I was, awake before the birds had even finished negotiating whether they could be bothered, gear loaded in the car like I was embarking on some grand expedition, and the kettle roaring into life with all the promise of a new beginning.

Now, it’s at this exact point kettle on, boots half-laced, mind brimming with imagined catches that reality likes to quietly tap you on the shoulder and whisper, “You don’t actually have to do this, you know.” It’s never loud. Never dramatic. Just a gentle suggestion. A seed planted. And before you know it, you’re standing there, staring at the kettle like it’s personally wronged you, questioning everything. The canal will be cold. The fish will be moody. Your hands will resemble frozen sausages. Meanwhile, upstairs, your bed sits in serene, judgment-free silence, radiating warmth like a loyal old friend who’s never once let you down.

The kettle clicked off. That was the turning point. Not a bang, not a crash just a quiet, decisive “nope.” The deadbaits, which moments earlier had been symbols of optimism, were solemnly returned to the freezer like soldiers dismissed before battle. And with all the grace of a man who absolutely intended to go fishing five minutes ago, I turned on my heel and went straight back to bed. A tactical withdrawal. A strategic regroup. A complete surrender to comfort. I slept like a champion.

Now, I’d love to say this was a rare lapse in discipline, but that would be a lie of heroic proportions. Until the clocks change, I operate on what can only be described as a seasonal malfunction. The enthusiasm is there oh, it’s there in abundance but it’s buried under layers of frost, darkness, and a deep-rooted suspicion that being horizontal is simply the better option. Come lighter evenings, I’m a different man. A motivated man. A man who actually follows through. But in late winter? I’m essentially negotiating with myself on an hourly basis.

Redemption, however, came in the form of an afternoon trip to Stratford-Upon-Avon a place that feels like it was specifically designed to make you forget you bottled a fishing session. Sam was there on his bike, full of energy and clearly unaware of the psychological battles that had already been fought and lost that morning. The rabble were in attendance too, bringing with them the usual blend of noise, chaos, and inexplicable stick-collecting. It was all very wholesome, very pleasant, and just the right amount of distracting.

Naturally, this wholesome experience was elevated to near perfection with a visit to the Dirty Duck, where a pint was consumed with the kind of satisfaction normally reserved for people who’ve actually achieved something. It didn’t matter. In that moment, I felt like a winner. A well-rested, slightly fraudulent winner, but a winner nonetheless.

Sunday morning, though Sunday was different. Sunday had purpose. Sunday had grit. Sunday had frost so thick it looked like the fields had been dusted with icing sugar by an overenthusiastic baker. It was properly cold. The sort of cold that sneaks into your bones and sets up camp. Naturally, this is exactly the sort of weather that inspires a man to go and stand next to water for several hours.

I headed to a nearby stretch about fifteen minutes away known for occasionally producing a big fish. And when I say “occasionally,” I mean just enough to keep hope alive while simultaneously destroying your confidence over time. A classic relationship, really.

The plan was simple: rove about, cover water, find fish. A smelt on one rod, a roach on the other a dynamic duo of optimism. The zander in this stretch have a distinct black tinge to them, which gives them a slightly villainous appearance, like they’ve been plotting something. Not that I saw any. But I know they’re there. Watching. Judging.

An hour in the first swim a swim that has, in the past, been generous produced absolutely nothing. Not even a courtesy nibble. It was the aquatic equivalent of being ignored in a conversation. The only real entertainment came from a group of lambs in the field opposite, who were bouncing around with reckless joy, completely oblivious to the fact that I was slowly losing the will to feel my fingers. Honestly, they were having a better session than me.

And so, the roving began in earnest. Five swims. Five fresh starts. Five opportunities to turn things around. Each one approached with renewed enthusiasm and left with slightly less dignity than the last. The water was crystal clear  the kind of clarity that makes fish behave like paranoid conspiracy theorists. Every movement, every shadow, every slightly suspicious-looking human with a landing net  all immediately noted and avoided.

What I needed was a boat. Just one. A nice, inconsiderate boat to come chugging through, stirring everything up, giving me half a chance. I waited. I listened. I even glanced into the distance like a man expecting reinforcements. Nothing. Not a ripple. It was as if the entire canal network had collectively agreed to ruin my day.

There was, however, a moment  a brief, electrifying moment when the float snapped from flat to vertical like it had just remembered an urgent appointment. Heart racing, eyes locked, brain firing on all cylinders. 

This was it. The bite. The moment. The story. Except… no. Nothing. It just… stopped. Like a joke with no punchline. I was left staring at it, trying to process what had just happened, like a man who’s just waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at him.

They’ve been dredging along that stretch too, which has transformed one of the nicest swims known affectionately as Bream Bay into something resembling a construction site. 

Piles of silt dumped on the side, the whole place looking like it’s been through a rough breakup. It’s still fishable, technically, but it’s lost a bit of its soul. You can tell.

Four and a half hours later, the result was undeniable: a blank. A proper, honest, can’t-even-blame-the-moon-phase blank. 

The kind that strips things back and reminds you exactly what this pastime is all about prolonged optimism followed by quiet disappointment.

The frustrating part? The conditions were absolutely perfect for float fishing for smaller species. Calm water. 

Hardly any movement. The sort of scenario where you could probably catch something… anything… just to avoid total humiliation. Naturally, I had committed fully to not doing that.

The walk back to the car was a slow one. Not dramatic. Not tragic. Just… reflective. 

The gear seemed heavier, the cold a bit sharper, and my internal commentary had shifted firmly into sarcasm. 

Still, there’s always a safety net in these situations. A reliable, comforting, slightly frothy safety net.

The pub.

A pint of Theakston’s Old Peculiar was secured, and let me tell you it tasted like success. Not actual success, obviously. More like emotional compensation. 

But at that point, I was more than willing to accept it. And now here we are. Gear still in the car. Hope, somehow, still intact. The itch returning, as it always does. 

Because despite everything the blanks, the cold, the self-inflicted misery there’s always that tiny voice saying, “Next time.”

So, after work, I’ll head back out. Evening this time. Different light. Different mood. Same questionable decision-making. Will I catch a zander? Possibly. Probably not. But that’s never really the point, is it?

Next time, a different stretch.

Definitely.

Almost certainly.

Unless the bed gets involved again. Anyway if you want to entertainment watch this !!!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.141 (Canal Zander)

The canals again. Of course they are. Like a bad kebab or an ex you swore you’d never text, they have a funny way of pulling you back in. Not that I’m complaining (I absolutely am), but when you’ve spent years chasing Zander, you start to realise yesterday’s hotspot is today’s fishless trench. The fish haven’t disappeared they’ve just moved, probably laughing at you while doing so, fins up, watching you stubbornly cast into the aquatic equivalent of a deserted car park.

And the thing is, you know this. Every logical part of your brain is telling you, “They’re not here anymore.” But logic doesn’t stand a chance against angler optimism. 

Because the next cast could be the one. It’s always the next cast. It’s never the last fifty you’ve just fired out with all the conviction of a man slowly losing the plot.

Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about leapfrogging along a stretch of canal like a slightly unhinged heron. 

One minute you’re convinced this is the swim you’ve analysed it, felt it in your bones, practically written the catch report in your head. The next minute, nothing. 

Not a twitch, not a knock, not even the courtesy of a missed bite to keep the dream alive. So off you go again, marching down the towpath with all the grace of a man who’s just realised he’s been casting into absolutely nothing.

But that’s Zander fishing. They could be anywhere and usually are just not where you are.

You start noticing things you’d normally ignore. The way the light hits the water. The subtle changes in depth. That one overhanging bush that looks fishy but has betrayed you more times than you’d care to admit. You tell yourself this time will be different. It never is. But still, you cast there anyway. Tradition, at this point.

Boats, mind you, are a different story. Most anglers curse them muttering under their breath as the peaceful canal turns into a churning mess. Me? I welcome them like a long-lost mate. Honestly, I’m half tempted to wave them down and ask them to do another pass.

Nothing gets the canal stirred up quite like a narrowboat chugging through, turning the water into a murky soup of opportunity. It’s chaos but it’s productive chaos. The silt lifts, visibility drops, and suddenly everything feels alive. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch underwater. Dinner time.

In my head, the Zander are snapping into action, darting about like opportunistic little thieves, picking off anything that looks remotely edible. Meanwhile, I’m stood there trying to look like I planned it all along, as if I personally arranged for this boat to come through at precisely the right moment. In reality, I’m just as reactive as the fish scrambling to get a bait back in the water before the moment passes.

Timing, as always, is everything. And I’m usually just slightly off it.

So for this grand return to canal life, I opted for convenience. No big expedition, no overthinking—just simple, efficient fishing. Four-minute drive, short stroll, rods out. Done. The kind of session you tell yourself is “low pressure,” which of course immediately turns it into the exact opposite.

I’d even splashed out on £40 worth of deadbaits—a serious investment, or so I thought. The sort of purchase that makes you stand a little taller, like you’ve properly committed. No shortcuts today. Premium bait. Premium results. That was the plan. 

Turns out, they were basically free.

Courtesy of what can only be described as a floral disaster of Olympic proportions.

Now, I’m no flower expert but I know enough to recognise when something meant to impress has gone catastrophically wrong. What arrived looked less like a thoughtful gift and more like the aftermath of a long-distance desert crossing. Limp, lifeless, and about as inspiring as a blank session in January. Even the wrapping seemed embarrassed. There’s a particular kind of disappointment when you open something expecting a reaction and instead get… that. You can’t even fake enthusiasm. You just sort of nod, like, “Yes. These are… definitely flowers.”

To their credit, the M&S customer service team sorted it sharpish. Refund on the way, apologies made, crisis averted. And just like that, those £40 deadbaits transformed from a questionable financial decision into what felt like a gift from the angling gods themselves.

Funny how quickly perspective shifts.

Anyway, back to the fishing.

The canal looked… well, like a canal. Slightly questionable water colour, that faint earthy smell you pretend not to notice, the odd ripple that could mean everything or absolutely nothing. Classic. There’s always that feeling when you arrive the quiet uncertainty. You’re either about to have a session you’ll talk about for weeks, or you’re about to spend several hours politely pretending this was “still enjoyable.”

There is no in-between.

I set up with that cautious optimism every angler knows. Not too hopeful—you don’t want to jinx it—but not completely defeated either. Just enough belief to keep you casting. The first few casts felt good. Always do. Everything’s fresh, the bait’s perfect, your confidence hasn’t taken any hits yet.

Then time starts to stretch.

Ten minutes. Nothing.
Twenty minutes. Still nothing.
Half an hour… and now you’re starting to think.

Was that a knock? Probably not.
Should I move? Maybe.
Are they even here? …let’s not go there yet.

Then, just as doubt starts creeping in properly, a boat appears in the distance. Slow, steady, inevitable.

Perfect.

I reposition slightly, get ready, make sure everything’s set. As the boat pushes through, the water transforms clear lines replaced by swirling clouds of silt, the whole canal suddenly alive with movement. This is it. This is the window.

Cast out. Let it settle. Wait.

Every second feels louder now. You’re tuned in, hyper-aware, watching for anything. A tap, a twitch, the slightest sign.

And then—

Maybe something. Or maybe not.

That’s the thing with Zander fishing. It plays with your head. Half the battle is figuring out what’s real and what’s just you wanting it to be real. You convince yourself you felt something, strike into nothing, and stand there hoping no one saw.

Still, you keep going. Move a little further. Try another spot. Adjust, adapt, repeat.

Leapfrogging down the canal, chasing that one moment where everything lines up. Where instinct, timing, and a bit of luck finally agree to cooperate.

Because eventually, it does happen.

Not always. Not even often.

But just enough to keep you coming back.

So… how did I do?

I pulled up at the swim full of optimism, only to be immediately greeted by what can only be described as a thoughtfully pre-packaged gift from the local canine community. Nothing says “welcome back to the canals” like a dog poo bag just slung on the floor the bag swinging gently in the breeze like some sort of grim bunting. Ah yes, the great outdoors nature at its finest, lovingly gift-wrapped by strangers.

Anyway, plans changed quicker than a politician’s promises, and my grand 2.5-hour session was ruthlessly trimmed down to a measly 1.5 thanks to last-minute domestic negotiations (which I lost, obviously). Still, rods out, dignity slightly dented, and spirits cautiously high, I got down to business.

Then bang! Ten minutes in and I’m into a fish. Not just any fish, mind you, but a Zander with the temperament of a caffeinated ferret. It went absolutely berserk the moment it felt steel, thrashing about like I’d insulted its entire bloodline. After a brief but spirited argument, I managed to persuade it into the net.

I gave it a quick eyeball estimate 3lb 8oz. Turns out I was only an ounce off. Frankly, I’m considering a side career as a human weighing scale. Job done. Efficient. Clinical. Almost suspiciously competent. Buoyed by success (and clearly now an angling prodigy), I spent the rest of the session rotating through four more swims like a man convinced lightning would strike twice. It didn’t. Not even a sniff. The fish had clearly clocked off early, probably laughing about me somewhere underwater.

Still, one lively Zander, a bit of sunshine, and only minor psychological damage from the dog poo incident overall, a solid return to the canal. Back on the scoreboard, dignity mostly intact, and with just enough success to guarantee I’ll be back for more punishment soon.