The alarm went off at some ungodly hour that even foxes would complain about, and there I was once again dragging my carcass towards the cut like a man heading for a medieval punishment rather than a morning’s fishing. Still, that’s canal fishing for you. Nobody ever skips down the towpath whistling like they’re in a toothpaste advert. You stagger there half awake, clutching enough tackle to invade Belgium, all because somewhere in that murky trench there might be a roach willing to ruin your morning slightly less than the others.
Now Mongrel Mile had been kind to me recently if your definition of “kind” includes catching fish that look like they’ve been assembled from spare parts behind a pub. Hard-fighting they were, mind. Proper scrappers. But what I wanted was a roach. A proper roach. Not these suspicious hybrids that look as though two species got drunk at a Christmas disco and made regrettable life choices behind the reed bed. Some of these fish had more mixed heritage than a family tree drawn by a Labrador.
The trouble with canals is they make absolutely no sense whatsoever. Rivers at least pretend to have logic. Lakes occasionally offer clues. Canals though? Total anarchy. One hundred yards can hold nothing but perch and old shopping trolleys, then another twenty yards down you’re suddenly into skimmers, perch and enough hybrids to qualify as a genetic experiment. You could fish one peg for three hours and conclude the canal is dead, then move six feet and discover somebody’s secretly stocked the place overnight.
Fortunately for me, somebody had already done the gardening. I arrived to find not one but two ready-made swims cut into the jungle. Happy days indeed. There’s nothing better than finding a peg someone else has hacked out while you stroll in pretending you’re some hardened pioneer of the waterways. I stood there nodding thoughtfully at the swim as if I’d personally crafted it with a machete and determination, when in reality another poor soul had already sacrificed half his blood supply to nettles three days earlier.
The weather, however, can get in the bin.
Yesterday upstairs in the house felt like sleeping inside an air fryer. Unbearable despite a few gins taking the edge off. I spent most of the night rotating like a distressed rotisserie chicken trying to locate a cool patch on the bedsheet that no longer existed. Whoever says they enjoy thirty-degree heat wants investigating. Mid twenties is plenty for me. Once temperatures creep higher than that I begin to wilt like reduced-price coriander.
This morning though? Perfection.
Six o’clock on the towpath in just a t-shirt. No blazing sun yet. No cyclists shouting “MORNING!” with terrifying enthusiasm. Just still water, bird song and the distant mechanical grumble of somebody starting a narrowboat engine badly. That’s proper fishing weather. The sort that convinces you life is actually rather wonderful until twenty minutes later when a mosquito lands directly inside your ear.
Anyway, enough romantic nonsense. Time to fish.
Out came the lift float set-up centrepin and 14ft float rod . Simple gear. Piece of bread on the hook and some liquidised bread slop fed into the swim. Lovely stuff, bread. Fish absolutely adore it and it also has the added advantage of making your hands smell like a damp bakery all day. Canal fishing with bread always feels gloriously old school as though at any moment some bloke in flared trousers and sideburns might appear beside you carrying a keepnet the size of a submarine.
Now anybody who fishes canals knows patience is crucial. Fish don’t exactly queue up like shoppers at a supermarket opening. Often it takes half an hour before anything arrives. You sit there staring at a float while your brain slowly starts inventing ridiculous theories.
“Maybe the fish have moved.”
“Maybe there are no fish.”
“Maybe I’ve accidentally lowered the float into another dimension.”
Then at last — a bite.
Missed it completely.
Naturally.
Second bite resulted in briefly hooking something before it charged off like it owed money and vanished. Standard canal nonsense. Third time though, finally, I connected properly and in came the first fish of the morning.
A hybrid.
Of course it was.
Not even a glamorous hybrid either. This thing looked rough. One eye missing, scales wonky, and smelling so bad I nearly checked whether something had died underneath my seat box. Honestly, if canal fish could smoke twenty Benson & Hedges a day and survive entirely on kebab meat, this would be the result.
Still, fish is fish.
No blank.
And once that first one arrives your optimism returns immediately. Suddenly you’re convinced the swim contains twenty roach of a pound each and possibly a forgotten canal record. Fishing does this to people. It turns otherwise rational adults into delusional gamblers with bait boxes.
In the end I managed four fish altogether. Not exactly the sort of haul requiring a commemorative plaque, but enough to keep things interesting. A couple fought well too, darting about under the rod tip as if auditioning for River Monsters despite barely being bigger than a digestive biscuit.
Then came disaster.
Mr Heron.
You always hear them before you see them. That prehistoric flapping sound like somebody shaking an old bedsheet aggressively. Down it came gliding across the canal with all the grace of a tax inspector entering a pub. The fish instantly vanished. Gone. Finished. Might as well have lowered a hand grenade into the swim.
As if that wasn’t enough, he then opened the lock above me and sent half the canal charging downstream. Wonderful. The float began travelling sideways at thirty miles an hour while bits of weed, twigs and what looked suspiciously like a traffic cone floated past.
That’s canal fishing for you. One minute tranquillity, next minute the entire ecosystem has been reorganised by a retired couple named Keith and Sandra steering seventy feet of floating cottage toward Birmingham.
I decided on a change of scenery after that and headed back towards the swim from last weekend where I’d managed one fish and a missed bite. Canal anglers are strange creatures because we’ll happily revisit a peg based entirely on vague emotional memories.
“Yes I only caught one fish there…”
“But it felt fishy.”
What does that even mean?
Nobody knows.
The morning still felt lovely though so I wandered off afterwards for a reconnaissance mission at another stretch I fancied trying. A few weeks ago it had been emptier than my bank account after visiting a tackle shop, but thankfully there was now water in it again which is usually considered beneficial for fishing.
Beautiful looking stretch too.
Quiet.
Reedy.
Proper atmosphere.
Of course being May half term there were also holiday boats everywhere. Nothing destroys the illusion of wilderness quite like hearing somebody on a hire boat shouting:
“DON’T PANIC DEREK JUST TURN THE WHEEL!”
followed by a loud crunching noise.
Still, that’s the charm of canals really. They’re chaotic, unpredictable and occasionally smell faintly of old soup, but there’s nowhere quite like them. One morning you blank completely and question your life choices. The next you’re sat watching a float tremble in perfect dawn light convinced there’s nowhere else on Earth you’d rather be.
Even if the fish do look slightly inbred.
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