Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.9

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 only a few hours with a busy ahead as with family stuff in the afternoon I was heading to a DJ gig in Brum with Lloyd Barwood one of progressive houses brightest new talents being both a producer and DJ and a lovely fella he is too, this picture taken before the gig started and a nice chat about him living his dream. 

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. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.148 (Canal Carp Pandemoniun)

Now there are meals, blog readers, and then there are life-altering decisions disguised as dinner. The spicy slow cooked Lamb Bhuna from the evening prior was firmly in the latter category. It began innocently enough poppadom's fluttering in like edible confetti, dips lined up with military precision but quickly escalated into a full-scale culinary siege. 

Starters were “shared” in the same way politicians share responsibility, followed by a naan so laden with cheese and chilli it could have doubled as industrial sealant, and a garlic rice that insisted on being noticed long after the curtain had fallen. By the end of it, I wasn’t so much full as structurally compromised.

Morning arrived with all the grace of a bailiff. The previously evenings food was now sat heavy and unmoving, like a beanbag filled with regret. Thus, a fasting day was declared not out of some enlightened wellness epiphany, but because the mere thought of food triggered mild flashbacks. Still, the world waits for no man, especially one who’s overindulged in curry, and after a long day at work, I found myself drawn toward the canal like a slightly bloated pilgrim in search of redemption.

Now, this wasn’t just any casual wander. This was prompted by intelligence classified, whispered, and mildly exaggerated—courtesy of Buffalo Si of YouTube notoriety, a man who speaks of fish sightings with the reverence of someone describing UFO encounters. Carp had been seen, he said. Milling. Loitering. Existing in that tantalising way fish do when you’re not there. And so, armed with this information and a stomach still negotiating its terms of service, I set off.

The canal itself is but a five-minute jaunt away, which lulls you into a false sense of convenience. The actual destination, however, requires a walk that feels less like a fishing trip and more like a test of character. I briefly considered taking the bike, but my knee—still recovering from what I’ll generously describe as a “spirited” episode at the Glasgow Deep Dish DJ gig (64,000 steps in two days) suggested otherwise. So, legs it was. Each step a reminder that naan has consequences.

Upon arrival, naturally, the universe decided to have a laugh. There, moored with impeccable comedic timing, was a boat. Not just anywhere, mind you—exactly where I intended to fish. Of all the miles of canal, this floating monument to inconvenience had chosen my spot. After a brief and polite exchange with its owner, who confirmed he’d seen nothing fishy whatsoever (helpful), I trudged on, clinging to optimism like a man who refuses to check his bank balance and headed down to an area where I used to spot them before.

Then, just as doubt began to settle in, a flicker. A disturbance. The unmistakable sign of something alive and worth bothering. As I edged closer, peering through the reeds with all the subtlety of a man trying not to breathe too loudly, I saw them. Two carp. Just… there. Sunbathing. Loafing. Existing without a single care in the world.

They’d positioned themselves perfectly in a patch of sunlight breaking through the trees, like retirees who’d found the best deckchairs on holiday and refused to move. The rest of the canal lay in shadow, moody and uninviting, but here—this golden pocket of warmth—they basked, smug and serene. It was, frankly, offensive.

With the kind of stealth usually associated with burglars in slapstick films, I crept into position and introduced a few pieces of bread into their general vicinity. At first, nothing. They ignored it completely, as if I’d just offered them unsolicited advice. But then something shifted. The larger of the two turned, clocked the bread, and began moving toward it with the kind of slow, deliberate confidence that suggested either supreme intelligence… or none whatsoever.

What followed can only be described as a masterclass in poor decision-making from the fish. It approached the bread like a chub on a summer’s day, casual, carefree, and utterly unbothered by the concept of consequences. A gentle sip, a moment’s pause, and then commitment.

Naturally, I wasted no time. Hook bait deployed. Underarm flick executed with all the grace of a man who’s just remembered he hasn’t eaten all day. The bread landed perfectly. The line, however, sat visibly on the surface—usually enough to spook even the most gullible of fish. But not this one. Oh no. This one had places to be. Specifically, my landing net.

It approached. It inspected. It sucked.

And then—pandemonium.

The strike was immediate, and the response from the fish was less “mild inconvenience” and more “absolute betrayal of the highest order.” It tore off like it had somewhere urgent to be, my rod bending into a shape that suggested it was reconsidering its career choices. My clutch, set tighter than my jeans after the Bhuna, protested accordingly, while my arms began to question the entire premise of recreational fishing.

What followed was a battle. Not elegant, not refined just a full-on, arm-aching, dignity-testing scrap with a fish that had, moments earlier, looked like it couldn’t be bothered to blink. The second carp, understandably, vacated the premises with immediate effect, no doubt filing a mental note titled “Never Trust Floating Bread Again.”

Eventually, through a combination of persistence, mild luck, and what I can only assume was the fish deciding it had made its point, I brought it in. And there it was a proper carp. Solid. Handsome. Slightly annoyed. A fish that, despite its earlier lapse in judgment, had given a thoroughly respectable account of itself.

I admired it briefly, thanked it silently (as is tradition), and watched it disappear back into the canal, hopefully a little wiser and significantly more suspicious of baked goods. And that, readers, was the lot. No more sightings. No more opportunities. Just a mile of walking, one gloriously obliging fish, and the quiet satisfaction that sometimes, just sometimes, things go your way even if it’s largely due to a carp having a momentary lapse in critical thinking.

As I made the long walk back, arms still humming and stomach finally beginning to forgive me, I couldn’t help but reflect. Angling isn’t always about skill. Sometimes it’s about timing. Sometimes it’s about luck. And occasionally, it’s about being there at precisely the moment a fish decides to behave like an absolute beginner. Mission accomplished. Balance restored. And somewhere beneath that canal’s surface, a slightly embarrassed carp is probably telling its mates it meant to do that all along.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.147 (Canal Zander Carnage)

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.