Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.6

There are days, rare as a perfectly hooked tench in a gin-clear margin, when the alarm clock is silenced not by necessity but by indulgence. A Tuesday, no less. A day that ordinarily hums along unnoticed, filed away between the reluctant grind of Monday and the distant promise of Friday. Yet here it was, laid out like a well-trodden towpath under a forgiving sky mine to squander, mine to savour. And squander it I nearly did, though not without the usual negotiations with bones and sinew that seem, of late, to have developed opinions of their own.

The previous evening had been one of those defiant affairs the kind where common sense is politely ignored in favour of rhythm, nostalgia, and a stubborn refusal to concede to the creeping frailties of age. The 808 State acid house gig had loomed as a question mark rather than a certainty. My back, much like Nic’s from Avon Angling, had been issuing stern warnings all week. 

There is a particular tone to that kind of pain not sharp, not urgent, but insistent, like a bailiff tapping at the door. Still, fortified by a couple of rum and cokes and a mindset that could best be described as wilfully optimistic, I found myself there, upright, mobile, and for a few fleeting hours, entirely unconcerned with tomorrow’s consequences.

Tomorrow, of course, arrived.

The knee, never one to be outdone in these matters, had its say early doors. There’s a peculiar irritation in fluid build-up around a joint not agony, not even pain in the traditional sense, but a dull, swollen protest that makes every step feel like a negotiation. Ice helped, as it always does, though it carries with it the quiet admission that things are not quite as they once were. Still, plans had been made. Snitterfield Reservoir had been pencilled in, crucians the intended quarry, and for a brief moment the idea held together.

But fishing, like life, has a way of adjusting itself to the weakest link in the chain. Nic’s back had worsened overnight, tipping the scales decisively toward postponement. There’s no heroism in forcing these things not anymore. Experience teaches you that the fish will wait, but injuries, once aggravated, tend to linger like unwelcome guests. So we shelved it. Another day, another attempt.

Which left me, mid-morning, with that curious mixture of freedom and restlessness that only an unexpected change of plan can bring. After a lie-in that felt both deserved and slightly indulgent, I turned my thoughts to a spot Neil from the garage had mentioned one of those whispered recommendations, delivered with the kind of confidence that suggests either hidden brilliance or mild exaggeration. “Full of fish,” he’d said. “Fish the oxygenated swim bites all day.”

Well, that was enough for me.

Arrival came just after eleven, the sun already working its quiet magic. T-shirt weather proper t-shirt weather the sort that encourages optimism before a single cast has been made. The swim itself was exactly as described: shallow, barely two and a half feet in places, with a modest inlet offering perhaps three metres of purposeful flow before surrendering to stillness. It had all the hallmarks of a productive spot — oxygen, movement, structure. The kind of place where fish should, by all rights, queue politely to be caught.

I set up with a simplicity born of experience. Maggots for the float, a bit of sloppy groundbait to encourage interest, and a sleeper rod positioned with quiet hope a smelt resting beneath the surface, waiting to tempt a passing zander. Bread sat in reserve, a backup plan rather than a primary tactic. It all felt right. It all looked right.

And yet, for the first hour, it was nothing short of a masterclass in inactivity.

There is a particular kind of frustration reserved for waters that look perfect but refuse to deliver. It gnaws at you, quietly at first, then with increasing insistence. You begin to question everything depth, presentation, feeding pattern even the very presence of fish. Meanwhile, the world continues around you. The towpath, invigorated by the sunshine, had become a thoroughfare. Walkers, cyclists, the casually curious — all drawn to the water, and inevitably, to the angler beside it.

“Caught anything?”

At first, it’s a harmless enough enquiry. By the tenth iteration, it becomes something else entirely.

The zander rod remained motionless, its stillness almost mocking in its certainty. I repositioned it once, twice, searching for that elusive line where predator meets opportunity. Nothing. Not even a tremor.

It was only when I shifted my attention — and my float— to the far side of the swim that things began, tentatively, to stir. A smaller inlet, less obvious, but still pushing a modest current into the main body. Sometimes it’s these overlooked details that hold the key. A trickle of maggots, introduced sparingly, began to draw a response. The float dipped. Then again.

At last, some life.

The fish, however, were not the stuff of dreams. Roach, small and obliging, very much on the lower end of the size spectrum. Zander snacks, if anything. Still, bites are bites, and after a blank spell, even the smallest fish carries a certain satisfaction. 

For a brief window, it felt as though things might build that the swim might come alive in the way Neil had promised.

But as quickly as it began, it faded.

The bites dried up, the water returned to its earlier indifference, and the sun now fully committed to its role began to assert itself. Warmth spread, not just across the landscape but through the bones. It was, undeniably, a lovely day.

And that, perhaps, was the turning point.

There comes a moment, occasionally, when the act of fishing becomes secondary to everything else. When the discomfort of a complaining back, the repetition of unanswered questions, and the stubborn refusal of fish to cooperate all align to nudge you gently but firmly in another direction. I could feel it then. That quiet realisation that I was no longer truly invested in the outcome.

My back, ever the opportunist, chose that moment to reintroduce itself. Not sharply, not dramatically — just a dull, persistent ache that suggested it had been patient long enough.

And so, with no great ceremony, I made the decision.

Pack up. Move on.

There’s no shame in it. No sense of defeat. If anything, there’s a peculiar kind of satisfaction in recognising when enough is enough. The gear was stowed, the swim left as it was found, and the promise of something altogether different began to take shape.

A pint. A proper pint. Followed, ideally, by something substantial enough to qualify as lunch.

The local pub obliged, as they so often do. There’s a comfort in those places — a familiarity that requires no effort. The first sip, cool and steady, washed away the lingering frustrations of the morning. Food followed, hearty and unpretentious, the kind that settles both stomach and spirit in equal measure.

From there, the day found a new rhythm.

A short trip into Stratford, a wander through the familiar haunts, and the practicalities of tomorrow began to take precedence. Meat for the BBQ. Charcoal. The quiet anticipation of another warm day, perhaps even warmer whispers of 23 degrees hanging in the air like a promise.

Work looms, as it always does, but days like this — imperfect, meandering, quietly satisfying — serve as a reminder that not every outing needs to be measured in fish landed or targets achieved. Sometimes, it’s enough to simply be there. To try, to adapt, to accept, and ultimately, to enjoy whatever the day chooses to offer.

And if that happens to include a pint and a decent lunch, well… there are worse ways to spend a Tuesday. (The diet starts soon, honest !!)

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.5

There are moments in life when you begin to question your own sanity, and mine came somewhere between the carrot shelf and the reduced meat section in Aldi. Now, I’m not saying I’m easily excitable, but when you see perfectly respectable vegetables—carrots, garlic, swede, and potatoes (8p) practically being given away like unwanted raffle prizes at a village fête, you do start to wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered into some sort of alternate universe. 

Naturally, I filled the basket with the urgency of a man preparing for the apocalypse. Then came the beef—half price, £7 a kilo, practically winking at me. It was destiny. That beef didn’t choose me, I chose it… repeatedly… until it was in the trolley.

Of course, all this bounty would usually signal one thing in our household: the sacred Sunday roast. A ritual so consistent that even Ben knows to loiter strategically near the table around 5:30pm. However, fate had other ideas this week. 

While the wife and kids were likely dreaming of crispy roast potatoes and gravy lakes, I had other commitments—namely, a jaunt to Brum to meet my mate Simon. Plans included a few drinks (purely for hydration purposes), some Korean food, and an ACID house gig where 808 State would be twiddling knobs with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for men assembling flat-pack furniture. The legendary Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath would be our playground. Roast pork, therefore, has been unceremoniously postponed to Monday. The family will survive. Probably.

Now, before all that urban revelry, I had a far more noble pursuit in mind: fishing. The South Stratford Canal has always been a bit of a favourite—intimate, peaceful, and just the right amount of “I might actually catch something here.” But in a rare moment of adventurous thinking (clearly a mistake), I decided to try a different stretch on the Grand Union Canal. 

It offered a bit of shelter from the wind, which, after the previous night’s visit from what I’ve decided to call Storm Dave, felt like a sensible move. At one point the wife and I stood outside with a glass of wine, staring into the gale like extras in a low-budget disaster film, fully expecting the roof to take flight.

I arrived at the canal at the ungodly hour of 6:30am, which for me is essentially the middle of the night. Spirits were high, optimism intact, and my back… well, my back had other plans. In a spectacular display of athletic incompetence, I managed to tweak it while getting the tackle out of the car. Nothing dramatic, just enough to remind me that my body is now less “elite angler” and more “fragile antique.” Still, onward we marched—or shuffled—into battle.

The first swim is usually a banker. A few casts, a bit of groundbait, maggots doing their thing, and before you know it, you’re into a nice run of fish. Not today. Forty-five minutes passed with absolutely nothing happening. Not even a courtesy nibble. It was like fishing in a bathtub. Normally I’d have moved on much sooner, but the combination of sunshine and a mildly broken back made sitting down seem like a tactical masterstroke rather than laziness.

Eventually, I embraced the inevitable and went on the rove, trying swim after swim with the same result: absolutely naff all. The predator rod sat there looking decorative, the maggots remained insultingly untouched, and I began to suspect I’d somehow offended the fishing gods. Perhaps they’d heard about the Aldi haul and decided I’d had enough luck for one weekend.

In a final act of desperation, I headed to a known zander spot. The “last throw of the dice” scenario. A smelt went out on a circle hook, and for a glorious moment—finally—the float twitched, dipped, and sprang to life. 

Fish on! The zander, clearly unaware it was supposed to behave like a zander, fought like an overexcited chub, darting about under my feet as if auditioning for a circus act. I guided it in, heart pounding, net at the ready… and off it came. Gone. Vanished. Probably laughing.

To be fair, it wasn’t a monster maybe a 2lber, but it would have saved the blank and restored some dignity. Instead, I was left staring at the water like a man who’s just dropped his last chip down the side of the sofa. One final swim on the way back to the car yielded exactly what I’d come to expect by this point: nothing. Not a bite. Not a flicker. Not even a fishy insult. Just me, my thoughts, and a growing suspicion that maggots had suddenly become deeply unpopular overnight.

So there we have it. A morning that promised much and delivered the square root of absolutely nothing. Still, there’s always next time… assuming my back recovers, the fishing gods forgive me, and Aldi hasn’t sold out of everything worth eating.

And if not, well, there’s always Monday’s roast pork to look forward to. Assuming the rabble haven’t staged a revolt by then.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.139 (Canal Zander)

The decision to fish this particular stretch of canal was, in hindsight, somewhere between heroic persistence and full-blown masochism. I’d parked a good ten-minute trudge away the kind of walk where you start optimistic and end questioning whether you should have taken up stamp collecting instead. By the time I trudged past the third abandoned narrowboat (modern canal architecture at its finest), I already regretted my life choices. The more handy carpark is now pay and display which I'm a tight git these days I've fully functioning feet I'll use them !!

And then the scent hit me. Not the wholesome aroma of damp nettles and lock grease, oh no  this was the Botanical Gardens of the Lost, aroma courtesy of a gentleman who clearly believed breakfast is a joint effort. 

Literally. 6:45am. Rosie and Jim on the nearby narrowboat looked horrified like two pensioners witnessing teenagers try vaping in a bus shelter.

I set up between a dog walker who looked like they’d been dragged from bed by an over-caffeinated spaniel, and a jogger who was on their third loop of trying to outrun regret. But I was here on a mission: Halloween weekend, vampire vibes, Zander time. 

Cue dramatic soundtrack or in this case, the gentle “plonk” of my float and the distant sound of a gongoozler explaining canal locks wrong to their partner. 

Now, Zander, the so-called “vampire fish,” would never glitter in sunlight like a romantic teenage blood-sucker; no, these lads have the personality of a night-shift security guard and the fashion sense of a creature who thinks algae green is formal wear. Fangs? Absolutely. Eyes that say “I haven’t slept since the Industrial Revolution”? You bet.

Now first cast, float barely settled before something tugged. Could’ve been a fiendish predator could’ve been a curious leaf. Tragically, it was neither. Whatever nibbled vanished faster than my motivation on a Monday. I roved. I roamed. 

I muttered to myself like a pirate who’d misplaced his parrot. Eventually, a fish! Okay, two fish both convinced they were apex predators, not the biggest certainly . Still, in the murky black tea of the Midlands canal, that’s practically a sea monster. I swear one hissed at me. 

Or that might’ve been the wind. Or the weed fellow chuckling behind a cloud of existential relaxation.  A dog walker with a judgemental look (all in the eyes) stopped mid walk with her dog carrying on in front of her to release a chocolate hostage I'd imagine, out of sight out of mind and all that, but she was there eyes fixated to wonder what I was going to do with them I suppose.

The towpath slowly filled with morning humanity: four lure anglers twanging rods like they were auditioning for a fishing-based boyband, cyclists whispering “sorry” as they nearly removed my kneecaps, and a labradoodle that decided my ruckbag held the secrets of the universe. 

The drama! The ambience! The slow realisation that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t actually enjoying myself. 

But anglers are a stubborn breed; we tell ourselves joy is optional but commitment is sacred. Eventually, I packed up before I turned fully feral. The canal? Tea-stained. The fish? Temperamental. My mood? Somewhere between “Let’s Go!” and “Let’s go home.”

That was enough for me !! So I ambled back, rods over shoulder like a defeated medieval foot soldier, I knew I'd return ( 7 years time ?)

Because fishing isn’t about the catching. It’s about the characters. The mystery. The absurdity of chasing vampire fish while being side-eyed by childhood puppets and serenaded by the smell of herbal breakfast. (apparently !!)

That’s canal life, baby. One day you’re landing fanged leviathans; the next you're debating if a gust of wind counts as a bite. 

But oh, when that float dips proper… when midnight predators strike in tea-coloured gloom… when Rosie, Jim, and Duck give you their silent approval… magic.

Let’s go again.
Because logic never stopped an angler and certainly hasn’t stopped me.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.138 (Canal Zander)

Oh, for a life so simple! If only I knew back then what I know now, I’d be retired, sat in a battered fishing chair somewhere warm, sipping lukewarm tea and pretending to be enlightened whilst targetting something unachievable. But no instead of a minimalist monk, I’ve become a maximalist mug, surrounded by tackle boxes, half-spooled reels, and enough bait tubs to start a small biological weapons program and no time to fish. 

They say living simply is about removing the non-essentials but how exactly do you do that when every “essential” seems to involve another bit of overpriced fishing paraphernalia that promises inner peace and bigger fish? 

I keep hearing that happiness comes from mindfulness and meaningful relationships, but the only meaningful relationship I’ve had recently was with a leaking flask and a roach deadbait that refused to stay on the hook. Still, I suppose there’s a kind of Zen in it sitting by a murky canal, covered in frost, muttering about taxes and modern life, while trying to convince yourself this is simplicity.

Now here are mornings when you wake up, peer through the bedroom window, and immediately question every life decision that led you to become a grown adult who thinks sitting beside a canal in sub-zero temperatures waiting for a fish that looks like an accountant with scales is a productive use of time. This was one of those mornings. 

The car roof was crisp with frost, the air so cold it felt like inhaling ground glass, and I could already hear the faint voice of reason whispering: “You could just stay home, put the kettle on, and watch Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing instead.” But of course, reason has no place in angling.

I was off to meet Security Neil the man, the myth, the self-proclaimed Barbel whisperer from a staring role in Buffalo Si’s River Masters YouTube channel where those hot pegs were discovered over the episodes, and currently basking in minor celebrity status after a couple of Angling Times appearances showing off Barbel of such proportions that they could probably drag a kayak upstream if given the chance. I thought perhaps some of that good fortune might rub off on me, though in hindsight, luck rarely transfers via casual conversation and lukewarm tea on a canal towpath.

Now, when I arrived, the canal looked less like a predator’s paradise and more like an overfilled aquarium that had been through a Brita filter. Absolutely gin clear. You could see every discarded shopping trolley, half a bicycle, and one lonely traffic cone lying in silent judgment of my optimism. Not exactly textbook Zander conditions. 

You see, Zander like it murky proper chocolate-milk murky so they can sneak up on an unsuspecting roach without being seen. This looked like a scene from Finding Nemo. Still, I’m nothing if not delusional, so out went the roach deadbaits under light floats, and I began the traditional canal-side ritual of slowly freezing to death while pretending to “stay mobile”.

Neil turned up just as I was starting to wonder whether my toes were still attached. He’d parked somewhere sensible, of course, while I’d more of walk to try and get those steps in. We greeted each other with the mutual understanding of two men who should really be at home with a plump pillow sandwich but instead had chosen to commune with nature and mild hypothermia.

Within minutes it was obvious that the fish were having none of it. The floats sat there as motionless as a teenager asked to clean their room. Normally, when there are Zander about, you don’t wait long. They find the bait, give it a good thump, and off they go like a moped on a mission. But this morning? Nothing. Not a twitch, not a wobble, not even the courtesy of a half-hearted tug. We began praying not for divine intervention, but for a few passing boats to churn up the canal. Imagine that: two grown men, begging for holidaymakers to appear and drive floating sheds through our swims just to stir up the sludge.

And that’s when the conversation drifted as it inevitably does to life, taxes, and our mutual bafflement at how we’re both still working like galley slaves while the government spends our hard-earned cash on things like “consultations about consultations.” We concluded that the only way forward was to join the booming industry of money laundering. 

Not the criminal kind, you understand, just the apparently legitimate sort that seems to involve opening yet another chicken shop in Stratford-upon-Avon. Either that or a mobile ice-cream cart. Or failing that, a lap-dancing club Romeo and Bootyette, though neither of us has the physique or the flexibility to manage that enterprise successfully.

By the second hour, our philosophical musings had done little to improve the fishing. The floats continued to mock us, the water stayed clear enough to spot your reflection, and my roach baits looked more like underwater garden ornaments than deadly offerings. We considered moving, but that’s angler-speak for “we’ll moan about it for an hour before not actually doing it.”

Then, out of nowhere movement! A tiny bobble on the right-hand float. Adrenaline shot through me like caffeine through a pensioner at bingo. Was this it? Had the mighty canal Zander finally arrived to make all the frostbite worthwhile? I held my breath, watched the float dip again, and struck with all the poise of a man whose coordination is inversely proportional to excitement.

And immediately, I knew. Not a Zander. Oh yes a Pike. The eternal gatecrasher. Every canal angler’s unwanted houseguest. Don’t get me wrong, a fish is a fish, but when you’ve spent all morning dreaming of that tell-tale Zander thump, the pike feels like the bloke who turns up to a wedding uninvited and drinks all the champagne. After a brief tussle and some unprintable language, I slipped it back into the gin-clear water, muttering something about betrayal.

We gave it another half hour, mainly because neither of us could feel our fingers enough to pack up efficiently. The boats had churned things up a bit, but the Zander were clearly on strike. Eventually, we called it a day. Neil, ever the optimist, said he might try another spot on his way home. I wished him luck, secretly hoping the fishing gods would continue their campaign of indifference equally across Warwickshire.

Half an hour later, my phone buzzed. A WhatsApp photo. There was Neil, grinning like a lottery winner, holding up a perfectly respectable canal Zander. “First chuck!” he wrote. Of course it was. I responded with the traditional angler’s reply: “Nice one,” What I actually meant was: “I hate you and everything you stand for 😁.”

Driving home, I pondered the usual lesson we should have moved sooner, we always should have moved sooner but of course, I won’t. None of us ever do. 

That’s the joy and the madness of fishing: eternal optimism in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Back home, I made another brew, thawed out, and stared thoughtfully at the kettle’s reflection. A life so simple, I thought, if only we could stop chasing Zander and start appreciating the quiet. Then I checked the weather forecast for tomorrow. Cloudy, with rain overnight perfectly turbid conditions.

Looks like I’ll be up at dawn again.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.137 (Canal Zander)

So this blog ticked over 2 Million Views yesterday which was good, and even better the river season is nearly with us, for many like an impatient heron eyeing up a breakfast buffet, I find myself doing that thing again pacing around the garage over the last week, peering at my fishing rods like they're distant relatives I haven’t called in months. Truth be told, the closed season hasn't exactly had me leaping out of bed with bait box in hand. Odd that, considering I still enjoy being on the bank once I’ve actually prised myself away from the sofa, the biscuit tin, and the occasional existential crisis about the meaning of life 

But inspiration struck in an unlikely place the other day: Stratford-Upon-Avon. Shakespeare's stomping ground. I’d gone in search of coffee and perhaps a slice of existential drama, but instead found something considerably louder: a Ferrari Purosangue Italy’s answer to the age-old question “What if a lion mated with a spaceship?” 

The first Ferrari SUV, four doors, four seats, four-wheel drive and, presumably, four heart attacks per mile if you even dare scratch it. It looked, frankly, better than its publicity shots a bit like me, but in reverse. If I had the sort of money that gets casually lost down the back of Roman Abramovich’s sofa, I’d probably give it a whirl. Although I’d need to buy matching trousers just to be seen driving it.

Meanwhile, in news that made me feel equal parts proud and prematurely nostalgic, my time at Polestar is drawing to a close as I've applied for VR and it's been accepted, as sadly no more cars to develop are heading to the UK business side, which is a shame. But to be fair, I did get to work on the Polestar 5 from the first sketch right through to production with all 900 horsepower whispering like a caffeinated silent lion. 

Last week I was in the workshop surrounded by around 40 of the prototypes an oddly calming experience, like being in a very sleek, very Swedish zoo. I admit, it's a fine-looking beast. Let’s just hope the motoring press don’t get distracted by how many cupholders it has and forget to mention the fact it basically turns electroheads into poetry reciters. Sadly 400 jobs will be reduced to 130 or so, and it's time to move on with a few quid in my back pocket. 

What’s next? Well, there’s a whisper of something new, possibly back in a design studio, potentially working alongside clay modellers and 3D geniuses and many familiar faces. And let me tell you, there’s something weirdly satisfying about seeing a car go from Play-Doh blob to showroom sculpture. Of course, it all depends on a certain ‘thing’ being sorted what that is, exactly, remains classified, mostly because I haven’t figured it out yet. Still, fingers, toes, and even eyebrows crossed.

In the meantime, desperate to break the funk and remind myself what fresh air smells like, I headed down to the local canal for a quick zander session. My logic was: catch a couple before the river season kicks in, then retire the canal rods and ceremoniously dust off the river ones like a knight preparing for battle or at least mild wrist ache.

First chuck under some cover, and boom bite within seconds. Zander in the net, thank you and goodnight. Cast again to the same shady lair, another instant take two in the net before I’d even had time to grumble about my coffee being lukewarm. Small zander, mind you. About the size of an angry slipper. But still, fish are fish, especially when they arrive with the punctuality of a German train.

Of course, as fishing laws dictate, the action didn’t last. One more bite in two hours, and that one kept picking up the bait like it was doing a taste test, then spitting it out in disgust. Clearly not a monster the deadbait looked like it had been chewed by a toddler with commitment issues.

So, I packed up and headed home, fish tally at three, mood moderately perked. And then came a surprise: a Father’s Day present waiting for me a Lego Kingfisher. I hadn’t built Lego in years, not since the Great Pirate Ship Collapse of 1993. 

But Sam, recently 14 and already a grandmaster of the brick arts, reckons he can guide me through the construction without calling me an amateur more than three times. Which is progress.

So here I sit, torn between the anticipation of opening day on the river, the strange finality of leaving a fantastic job behind, the mild terror of building a Lego bird, and the unmistakable feeling that the best adventures whether on the bank or behind a design desk are just about to begin.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.133 (Canal Zander)

Well, this lingering cold is proving harder to shake than a bailiff at a dodgy car boot sale. The sore throat, thanks to a chesty cough that sounds like I’ve been chain-smoking kippers, and a streaming nose that could rival Niagara Falls, has put a firm kibosh on anything remotely enjoyable. 

I’m rarely ill, so when I do catch something, I like to really make a meal of it you know, go full Shakespearean tragedy. Fishing? Not exactly top of the agenda when you're coughing up what looks like frogspawn every half hour. All I want is to feel vaguely human again so I can get back on the bank and remind the fish who's boss (spoiler: it’s not always me). I've still manage to maintain my 10k steps a day which is good having some walks out in the village, but I have needed the odd pick me up !!

Out with the Comfort Food !!

Now Long ago, in the heart of Middlesbrough, someone looked at a chicken breast, a vat of béchamel sauce, and a questionable amount of cheese, and thought, “Yes. This is what the people need.” Thus, the chicken parmo was born not in an Italian trattoria, but in a Northern English kitchen that believed in deep-frying first and asking questions never.

The parmo is Middlesbrough’s answer to comfort food. It’s not delicate. It’s not subtle. It arrives on your plate with all the grace of a bulldozer made of cheese, and honestly, that’s what makes it beautiful. Breaded chicken, fried to golden perfection, blanketed in creamy béchamel, and finished with a melted cheese crust thick enough to stop traffic what’s not to love?

Well it's a little bland if I'm honest 🤯

Anyway some foods whisper sweet nothings to your taste buds. The parmo kicks open the door in a dressing gown, hands you a pint, and says, “Come here, mate. You’ve had a rough day.” It doesn’t judge you for eating it at 2 a.m. in your kitchen while Googling your symptoms. It just wants you to feel okay.

To outsiders, it may look like a calorie-laden crime scene. But to the people of Teesside, it’s tradition. It’s therapy. It’s Friday night. The parmo isn’t just a dish it’s a greasy, glorious friend who always knows what you need, and honestly 'slightly' better for you than a dirty doner kebab I suppose.  

Now the countdown to the start of the river season is ticking nicely, and with my Voluntary Redundancy signed, sealed, and delivered (like a break-up letter with a big cheque), and a termination date finally confirmed, I’m now starting to hatch some plans. 

We’ve got a few holidays lined up to soften the landing Cornwall, North Devon, and Lanzarote for a bit of sea fishing and sunburn in equal measure. I've already got a few leads for some salty action not that kind, behave but it’s the return to the rivers in June that really has my heart doing little excited flutters. Or that might just be the lingering fever. Hard to say.

On the tackle front, I’ve been channeling my inner inventor and knocked up a couple of meat punches using the 3D printer. These lozenge-shaped beauties are designed to scale down my barbel approach, secured nicely with a quickstop. 

A couple of pieces can look just enough "off-piste" to draw attention without making the fish recoil in horror like it’s seen a ghost (or a Lidl bait). Some of the other chaps in the WBAS syndicate have used this scaled-down method with some success, and let’s be honest a bonus roach is always welcome, especially when those barbel and chub are not playing ball.

I actually used my first 3D printer way back in 1998 at the Gaydon design studio we’re talking the Stone Age of additive manufacturing ( a wax layered jobbie), where you'd send off an STL file and cross your fingers it didn’t come back looking like a melted jelly baby.

Fast forward a couple of decades and you can now buy a half-decent, auto-calibrating printer for a bag of sand. It's mad how far the tech’s come makes you wonder how we ever managed without one. Though I’m still waiting for someone to invent a printer that churns out usable excuses for blanking...

Feeling slightly more human, I thought I'd sneak out for a dabble with the canal Zander. No monsters of late just a few curious nudges and one suspicious-looking stick that fought surprisingly well for an inanimate object. 

Truth be told, I haven’t been targeting the Zeds with any real conviction. My heart’s just not in it during the closed season. You can tell the spark’s missing even the blogging brigade have gone a bit quiet. But worry not, dear readers June’s whispering sweet nothings to us from the horizon. Running water is near, and with it, that familiar hope that the next cast is the one.

Not as an early start as I had planned but I was by some cover on the towpath for around 7.00am where the sun was already illuminating the canal, so not exactly ideal conditions to fish for canal Zander. But having fished for them for many a year now, you just need to find the fish really and that's where leapfrogging sections of cover seems to work.

A good hour in though only one tentative pull on a very still canal I decided to try up by some boats to see if they were laying up there.

Nothing doing whatsoever there so I returned to the cover where I had an enquiry where within 5 minutes fishing a roach tight to cover the left hand float jumps in to life and is motoring down the canal. I tightened up to the circle hook where I pulled the bait out of its mouth, bugger. In my experience they are smaller fish where the bait is too big to take it properly.

I got the bait back out and then 5 minutes later the right hand float goes off with the same vigour but this time I've hooked up nicely and I'm playing a decent Zander.

A lovely fish (6lb ish) as well and still full of spawn however spawning is imminent I'd imagine with the daytime temperatures trying to mimic Spain. That section of cover went quiet so I decided to upsticks and try a completely different area of canal where the fish go really dark for some reason. I think it is because it's a clearer section of canal, anyway on-route I decided to fish the start of the length of cover where I managed another 2 Zander within about 10 minutes of the baits being out.

Such stunning fish that frequent these midland canals we are lucky to have them I say. Anyway that cover also went quite so I decided to stick to my original plan and go to a section of canal a 5 minutes drive away.

Past the pungent wild garlic this lock mouth often gives up some nice fish, it's a bit deeper here you see and obviously well oxygenated. By this time the sun was right in my face and illuminating the canal  more than I'd liked. So unsurprisingly a good half an hour out with two deadbaits not even a bobble of either one of the floats.

I could have fished for another hour or so but I decided to knock it on the head and be thankful I finished on three nice Zander and got some vitamin D in the process. On to the next one !!!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.128 (Bream & Zander)

I headed out to the Grand Union Canal, chasing that ever-elusive perfect session. The plan was simple: float fishing for bream with a bit of bread and groundbait, followed by a go at some zander fishing near cover. What could possibly go wrong?

The morning kicked off cold and damp classic canal weather. The kind that makes your fingers feel like they’ve been cryogenically frozen within the first ten minutes. 

But spirits were high. I picked a decent looking swim, fed a bit of groundbait in (a tad on the damp side, like me), and got cracking with bread on the hook. And to be fair… it actually went pretty well (the third swim I tried). 

The bream were on! Not massive slabs, but I managed to land six maybe more, I lost count somewhere between juggling the landing net and trying not to spill my tea. They were all taken on the float, and the bites were proper sail away jobbies. It’s always satisfying when it all just clicks.

Now, this isn’t just a random stretch of water it’s got history. Back in the day, it was the venue for some huge fishing matches. The reason? There’s a really long, straight run of canal there that’s perfect for pegging out big competitions. You can almost feel the echoes of old match banter in the hedgerows. It’s not as bustling these days 💀, but every time I fish it, I imagine the old-school match lads, shoulder to shoulder, weighing in nets full of roach and bream with grins (and the occasional grumble) all round.

At one point, I looked up and even the ducks seemed mildly impressed. Well, except for one that looked like it was plotting to mug me for my groundbait. You know the type.

Anyway, with the bream box ticked and the float rod packed away, I figured it was time to get serious. Out came the deadbait rod. Mission: Zander.

Now, if catching zander were as easy as talking about them in the pub, I’d have needed a wheelbarrow. I worked up and down the stretch, casting nex to thick cover, near reed beds, and even gave a hopeful flick next to a submerged traffic cone that looked a bit “zander-ish.” Nada.

Not a sniff. Not even a nibble, I whispered sweet nothings to the canal… nothing.

I bumped into another angler who gave me that look you know the one that says, “You’re wasting your time, mate,” but in a polite, nodding British way. Even he was struggling, so at least I wasn’t alone in my zander humiliation.

When things slowed up I retraced my steps and beyond and fished an area of reeds that produced a bite rather quickly. Another small bream, nothing like the stamp up at 'bream bay' but at least I was getting a few bites. 

By the end of the short session, my hands were cold, my flask was empty, and the zander had well and truly ghosted me. But you know what? I didn’t mind. Seven bream on the float, a bit of nature, and the usual mind-clearing peace that only fishing brings. What more can you ask for?

I’ll be back. And so will the zander… probably. Maybe. Eventually.