After a rather nice impromptu late lunch with Mrs Newey with some thai nibbles in the beer garden of a local pub I got back and wondered what the hell I'm going to fish for the following morning. But then there are moments in angling that feel less like fishing and more like stumbling into a watery conspiracy. One minute you’re minding your own business, unhooking what can only be described as a canal mud sifter with delusions of grandeur, and the next—bang—the surface erupts like someone’s dropped a family-sized bath bomb into the cut.
Not subtle, not polite, not the sort of thing a well-mannered roach would RSVP to. No, this was a full-on aquatic kerfuffle. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of surface signs. The gentle sip of a roach, like a librarian quietly judging your choice of bait.
The confident swirl of a rudd, all swagger and no apology. But this? This was neither tea nor coffee—it was a full English breakfast of disturbance. Boils, swirls, the odd flick that suggested something down there had either found religion or lost its temper.
And here’s the thing—this wasn’t gin-clear, aquarium-style water where you can name the fish and ask after their families. This was proper coloured canal water. The sort that looks like it’s been steeped in builder’s tea and regret. Normally, you’re fishing blind in conditions like this, relying on instinct, experience, and the vague hope that something with fins shares your optimism. Yet here were signs. Actual, undeniable signs. Fishy graffiti on the surface saying, “We’re here, mate. But good luck guessing who we are.”
Naturally, this triggered the ancient angler’s reflex: curiosity mixed with mild delusion. Only one way to find out, I thought, which is usually the prelude to either brilliance or embarrassment. Sometimes both. So for this session, out came the lift float—my old, faithful conspirator in all things roachy—paired with a bit of groundbait and maggots, because if there’s one thing roach love, it’s a free buffet with questionable hygiene standards.
The morning itself was one of those rare gems. Quiet. Still. The sort of calm that makes you feel like you’ve accidentally walked into a postcard. Birds chirping, the occasional ripple, and at one point what I can only assume was a lamb expressing itself in a deeply personal way. Nature, as ever, keeping it classy.
I'd seen him in Liverpool not long back warming up for Sasha before he went b2b with his hero, but this time the Hare and Hounds a venue where UB40 performed their first gig was ideal to showcase his banging beats of repetitiveness.
In contrast to quiet fishing with only bird song or a lamb trumping the solitude but variety is the spice of life you know. Anyway, beneath this serene surface, there was mischief. You could feel it. Every now and then, another swirl. Another hint. Like the canal was winking at me, saying, “You’re close… but not that close.” The float behaved itself for the most part—lifting here and there with just enough suggestion to keep the brain ticking. Classic roach behaviour. Delicate. Thoughtful. The sort of bite that says, “I’ll take it… but I’m not happy about it.”
But then !!
The canal, in its infinite wisdom (and questionable hygiene), decided that today was not a day for heroes but for mongrels those suspicious, vaguely fish-shaped entities that look as though they were assembled from leftover parts in a damp shed. Out they came to play, nudging at liquidised bread like pensioners at a reduced bakery shelf, while my maggots dangled with all the dignity of a soggy chandelier.
I fished one swim, then another, then another—like a man searching for a lost remote in increasingly unlikely places—only to discover that the fish had the collective enthusiasm of a committee meeting.
What did I catch? Ah yes—creatures. Not fish in the proud, silver-flanked sense, but… beings. Tatty little customers, each looking like it had lost a bar fight with a shopping trolley. Not one of them particularly large, mind you, though each carried itself with the baffling confidence of something that believes it ought to be bigger. Canal fishing, as ever, served up its daily special: unpredictability with a side of mild disappointment. You turn up expecting a story; you leave with a shrug and a faint smell of skimmer regret.
Still, there were bites little taps of encouragement, like the canal whispering, “Go on, keep trying, this might improve.” It did not improve. And where, pray tell, were the roach? Not a single one. Vanished. Evaporated. Possibly attending a conference elsewhere on more agreeable waters. It’s the sort of mystery that keeps anglers awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if the fish are unionising.
And so, with spirits neither lifted nor entirely crushed just gently sat upon I packed up. Another session concluded, another tale added to the ever-growing anthology of “well, that happened.” Onwards to the next outing, where expectations will once again be inflated beyond reason, only to be expertly punctured by a canal that knows exactly what it’s doing and refuses to explain itself.
Back to the full-on bread attack, I think—this isn’t going too well.
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