Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.19

Working from home does have its perks. Whilst some people spend their lunch breaks discussing quarterly projections and key performance indicators, I find myself pondering far more important matters, such as whether the charcoal snake on the Weber kettle is progressing nicely and if the pork shoulder is receiving sufficient hickory encouragement. The kids, despite looking like they have seen less meat in their lives than you’d find on a butcher's pencil, appear to have adopted the dietary habits of escaped velociraptors, and are currently consuming protein at a rate usually associated with industrial rendering facilities.

Fortunately, pork remains one of the few things in modern Britain that doesn't require a second mortgage or the signing away of an unneeded kidney. By half past ten, the snake method was lit, the kettle had settled into a contented 120-130 degrees of pure smokey optimism, and my personal confidence levels were considerably higher than they normally are whilst fishing.

The beauty of the snake method is its utter simplicity. Lay it out correctly, avoid the temptation to poke it like a bored child with a stick, and the kettle just gets on with things. Four or five hours in, once the bark had formed and was looking suitably magnificent resembling a meteor that had plummeted from orbit and landed directly in a hickory plantation the foil went on. 

By dinner time, the shoulder was pulling apart like warm butter and disappearing almost as quickly as I could shred it. The domestic carnivores descended with forks drawn, making noises that would have alarmed a seasoned zoologist. Within fifteen minutes, the 2.5kg joint looked like it had been picked clean by piranhas with an attitude problem. Job's a good'un.

With the family pack temporarily subdued and entering a profound, meat-induced coma on the sofa, it was time for a dusk sortie to Tramp Alley on the South Stratford Canal. Regular readers of this parish will know this particular stretch has produced some respectable roach and hybrids over the years, although whether the fish themselves are respectable is another matter entirely. 

Most of them look like they’ve survived a few rounds in a blender or have spent their lives dodging shopping trolleys and discarded lager cans. This evening, however, I fancied a complete change of scenery and a holiday from the usual maggot-drowning routine.

The pint of reds was left securely in the garage to contemplate their life choices, in favour of an all-out bread offensive. I had bread on the hook, liquidised bread as feed, and enough assorted bakery products packed into my car to cause serious alarm to a qualified nutritionist. 

Alongside the traditional lift float, which usually offers a masterclass in watching plastic paint dry, I also decided to deploy the sleeper rod. It featured what can best be described as a scaled-down zander rig designed by an individual with unrestricted access to a tackle box, a surplus of free time, and highly questionable judgement.

The centerpiece of this contraption was a crude but very effective Guru foam pellet waggler. For the uninitiated, this thing sits entirely flat on the surface like a fluorescent orange kayak, anchored down by a substantial SSG shot that looks like a small cannonball. It looks crude, and if we're being completely honest with each other, it is remarkably crude. It possesses all the aerodynamic finesse of a flying house brick, but it works surprisingly well. 

The beauty of the arrangement is that it can sit quietly in the margins doing its own thing, while my primary attention is focused entirely elsewhere. Bites are not exactly subtle; they are blindingly easy to spot, usually involving the yellow kayak vanishing violently into the abyss. Fishing tight to the far-bank brambles often reveals decent fish lurking exactly where sensible anglers, or those who value their expensive carbon tips, would expect them to be.

The plan was straightforward enough, formulated with the kind of tactical precision usually reserved for failed military coups. Fish the main canal track with the lift float, plaster the far cover with the sleeper rod, and hope that somewhere between the two, the local fish population had received the invitation and fancied a carbohydrate blow-out. 

Furthermore, rather than dragging my weary carcass over half a mile down the towpath to my usual, well-trodden peg, I made the executive decision to fish an entirely untried area situated halfway between the hybrid hotspot and the roach spot. 

It’s a stretch running along the back of a sprawling industrial estate. The romance of the British countryside was entirely absent, but out of hours, it possesses one magnificent feature: I can literally park the car directly behind my peg. I’d spotted some fish showing here one morning at dawn whilst pretending to look busy, so the seed of hope had been planted. Were the fish forthcoming?

I squeezed myself between a rusted palisade fence and a particularly aggressive clump of stinging nettles, dropped the sleeper rod right under the overhanging brambles of the far bank, and gently lowered the lift float into the track. 

The industrial estate fell silent, save for the distant hum of an extractor fan and the occasional rustle of a rat navigating a discarded crisp packet. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The bread mash was introduced, forming a ghostly white cloud in the murky canal water that screamed 'free tea' to anything with scales.

Suddenly, the sleeper rod’s pellet waggler after the second swim didn't just twitch; it bobbed twice and then positively bolted sideways, tearing out towards the middle of the cut like a tiny, orange torpedo. I lunged forward, nearly embedding my knee into a discarded spark plug, and struck into something that immediately felt like a wet sack of cement with fins.

It wasn't a world-breaker, but in the tight confines of the South Stratford, a small angry carp trying to wedge itself under a submerged supermarket basket feels like a marlin. The little rod doubled over, the drag gave some protest, reluctant protest, and after a rather epic battle on 4.5lb line and having to steer it away from the nearside metal piling, a wonderfully thick-set, common carp slid over the drawstring of the net. It was fat, completely unbothered by the proximity of a sheet-metal factory, and had completely inhaled the chunk of bread.

Before I could even unhook the brute, the lift float on the match rod gave a classic, heart-stopping wobble, rose entirely out of the water, and lay flat on the surface. 

I dropped the net, grabbed the other handle, and lifted into a solid, thumping resistance. 

This wasn't a hybrid; it was the steady, dignified wet lettuce fight of a small skimmer. 

It came to the top, flashing those lovely silvery flanks in the fading twilight a pristine fish, that looked like it belonged in a Victorian angling print rather than a ditch behind a logistics warehouse. 

Then it went proper dead and no matter what I did I just couldn't get the fish feeding again.

I moved swims, nada, there was fish activity heading in to dusk and the odd nudge on both floats, but the dregs of the liquidised bread floating on the surface showed the culprits, yeap small fry with eyes bigger than their bellies.  When I couldn't see my floats it was time for the off. Still the positives I survived fishing tramp alley in to dusk and a nice carp that gave a great fight on light gear. 3 hours though

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.17

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.

Eventually curiosity got the better of me. The mystery had lingered long enough. Then came a Friday where I finished work at midday, having already completed my hours for the week. The weather looked decent, my fishing gear was ready and the canal was calling. 

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.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.143 (Canal Zander)

There are moments in angling that refuse to fade, etched into the mind with a clarity that rivals the sharpest winter dawn. This was one of those sessions. 2 years ago almost to the day. 

Now it began, as many good tales do, with a message urgent, insistent, and brimming with promise. Buffalo Si, out on the cut and into the fish, had stumbled upon something special. 

Zander, and not just the odd wanderer, but a proper shoal feeding, willing, and there for the taking. “Get yourself here now,” he’d said. And when a man like that calls with his eyes and ears to these towpaths, you don’t dawdle.

The canal, that quiet ribbon of water we so often underestimate, had come alive. I arrived with that blend of excitement and disbelief half expecting it to have all been a fleeting dream. But it wasn’t. The fish were there, just as promised. It didn’t take long before the first take came, that distinct, unmistakable zander bite indicated on the float finding the deadbait. 

A short scrap later and a solid six-pounder lay in the net, all glassy eyes and sharp intent. Another followed, then one nudging close to seven pounds a proper canal fish by any measure. There’s a certain satisfaction in such moments, not just in the catching, but in being there when everything aligns.

Those fish stayed with me. Not just their size or number, but the way the session unfolded unplanned, generous, shared. It’s the sort of angling that reminds you why you keep going back, why you endure the blanks and the bitter winds. And so, inevitably, the thought crept in during the following days: were they still there?

Anyway work finished, as it always does, with that gentle pull toward the water. The canal lay conveniently on the route home, almost inviting a detour. This time it would be a shorter affair, a dipping of the toe rather than a full immersion. Dusk would be settling in, that magical hour when the world softens and predators stir. If ever there was a chance to winkle one out, this was it.

The walk to the swim very nearly turned into an audition for “Britain’s Got Rabies” when, a couple of hundred yards off, a dog the size of a small hatchback locked eyes on me and decided my fishing rods were clearly weapons of mass biscuit destruction. Now, I’ve been barked at before, but this lad went off like I’d personally cancelled Christmas. 

The owners did that thing where they say “he’s fine” while holding on like they’re mooring a boat in a hurricane. “He just doesn’t like fishing rods,” they said. Brilliant. Of all the things for a towpath dog to dislike, he’s chosen the one thing I’m carrying that looks like a set of radio aerials. Anyway, once he’d finished his performance and realised I wasn’t invading Normandy, peace was restored and I carried on, only mildly traumatised and smelling faintly of fear.

With no boats moored towpath side I had a lovely run of cover to explore, so out went the overdepth float rods  smelt on one, roach on the other  like a man hedging his bets in a very slow, very wet casino. The banker swim got a full half hour, which in my world is basically a long-term relationship, but not a sign. 

So I started leapfrogging down the cover like a slightly overweight heron with a tackle addiction. Fourth swim finally a bite! I struck into absolutely nothing, which is always a lovely emotional rollercoaster. That could well have been my only chance, and the canal went back to being about as lively as a librarian’s tea party.

I tried a flyer beyond the bridge against some thick cover biteless. By now the light was dropping, the towpath was busy, and the nearby train line sounded like the 8:15 to Everywhere was running every three minutes. I wasn’t really enjoying it if I’m honest; it felt like fishing in the middle of a transport documentary. 

So, in true last-gasp fashion, I went back to the swim where I’d had that earlier bite and flung the smelt rod out. The float didn’t even settle properly which usually means either you’ve made a mess of the cast or something with fins has just mugged you on the drop. I gave it a little nudge and the float set off like it had remembered it left the oven on.

This time, as it headed for the cover, I leaned into the circle hook and there it was fish on, and unmistakably a Zander. It didn’t put up the full angry crocodile routine they sometimes do, but I wasn’t about to complain. Soon enough it was in the net and I may or may not have said “A fish! A fish! A fish!” out loud like a man who hasn’t seen one in several years. 

Not the biggest Zander in the world, but at that point it might as well have been a river monster. Blank avoided, dignity partially restored, and suddenly the dog, the trains, and the circus towpath all felt worth it. Funny how one fish can turn a grumble into a great evening fishing’s a strange game like that.

Eventually, practicality called time. Rods were packed away, boots shuffled back toward the car, and thoughts turned from fish to food. There’s a rhythm to these evenings effort followed by reward, even if the reward isn’t piscatorial. Tonight it would be curry, good company, and something decent in a glass.

The Craftsman provided the latter, as it often does. A place of many taps and varied temptations, but one in particular stood out. VAULT CITY’s DDF MARS DOUBLE DEEP FRIED IMPERIAL STOUT an unapologetic mouthful in both name and nature. 

At 15.5%, it demanded respect before the first sip was even taken. And yet, it delivered not with brute force, but with surprising finesse. Rich, warming, with that almost rum-cask character lingering at the edges it was a drink to savour rather than sup. Not cloying, not overly sweet, but balanced in a way that made you pause and appreciate it.

Sitting there, 1/3 pint in hand, the evening seemed to settle into place. The earlier question were the zander there? felt less pressing now. Perhaps they were, perhaps they weren’t. Fishing, after all, isn’t always about certainty. It’s about the pursuit, the possibility, the stories that emerge whether the nets are wet or dry.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.141 (Canal Zander)

The canals again. Of course they are. Like a bad kebab or an ex you swore you’d never text, they have a funny way of pulling you back in. Not that I’m complaining (I absolutely am), but when you’ve spent years chasing Zander, you start to realise yesterday’s hotspot is today’s fishless trench. The fish haven’t disappeared they’ve just moved, probably laughing at you while doing so, fins up, watching you stubbornly cast into the aquatic equivalent of a deserted car park.

And the thing is, you know this. Every logical part of your brain is telling you, “They’re not here anymore.” But logic doesn’t stand a chance against angler optimism. 

Because the next cast could be the one. It’s always the next cast. It’s never the last fifty you’ve just fired out with all the conviction of a man slowly losing the plot.

Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about leapfrogging along a stretch of canal like a slightly unhinged heron. 

One minute you’re convinced this is the swim you’ve analysed it, felt it in your bones, practically written the catch report in your head. The next minute, nothing. 

Not a twitch, not a knock, not even the courtesy of a missed bite to keep the dream alive. So off you go again, marching down the towpath with all the grace of a man who’s just realised he’s been casting into absolutely nothing.

But that’s Zander fishing. They could be anywhere and usually are just not where you are.

You start noticing things you’d normally ignore. The way the light hits the water. The subtle changes in depth. That one overhanging bush that looks fishy but has betrayed you more times than you’d care to admit. You tell yourself this time will be different. It never is. But still, you cast there anyway. Tradition, at this point.

Boats, mind you, are a different story. Most anglers curse them muttering under their breath as the peaceful canal turns into a churning mess. Me? I welcome them like a long-lost mate. Honestly, I’m half tempted to wave them down and ask them to do another pass.

Nothing gets the canal stirred up quite like a narrowboat chugging through, turning the water into a murky soup of opportunity. It’s chaos but it’s productive chaos. The silt lifts, visibility drops, and suddenly everything feels alive. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch underwater. Dinner time.

In my head, the Zander are snapping into action, darting about like opportunistic little thieves, picking off anything that looks remotely edible. Meanwhile, I’m stood there trying to look like I planned it all along, as if I personally arranged for this boat to come through at precisely the right moment. In reality, I’m just as reactive as the fish scrambling to get a bait back in the water before the moment passes.

Timing, as always, is everything. And I’m usually just slightly off it.

So for this grand return to canal life, I opted for convenience. No big expedition, no overthinking—just simple, efficient fishing. Four-minute drive, short stroll, rods out. Done. The kind of session you tell yourself is “low pressure,” which of course immediately turns it into the exact opposite.

I’d even splashed out on £40 worth of deadbaits—a serious investment, or so I thought. The sort of purchase that makes you stand a little taller, like you’ve properly committed. No shortcuts today. Premium bait. Premium results. That was the plan. 

Turns out, they were basically free.

Courtesy of what can only be described as a floral disaster of Olympic proportions.

Now, I’m no flower expert but I know enough to recognise when something meant to impress has gone catastrophically wrong. What arrived looked less like a thoughtful gift and more like the aftermath of a long-distance desert crossing. Limp, lifeless, and about as inspiring as a blank session in January. Even the wrapping seemed embarrassed. There’s a particular kind of disappointment when you open something expecting a reaction and instead get… that. You can’t even fake enthusiasm. You just sort of nod, like, “Yes. These are… definitely flowers.”

To their credit, the M&S customer service team sorted it sharpish. Refund on the way, apologies made, crisis averted. And just like that, those £40 deadbaits transformed from a questionable financial decision into what felt like a gift from the angling gods themselves.

Funny how quickly perspective shifts.

Anyway, back to the fishing.

The canal looked… well, like a canal. Slightly questionable water colour, that faint earthy smell you pretend not to notice, the odd ripple that could mean everything or absolutely nothing. Classic. There’s always that feeling when you arrive the quiet uncertainty. You’re either about to have a session you’ll talk about for weeks, or you’re about to spend several hours politely pretending this was “still enjoyable.”

There is no in-between.

I set up with that cautious optimism every angler knows. Not too hopeful—you don’t want to jinx it—but not completely defeated either. Just enough belief to keep you casting. The first few casts felt good. Always do. Everything’s fresh, the bait’s perfect, your confidence hasn’t taken any hits yet.

Then time starts to stretch.

Ten minutes. Nothing.
Twenty minutes. Still nothing.
Half an hour… and now you’re starting to think.

Was that a knock? Probably not.
Should I move? Maybe.
Are they even here? …let’s not go there yet.

Then, just as doubt starts creeping in properly, a boat appears in the distance. Slow, steady, inevitable.

Perfect.

I reposition slightly, get ready, make sure everything’s set. As the boat pushes through, the water transforms clear lines replaced by swirling clouds of silt, the whole canal suddenly alive with movement. This is it. This is the window.

Cast out. Let it settle. Wait.

Every second feels louder now. You’re tuned in, hyper-aware, watching for anything. A tap, a twitch, the slightest sign.

And then—

Maybe something. Or maybe not.

That’s the thing with Zander fishing. It plays with your head. Half the battle is figuring out what’s real and what’s just you wanting it to be real. You convince yourself you felt something, strike into nothing, and stand there hoping no one saw.

Still, you keep going. Move a little further. Try another spot. Adjust, adapt, repeat.

Leapfrogging down the canal, chasing that one moment where everything lines up. Where instinct, timing, and a bit of luck finally agree to cooperate.

Because eventually, it does happen.

Not always. Not even often.

But just enough to keep you coming back.

So… how did I do?

I pulled up at the swim full of optimism, only to be immediately greeted by what can only be described as a thoughtfully pre-packaged gift from the local canine community. Nothing says “welcome back to the canals” like a dog poo bag just slung on the floor the bag swinging gently in the breeze like some sort of grim bunting. Ah yes, the great outdoors nature at its finest, lovingly gift-wrapped by strangers.

Anyway, plans changed quicker than a politician’s promises, and my grand 2.5-hour session was ruthlessly trimmed down to a measly 1.5 thanks to last-minute domestic negotiations (which I lost, obviously). Still, rods out, dignity slightly dented, and spirits cautiously high, I got down to business.

Then bang! Ten minutes in and I’m into a fish. Not just any fish, mind you, but a Zander with the temperament of a caffeinated ferret. It went absolutely berserk the moment it felt steel, thrashing about like I’d insulted its entire bloodline. After a brief but spirited argument, I managed to persuade it into the net.

I gave it a quick eyeball estimate 3lb 8oz. Turns out I was only an ounce off. Frankly, I’m considering a side career as a human weighing scale. Job done. Efficient. Clinical. Almost suspiciously competent. Buoyed by success (and clearly now an angling prodigy), I spent the rest of the session rotating through four more swims like a man convinced lightning would strike twice. It didn’t. Not even a sniff. The fish had clearly clocked off early, probably laughing about me somewhere underwater.

Still, one lively Zander, a bit of sunshine, and only minor psychological damage from the dog poo incident overall, a solid return to the canal. Back on the scoreboard, dignity mostly intact, and with just enough success to guarantee I’ll be back for more punishment soon.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.140 (Canal Zander)

It was one of those mornings when you wake up earlier than intended, stare at the ceiling for a bit, and think, “What the heck am I doing with my life?” Well, that’s a bit dramatic, but you get the drift. It was Sunday, the day of rest unless, of course, you’re an angler, in which case it’s the day of trudging about in the damp, lugging tackle that weighs roughly the same as a baby elephant, and convincing yourself it’s “relaxing.”

The nearby village had a Remembrance Parade later in the morning. I fancied a nose at the preparations  there’s something solemn yet heartwarming about seeing everyone line up, medals shining, the band warming up, and the vicar trying not to look too annoyed at the teenagers vaping behind the bus stop. 

Sadly, a prior engagement meant I couldn’t stay for the event itself, but it got me out of bed at least, which is half the battle on a Sunday.

Now, what to do with this unexpected slice of morning? The rivers are, to use the technical term, pants. Low, clear, and about as inspiring as a lukewarm cup of tea. 

Still, as I write this, there’s been some heavy overnight rain, and the forecast promises some proper downpours in the week ahead. Maybe, just maybe, those fickle drops will find their way into our local waterways. 

We’ve somehow managed to be in that annoying meteorological bubble that avoids every bit of rain the rest of the country gets. Everyone else is out there moaning about floods, and we’re stood on dust-crusted banks praying for a drizzle.

But hope, as they say, springs eternal. A bit of colour in the river would do wonders for the fishing  get those wary barbel and chub to stop skulking about in their hidey holes and start behaving like proper fish again. In the meantime, though, I needed something to scratch the itch.

So, I thought canal Zander! The fanged marauders of the cut. They’re never too fussy, right? Always up for a snack, especially on a gloomy morning. There’s a marina just down the road where the water’s usually a murky brown stew of diesel, duck poo, and dreams. Perfect habitat for a Zed.

Except, of course, today it looked like the Caribbean. Honestly, I could see my deadbait over a metre down a shimmering silver slab of nothing-happening-ness. Zander love a bit of murk, that mysterious twilight zone where they can ambush anything foolish enough to blink twice. But this? This was gin-clear, mirror-calm, and about as inviting as a swimming pool at a naturist camp.

Now, usually, the place is a hive of activity. Holiday boaters coming and going, diesel fumes swirling about, and the occasional argument about mooring rights drifting across the water — all the lovely chaos that stirs up the bottom and makes the Zander feel right at home. But today? Peaceful. Too peaceful. Like the set of a crime drama where the detective’s about to find a body in the reeds.

Still, optimism intact, I set up two deadbait rods. Nothing fancy an overdepth in-line float set-up on both, because, well, I like to keep it traditional. Maybe a Zander sleeper rod and a bream rod would have been more sensible, but when did sensible ever feature in my fishing decisions? Exactly.

Two hours later, the only thing stirred was my coffee. The sun crept up, the water sparkled mockingly, and I started to realise I might as well have been dangling a Mars Bar on a shoelace. Not a tap, not a pull, not even the half-hearted nudge of a suicidal perch. Nada. Zilch. Nothing.

I even tried to convince myself that maybe, just maybe, I’d missed a subtle tremor on the float. You know that internal argument you have where you’re desperate for any sign of life? “Did that just twitch? No… probably wind. But maybe?” You end up staring so hard at the float that your eyes start to water, and you convince yourself it’s all part of the plan. It wasn’t.

Eventually, boredom won. The sun was now properly up, the dog walkers had started to appear, and I could feel the judgement radiating off them as they passed that look of “he’s been there for hours and hasn’t caught a thing.” Which, to be fair, was entirely accurate.

So I packed up, trudged back to the car with that special combination of disappointment and mild self-loathing that only anglers truly understand. The best part of the morning? The bacon sandwich waiting at home.

Still, I suppose that’s fishing for you all hope, no guarantee, and a constant reminder that nature has a sense of humour. Next time, though, with a bit of rain and a tinge of colour in the water, I reckon the Zeds might just come out to play. Until then, I’ll just keep lying to myself about “enjoying the peace and quiet.”

Canal Roach - The Sisyphean Task ? Pt.4

I had a small window of opportunity as usual and to honest it wasn't the best time to go fishing because the narrowboats would likely be a pain (fingers crossed I'd be ok), but I planned to fish close in anyway where hopefully the dreaded tow would be less of an issue, oh and do give Wild Garlic Way a much needed rest.

A while ago now out of the blue I caught some nice roach on this particular stretch of canal using maggots as bait and I'd always wondered if I upscaled the bait abit and if the roach were still around, were there any biggun's lurking in these turbid shallow depths. So it was back to the bread fishing and lift method that George has successfully shown to work really well, and my best canal roach to date of 1lb and 12oz also came on similar tactics. 

The thought process is to feed those spritely smaller roach on the bread mash smörgåsbord until they are full which then will leave those bigger specimen roach in the swim which then can get their fill. You can see why it would work to be honest, even though it goes against convention. 

However no canal is the same and the fish decision makers can react differently that's for sure, a little like those making the VAR decisions in football 💩, you see the other day I fished without even a nudge or a bobble on the bread, then I switched to maggots and it was a fish a chuck.

Now I rigged up one of the future contraband Drennan Glow Tip Antenna floats and would give it a couple of hours in two different swims to see if I could snare a roach or two. I've had some nice hybrids on this stretch as well to be fair, so those would be most welcome if the roach were not playing ball. 

Those that haven't fished this canal would be amazed just how coloured it is, I'm talking milk chocolate brown when the boats have been moving throughout the day. You would wonder if it was ever worth bothering for anything other than Zander if it's that coloured, but there are still fish to be caught if you know where to look.

These reeds for example, there is a nice gap between them and even when the canal is flowing left to right like it was for most of the time here, fish are often tucked up away in here for sanctuary, away from the boat track and also those Zeds.

The first swim was fruitless though so after about an hour it was on to the next as you can see here. Easy enough to drop the float right next to those reeds.

Nice and simple fishing this and the float couldn't be more sensitive. It still took a while to get the first bite mind you after baiting the swim with bread mash that put a scent trail down. The classic lift bite where I thought I'd hooked a nice roach but it was actually a roach bream hybrid.

Still I'm not complaining with a blank avoided and the spare bottle of Champion I had laying around in the garage only helped with that, especially when the sun was rather pleasant too. 

A number of fish were caught until curfew called time however nothing big sadly, the 25 minute walk back to the car didn't help, however I did stop to watch a duck with her 12 ducklings. They seemed to be chilled too rather than in manic mode like they usually are.

I can stack up a few sessions now and I'm lucky despite the long walk to this spot, there are many more convenient stretches where I can get my fix.