I slipped, quite unintentionally of course, into what can only be described as “retirement mode” on Friday afternoon. Not the pipe-and-slippers version, mind you, but the far more dangerous variety that begins with the innocent phrase: “Shall I just get the bus?” Now, any man who willingly boards a £3 bus on a Friday afternoon alongside what I can only affectionately describe as the purple rinse brigade is either embracing life… or has quietly given up. I’m still undecided which camp I fall into.
There we were, trundling along at a pace that would concern a tortoise, surrounded by a symphony of boiled sweet wrappers, unsolicited life advice, and one chap loudly explaining his knee replacement to a woman who clearly hadn’t asked. Still, three quid to Stratford-Upon-Avon ain't too bad. You couldn’t drive there for that unless your car runs on optimism and loose change.
Naturally, no cultured outing is complete without a swift one in Spoons, where I parted with another £3 for a port stout that tasted like it had been brewed in Shakespeare’s own sock drawer. I say that with love, of course. There’s something wonderfully reassuring about a Wetherspoons: sticky carpets, questionable lighting, and a clientele that looks like they’ve all just wandered in from different decades.
Suitably refreshed (or at least numbed), I met the Wife at the Red Lion, freshly done out and looking like it had ambitions far above my budget. Now, when a place is described as “newly refurbished,” what it really means is they’ve doubled the price of everything and put a plant where the fruit machine used to be. Still, fair play it was a cracking late lunch, and for a brief moment I felt like a man of refinement rather than someone who had just arrived on a pensioners’ bus tour.
Of course, Stratford was already heaving. The kind of busy that makes you question whether there’s been a secret national memo telling everyone to go there at once. With the half marathon looming and Shakespeare’s Birthday Parade on the horizon, it was clear that by the weekend it would resemble a medieval mosh pit. Lovely weather, mind you the sort that tricks you into thinking everything in your life is under control.
Which brings us neatly to the garden. Now, I have a complicated relationship with gardening. By complicated, I mean I hate it with the burning intensity of a thousand suns. Yet somehow, every year, I find myself out there, mower in hand, pretending I know what I’m doing. Lawns were cut, the deck was jet washed (or “pressure blasted into submission”), and I stood there afterwards surveying the chaos thinking, “That’s still a lot of work.” Gardens, I’ve decided, are just outdoor to-do lists that grow.
And then—fatal mistake—I checked the price of skips. I nearly needed one just to dispose of my own disbelief. Honestly, for what they charge, you’d expect it to come with a butler and a complimentary weekend in Benidorm . I’m fairly certain I could book a cheap flight to Spain, stay in a questionable hotel, and return with a mild sunburn for less than the cost of having a metal box dropped on my driveway.
Still, once the chores were done, the reward came in the form of a proper BBQ on Saturday. Just me, the Wife, a plate of slightly overconfident Cajun chicken and burgers, and the unmistakable sound of 80s and 90s classics pumping out of the JBL Partybox like we were hosting Glastonbury in the back garden. There’s something magical about that moment—cold white wine in hand, meat on the grill, and absolutely no intention of doing anything productive for the rest of the weekend.
Which, naturally, brings us to today. Because no matter how relaxed you get, there’s always that itch. That little voice whispering, “Go on… just one cast.” So there I was, gear already in the car (because preparation is key, or laziness the night before—same thing), with a stash of roach deadbaits quietly fermenting in the back like a biological experiment gone wrong.
The plan? A cheeky after-work mission to tempt a canal zander. Nothing too serious, just a quick dabble, a flick of the rod, and the vague hope of glory. Because that’s the thing about fishing it doesn’t matter how busy life gets, how expensive skips become, or how many lawns need mowing. There’s always time, somehow, to stand by the water, stare into the murky depths, and convince yourself that today… today might just be the day.
And if not, well… at least it beats gardening, still enough of the preamble were they biting ?
Well I swear on a dented keepnet and a half-squashed tin of luncheon meat, some sessions begin with a plan and others begin with destiny giving you a cheeky wink from under the surface. This, dear reader, was very much the latter.
There I was, en route to my intended hotspot (a place that, historically speaking, owes me fish, money, and an apology), when the canal itself practically shouted, “Oi! Over here, genius!” A suspicious ripple turned into a full-blown aquatic commotion — the kind of surface disturbance that makes a seasoned canal botherer like myself go weak at the knees and slightly cross-eyed with excitement.
Now, when you’ve spent enough time peering into murky water like a hopeful heron with a caffeine problem, you develop a sixth sense for nonsense. And this was not nonsense. This was fish. Proper fish. Plural. A gathering. A convention, even. The water was so shallow that every subtle movement translated into surface signals little “burps” and flickers like the canal was gossiping about what lurked beneath.
Naturally, I abandoned all previous plans with the decisiveness of a man who’s just heard the chippy is doing half-price chips. Rod out. Float in. Game on.
Within seconds and I mean blink-and-you’ll-miss-it seconds the left float dipped like it had been insulted. Strike! Missed it. Classic. But that was enough.
That was confirmation. These weren’t your average canal loafers. Oh no. These were Zander the underwater equivalent of moody nightclub bouncers with teeth. I dropped the rig back in with the composure of a man pretending he didn’t just fluff his first chance, when suddenly… bob… bob… wallop! Right under my feet! I struck again and this time connected with something that clearly had places to be and no intention of including me in its itinerary.
What followed was less “graceful angling battle” and more “brief but intense disagreement.” The rod hooped over, the fish bolted, I muttered things that would make a barbel blush, and after a couple of determined runs it begrudgingly allowed itself to be netted. Now, at first glance, I thought, “Nice fish, five-pound-ish.” Then I actually looked at it. Length like a ruler. Girth like it had been on a steady diet of other fish with poor life choices. Scales gleaming. Attitude intact. On the scales: 6lb 14oz. A proper canal Zander. The sort of fish that makes you stand a little taller and immediately forget every blank you’ve ever suffered.
Back it went, no fuss, no drama — just a respectful nod between predator and fool-with-a-rod. Naturally, I carried on fishing because, let’s be honest, you don’t just leave a situation like that. That would be madness. Enter: Dog Walker. Every good session needs one. Fresh to the area, curious, slightly bewildered by the sight of a grown adult grinning at a canal like it just told him a joke. As I explained what was occurring (with the calm authority of a man who absolutely did not expect any of this), the canal decided to show off. Two more Zander. Bang-bang. Practically on cue. I’m talking bites lining up like buses.
Boats started chugging through, holidaymakers waving, probably assuming I’d trained the fish to perform. The Dog Walker looked at me like I was some sort of wizard. I gave him a few pointers you know, passing on the ancient, sacred knowledge of “put bait in water where fish are.” He mentioned he could fish from the bottom of his garden, at which point I briefly considered moving in with him. Strictly for research purposes, obviously.
Now, they weren’t spawning — not yet — but they were definitely behaving like a group that had pencilled it into their diaries. Tight, active, slightly chaotic. A few dropped runs followed (because Zander are nothing if not committed to keeping your blood pressure interesting), another fish, a couple of near misses… absolute canal carnage. The sort of session where everything happens quickly and you’re never quite sure if you’re in control or just being politely tolerated by the universe.
And then, just like that, it felt right to leave them to it. No point overstaying your welcome when you’ve already gate-crashed the party and eaten all the good snacks. Less than two hours. Multiple fish (2-3lb). One proper lump. A Dog Walker converted. Plans abandoned. Spirits lifted.
Job. Done.
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