Back in April I decided to revisit one of my favourite stretches of canal, a place packed with memories and fishy achievements. This was the pound that had produced my personal best roach, a fish so improbably large that I spent longer staring at the scales than I did actually celebrating. It was one of those captures that gets filed away in the memory bank forever, alongside first cars, first pints and the occasional spectacular angling disaster.
Naturally I expected to arrive, have a wander, admire the scenery and perhaps daydream about another red-finned monster appearing one day. Instead, I rounded the corner and was greeted by something that looked less like a canal and more like an archaeological excavation.
The entire 500-metre stretch between the locks was empty. Not low. Not shallow. Not carrying less water than normal. Empty. Completely and utterly devoid of the very thing canals are generally famous for containing. Water. The scene was surreal. Mud stretched from bank to bank, old shopping trolleys sat exposed like forgotten relics from a lost civilisation and every discarded lure, lead and hook from the past twenty years suddenly became visible.
It looked as though the canal had decided to empty its pockets onto the floor and reveal all of its embarrassing secrets in one go. I half expected Sir David Attenborough to emerge from behind a bush and begin narrating.
My eyes soon fell upon the lower lock where the mystery quickly became less mysterious. There, as plain as day, was an open paddle. It was rather like arriving home to discover your front door wide open, muddy footprints across the carpet and a burglar standing in the kitchen holding your television. The evidence could scarcely have been more obvious. The water had escaped through the lock and taken a prolonged holiday elsewhere.
Looking at the scene I couldn't help but think of Hans Brinker, the legendary Little Dutch Boy who supposedly saved his town by plugging a leak with his finger. Sadly there was no Hans on duty that day. Either he'd retired, transferred departments or simply looked at the situation and decided it was somebody else's problem.
The immediate question occupying my mind wasn't about lock maintenance or canal engineering. It was much more important than that. Where on earth had all the fish gone? This wasn't just any old stretch of water. This place contained roach, perch, bream, carp and enough silver fish to keep a pleasure angler happy for years.
Fish don't simply disappear overnight, at least not without filling in the appropriate paperwork. I spent the next hour wandering up and down the exposed canal bed searching for clues. The only creature that appeared remotely informed was a heron standing motionless near the far bank with the expression of someone who had just won the lottery.
That heron knew something. I am absolutely convinced of it. While I shuffled around looking bewildered, it stood there radiating quiet confidence. It reminded me of one of those old detectives in television dramas who has already solved the crime while everyone else is still interviewing witnesses. Every now and then it would stare into a shallow puddle before returning to its statuesque pose.
Meanwhile I was peering into muddy depressions hoping to spot a fish. The occasional ripple appeared in isolated pools, enough to suggest there was still life present, but nowhere near enough to satisfy my curiosity. The heron looked well fed. I looked confused. Between us, only one of us was having a successful day. I fished the pound for a while where the fish would have been emptied in to, not a sausage !! ☻
For weeks afterwards I found myself wondering about that canal. Normal people spend their spare moments thinking about holidays, home improvements or perhaps what to have for dinner. Anglers, however, are not normal people. I found myself constructing increasingly elaborate theories regarding the fate of the fish population.
Perhaps they had all retreated into the deepest holes and survived quite happily. Perhaps the canal authorities had carried out a rescue operation. Perhaps the roach had formed a governing council and organised an orderly evacuation. At one point I became so invested in the mystery that I almost convinced myself the carp had marched single file into the adjacent stream and established a new colony.
The frustrating thing was that this wasn't merely another fishing venue. It was a place layered with memories. The stretch was bordered by wild garlic which erupted every spring in such quantities that the entire towpath smelled like an Italian restaurant. The scent drifted across the water while birds sang from the hedgerows and the occasional fish rolled beneath overhanging branches.
It was one of those locations where time seemed to slow down. You could sit for hours watching a float and somehow never feel bored. Places like that become far more than fishing spots. They become old friends.
The canal had also been the setting for one of my longest-running carp campaigns. Every angler has a fish that gets under their skin and occupies their thoughts far more than is healthy. Mine lived here.
For what felt like years it appeared determined to avoid capture while simultaneously making occasional appearances simply to remind me it existed.
I spent countless sessions trying to outwit it, usually returning home convinced that the carp possessed a better understanding of angling tactics than I did. When I finally caught it, the sense of satisfaction was immense. It felt less like landing a fish and more like concluding lengthy peace negotiations between two stubborn nations.
Adjacent to the canal runs a delightful little stream, another gem hidden away from the modern world. The dace in there fight far above their weight and the roach can grow surprisingly large. Best of all, there is absolutely no mobile phone signal whatsoever. Some people regard that as an inconvenience. I regard it as a luxury.
There is something wonderfully liberating about being completely unreachable for a few hours. No emails demanding urgent attention. No notifications informing you that somebody you've never met has posted a photograph of their lunch. Just the sound of flowing water and the occasional splash from a fish going about its business.
I gathered a bag of maggots, some liquidised bread and a simple groundbait mix before heading off. This wasn't a grand expedition requiring military-level planning.
It was more of a fact-finding mission. My objective was straightforward. I wanted proof that fish still inhabited the place. One bite would do. One fish would settle months of speculation.
As I approached the canal my expectations remained modest. I wasn't dreaming of record-breaking catches or heroic tales for the angling press. I simply wanted reassurance.
The sort of reassurance that only a quivering float can provide. Looking across the water, now thankfully restored to its rightful location, it was difficult to believe the same stretch had been bone dry only weeks earlier.
The wild garlic was flourishing, birds flitted through the trees and the whole place appeared calm and healthy. Nature, as usual, seemed entirely unconcerned by the dramatic events that had caused me so much head-scratching.
Settling into the swim felt like returning home after a long absence. The familiar sights and sounds immediately rekindled memories of previous sessions. I mixed the groundbait, fed a few maggots and watched the surface carefully. Every swirl, every shadow and every tiny movement suddenly seemed significant.
The anticipation wasn't really about catching fish anymore. It was about discovering whether the place still possessed the same magic. Anglers become attached to waters in peculiar ways. We measure our lives through them. Certain swims become associated with certain years, certain captures and certain moments that remain vivid decades later.
The float settled upright and I found myself smiling at the absurdity of it all. Most people would have forgotten about the drained canal within a day or two. I had spent weeks and weeks pondering the welfare of fish that probably hadn't given the matter a second thought. Such is the peculiar mindset of anglers.
We become emotionally invested in stretches of water, fish populations and swims that the wider world barely notices. Looking back, perhaps the greatest mystery wasn't where the fish had gone. Perhaps the real mystery was why a grown adult could spend so much time worrying about them. Then again, if anglers were sensible people, we'd probably have chosen a different hobby.
The pound had all the visual appeal of a washing machine on spin cycle. A brisk chop rattled across the surface making float watching about as easy as reading a newspaper through a hedge. Nevertheless, confidence remained high. After all, I'd come armed with a generous helping of groundbait and liquidised bread, enough to attract anything with fins, scales, or a vague interest in carbohydrates. I also slipped a healthy dose of the mix beside a promising line of reeds, hoping word would spread amongst the local fish population.
Settling into the first swim, it wasn't long before the float performed that wonderful little manoeuvre known to anglers everywhere as the "lift bite". It's the sort of indication that instantly transforms a man from mildly interested observer into Olympic-grade striker. The rod bent over and a solid fish charged off before popping to the surface rather quicker than expected. It fought gamely enough to suggest a roach-bream hybrid and after a spirited scrap eventually surrendered to the net.
Upon closer inspection, the poor old thing looked like it had recently lost an argument with half the wildlife in the county. An unpleasant wound adorned one flank and several freeloading flesh-eating passengers had moved in without permission. Feeling charitable, I evicted the squatters and sent the fish on its way, hopefully somewhat relieved and perhaps with a slightly improved opinion of anglers.
Naturally, after such a promising start I expected the floodgates to open. The fish, however, had apparently not received the memo. Forty-five minutes passed with only a few half-hearted indications that could best be described as fish shrugging. Eventually I decided enough was enough and marched over to the prebaited swim by the reeds, convinced that glory awaited.
Within seconds of casting, the float vanished with all the subtlety of a submarine crash-diving. I struck, felt a fish, and immediately lost it. The tiny hook had barely introduced itself before the fish departed. A few carefully selected words were muttered towards the reeds.Back out it went.
Twenty seconds later the float disappeared again. This time I connected with something considerably more serious.
he fish tore off along the reeds to my right like it had remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere. The rod hooped over magnificently.
For one glorious moment I imagined a proper specimen. Then, just as quickly, everything went limp. The hook pulled free and the line went slack.
Damn it.
Again.
The fish had played me beautifully. Somewhere beneath those reeds a fish was undoubtedly laughing itself breathless while recounting the story to its mates.
Despite the disappointment, spirits remained high. Not long ago this pound had all the life of an abandoned bathtub. Now I'd landed one fish and lost two more in fairly short order. That alone felt like a victory. The mission had been accomplished. Proof existed that fish still inhabited the water and weren't merely mythical creatures spoken of in hushed tones by local anglers.
I gave the far side of the reeds another half-hour, but by now the boat traffic had increased to the point where every passing vessel seemed determined to generate its own weather system. The fish switched off, the bites dried up, and the whole affair began to resemble hard work.
With that, I packed away and headed home via the Stratford Alehouse. Blank avoided, fish located, and evidence gathered that the once-empty pound still held life. Sometimes that's more than enough.
Happy days indeed.
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