Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.144 (Canal Perch and Zander)

There are moments in life when everything feels finely balanced, delicately poised like a well-shotted waggler on a calm canal… and then, without warning, someone boots the rod rest, knocks your tea over, and sets fire to the landing net. Last Thursday, somewhere between a mid-morning brew and a half-hearted attempt at productivity in the automotive design studio, that exact feeling descended upon us except instead of fire, it was IT. Which, in many ways, is worse.

It began innocently enough. A little pop-up. Bottom right corner. The digital equivalent of a polite cough before chaos. “Attempting to access IP address…” it said, or something equally sinister and vaguely unhelpful. Being seasoned professionals, we collectively shrugged and carried on, because if you reacted to every strange IT message, you'd never get anything done. Besides, the organisation was “blocking it,” which sounded reassuring in the same way a garden fence reassures you about an approaching rhinoceros.

By late afternoon, however, the studio had begun to unravel like a cheap spool of line under pressure. Systems started dropping out one by one. Drives vanished. Applications wheezed their last. Wi-Fi went funny. The general mood shifted from mild curiosity to that quiet, creeping dread normally reserved for when you realise you've left the landing net in the garage.

Friday brought hope, or at least the illusion of it. There were “workarounds” that marvellous IT phrase which translates roughly to “this might function if you don’t breathe on it.” I clung onto my CATIA licence like a carp angler grips his last boilie during a blank session, managing to work locally and avoid the increasingly haunted Indian network. Forty-plus hours ticked off by lunchtime, I clocked out feeling smug and slightly heroic, convinced the tech wizards would wave their digital wands over the weekend and restore order, despite the main IT guy gone AWOL.

Blog readers they did not.

Monday arrived like a damp bivvy morning grey, disappointing, and smelling faintly of something gone wrong. The systems were not just broken; they were caput. Not resting. Not updating. Not “experiencing issues.” Properly, gloriously dead. The design studio had all the functionality of a chocolate teapot. By midday, I’d been reassigned to “A2MAC1 benchmarking duties,” which is a polite way of saying “find something to do that doesn’t involve working systems.”

And then came the bombshell. IT, those brave custodians of cables and confusion, admitted defeat. “Not anytime soon,” they said. “See you next Tuesday.” Next Tuesday. As if we were discussing a casual pint rather than my entire working week evaporating like mist off a canal at sunrise. As a jobber on an hourly rate, this wasn’t a quirky inconvenience it was financial vandalism. A forced holiday, unrequested and entirely unpaid. The sort of surprise nobody enjoys.

Naturally, I approached Tuesday with a sense of purpose. By which I mean I did absolutely nothing. A lie-in, a leisurely clean of the Jimny, a bit of rod sorting the kind of day that feels productive until you realise you’ve achieved nothing of actual consequence. Still, there are worse ways to spend time than tinkering with fishing gear and pretending you’re preparing for greatness.

Sam, meanwhile, had a rare day off school with a dodgy tummy and a level of honesty that cut through the morning like a sharp hooklink. “Don’t want to poo myself in school, Daddy,” he declared. “I’d be known as the kid who sh*t himself.” LANGUAGE !! A fair point, delivered with the clarity of someone who understands the brutal social economy of the playground. Some reputations, once earned, are impossible to shake.

Just as I began to contemplate a proper fishing session the next day to salvage the week, fate intervened once more. A message from 16 year old Ben’s special needs hub in Stratford-Upon-Avon arrived the night before: boiler issues. Closed. No warmth, no learning, no peace. Plans shifted again. Fishing window reduced to a couple of hours a frantic dash rather than a leisurely campaign.

Still, a couple of hours is better than none, and with a tip-off from Buffalo Si's mate Security Neil about a local perch spot, I was off. The venue was an inlet from a lock above, a place where the water moved just enough to make things interesting. The sort of swim that whispers promise while simultaneously reminding you that gongoozlers, and the ever-present dog poo bag waving brigade are never far away.

Thankfully, there’s always a way. A bit of manoeuvring over the rather high lock paddles and I found myself tucked away from the main towpath, in a spot that felt almost… peaceful. The flow was perfect either tight to the wall or a metre out where it behaved like a miniature river. A proper little gem.

Out went the perch bobber, maggots and worms from my own wormery doing their duty like loyal soldiers. Alongside it, a sleeper rod for zander, armed with a roach deadbait and quiet optimism. The kind of setup that says, “I’m here for anything that fancies a nibble.”

And nibble they did.

Perch came first six or seven of them. Not monsters, but spirited little fighters with that trademark aggression that makes them such a joy. Each one a reminder that fishing doesn’t need to be monumental to be meaningful. Sometimes, it’s just about the rhythm the cast, the drift, the strike.

Then, about an hour in, the sleeper rod came alive.

Now, a zander doesn’t do things politely at this time of year. There’s no gentle enquiry, no tentative nibble. It’s a proper take, followed by a scrap that feels far bigger than the fish itself. This one was no exception. All fins, fury, and indignation, it fought like it had somewhere important to be and I was very much in the way.

Eventually, though, persistence wins. Into the net it came a cracking fish. Five pounds on the nose, full of spawn, and absolutely brimming with attitude. The kind of capture that makes the whole chaotic week fade into the background. Even the obligatory selfie felt like a victory rather than a chore, despite the fish’s clear disapproval.

By nine, the sun crept out and, as it so often does, switched the feeding off like someone flicking a light. Bites dried up. The moment passed. Time to pack up.

Back home, it was straight into Dad mode taking Ben out for what can only be described as a “liquid lunch” in Spoons and a pizza for him while his mum handled dinner lady duties. Sitting there, pint in hand, reflecting on a week that had veered wildly from digital disaster to unexpected angling success, I couldn’t help but think… I could get used to this.

Not the IT collapse, mind you. But the fishing. Definitely the fishing.

Roll on retirement !!

Warwickshire Avon - Stripeys and Strumpetocracy

There I was, plonked down at Piccadilly Circus this time not for barbel. Not the one with the neon lights, pigeons, and tourists trying to out-selfie each other in front of the giant screen, but the one of my own making. An amphitheatre of swirling water, whistling wind, and the faint perfume of groundbait wafting downstream, which I like to imagine must smell to a perch what a freshly fried bacon sarnie smells like to me on a Saturday morning. It was all rather idyllic in my mind’s eye, until, like a clown bursting into the middle of Hamlet, a lure angler arrived stage left and decided to conduct his casting display directly into my carefully prepared swim.

Now, ordinarily, I’m a man of peace, content with nothing more than a flask of lukewarm coffee, a bag of maggots crawling suspiciously faster than they should, and the chance to watch a float perform its aquatic ballet. But I’m also an angler of principle, and to see a lure splashing down in my territory was like someone cutting into your Sunday roast before you’d sharpened your knife. So I politely voiced my concern. 

To his credit, the chap apologised none of that territorial chest-puffing you sometimes get from anglers who think they’ve bought the exclusive rights to the riverbank along with their packet of soft shads. No, he was all smiles, turned his rod tip the other way, and before he left me to my contemplations, asked if I’d caught anything.

“Errr… nought sadly,” I replied, with all the enthusiasm of a man describing his tax return. He, however, grinned like a lottery winner and informed me that he’d just had the biggest perch he’d ever seen follow his lure right up to the bank. A proper beast. The kind of fish that turns your knees to blancmange, makes you question every knot you’ve ever tied, and leaves you muttering in the bath later that evening about “the one that got away.” 

Only in this case, it wasn’t even his fish it was just a very large, very smug perch that had deigned to inspect his lure before shrugging its scaly shoulders and sauntering off. A damn shame, yes, but perhaps also proof that age brings wisdom. After all, if I’d been around long enough to see every trick in the book wobbling plugs, rubber worms, and feathers dressed up to look like a Harlequin’s wardrobe  I too might decide that a bellyful of bleak and a mid-afternoon nap was preferable to taking another swipe at a suspiciously wriggling lump of plastic.

Now, for me, the perch is a curious creature. Beautifully barred, crimson-finned, and blessed with the kind of haughty expression that suggests it knows it’s the best-looking fish in the canal. And yet, for all my years dangling a line, I’ve yet to bag one over three pounds. They’re always just shy of it, like pub landlords who measure your pint with an extra millimetre of froth. 

I remember the Warwick Racecourse Reservoir in my younger days, a water now closed and, I imagine, paved over with something ghastly like a housing estate or a retail park where you can buy all the polyester socks you’ll never need. Back then, it was my perch playground. I’d spend hours trying to tempt those stripy thugs, with varying degrees of success, usually ending up with more tales than trophies.

So, having been reminded of the circus lurking beneath the waterline, I decided that today, well into my advancing years and supposedly wiser for it, I would scratch that itch. The plan was beautifully simple: lure the small fry in with a sprinkle of groundbait and a sprinkling of wriggly maggots, wait for the perch to start sniffing around like hungry punters at a pie stall, and then present them with a lure they simply couldn’t refuse. In theory, the perfect plan. In practice, somewhat less so, for fish rarely read the script.

The float dipped occasionally little dace and roach queuing up like extras in the background of a film. But that big perch, the star of the show, remained elusive, just offstage, probably running through its lines before deciding to pull out of the performance altogether. Still, that’s fishing for you. You make your plans, tie your rigs, sprinkle your maggots like confetti at a wedding, and hope the bride doesn’t run off with someone else before the vows. And even when they do, you go home with a story, a chuckle, and maybe a flask that still has half a cup of cold coffee left in it.

Because, at the end of the day, fishing isn’t about the fish at all. It’s about the circus. The clowns with their lures. The floats that dip like trapeze artists. The perch that follow but don’t commit, teasing you with the promise of greatness before flouncing off in a stripy huff. And me, standing there with my rod, my groundbait, and my eternal optimism, waiting for the curtain to rise on the next act.

Warwickshire Avon - Angry Skies and Angelocracies

Now there’s a certain art to tactical child abandonment, especially when it’s dressed up in the wholesome veneer of “fishing with your son.” And so it was, armed with a tackle box, a float rod, a landing net, and a kilo of wriggling optimism (also known as maggots), I deposited young Sam with a couple of his mates at Lucy’s Mill in Stratford. I say “deposited” because it had all the grace and ceremony of unloading a barrow of turnips only these turnips can tie a half blood knot and demand sausage rolls every hour.

With Sam safely ensconced and fiddling with floats like a young Izaak Walton with ADHD, I found myself with a rare and golden sliver of time what one might call The Dad Window. It’s that brief period when you can fish guilt-free, knowing the offspring is similarly engaged and unlikely to fall in or be swept off downstream by a belligerent swan.

Now, the air was thick. Not just “warm-summer's-evening” thick, but thick like a chip shop's back room, the kind of weather where clouds loiter with intent and the sky crackles like a poorly wired toaster. You didn’t need a barometer; your knees knew the rain was coming. Possibly sideways.

So with urgency in my step (and a slight whiff of wet maggot juice in my car), I set up a light float rig one of those elegant, simple affairs that feels like poetry until your line gets caught in a hawthorn and flicked a couple of maggots out into what can only be described as gin-clear water. Honestly, I’ve seen less transparency in Stamers government briefings. You could read the small print on a submerged Rizla.

It wasn’t long before I skylined the swim like an absolute amateur and spooked a group of chub that looked like they’d been training for the River Olympics. They vanished upstream in a flash, probably muttering something about “bloody humans” and “float rods on a Sunday.”

But all was not lost. The bites came thick and fast dace, bleak, roach, and chublets so small they’d struggle to pull the skin off a rice pudding. It was fun, frenetic, and had all the subtlety of a toddler on a trampoline. Forty-five minutes in, my wrist was aching, my bait box resembled the floor of a popcorn factory, and I was starting to wonder whether all the big fish had taken a day trip to Evesham.

Then, just as I was contemplating a premature tea and a dry sock change, the float buried. Not dipped. Not bobbed. Buried. Gone. Submerged like it owed the river money.

And it was clear immediately this wasn’t one of the tiddlers. No, this had shoulders. It headed straight for the opposite bank with all the subtlety of a tipsy rhino, and I knew, with grim certainty, that I was connected to a proper chub. The Drennan Acolyte Ultra bent beautifully (some might say heroically, others might say expensively) and after a spirited tussle full of sideways lunges, boil-plumes and choice words, the fish slipped into the net like it had just remembered a prior engagement.

A proper chub. Not a record-breaker, but one of those river fish that makes you grin like you’ve just reversed into a lamppost and realised it was only your bumper.

I was just about to have another trot when the clouds finally made good on their earlier threats. A fork of lightning cracked in the distance close enough to raise hairs and make you regret every carbon fibre item on your person.

Session over. But as I squelched back to the car with the chub memory warming my chest and the weather trying to soak my pants, I had that unmistakable feeling: Fishing Fix Achieved.

And Sam? He caught nothing but small fish like me, and stories. Which, let’s be honest, are the most important fish of all.

Warwickshire Avon - Firesticks and Firkins

Now with the wife recently acquiring her second shoulder surgery like she’s collecting the full orthopaedic set the days of guilt-free fishing have taken a bit of a dent (Got to use the private medical insurance whilst it lasts). Last year’s experience taught me three things: she can't drive for a couple of weeks, one-armed dinner prep involves a lot of shouting, and me sneaking off fishing during this period is riskier than waving a red rag at a hormonal bull... while dressed as a matador.

But alas, the Summer Solstice! That annual planetary nudge that whispers “You’ve got daylight until forever, go fishing you fool.” So, with the kids fed, watered, and within arm’s reach of a pillow, I muttered something vague about “needing air” and was out the door before anyone could ask if I’d remembered the washing.

The destination was a handy stretch of the Warwickshire Avon, armed with optimism and a pint of pellets, hoping for a start-of-season barbel amongst the gravel glides and streamer weed. The kind of swim that screams “big whiskers live here!” but only ever seems to deliver chub with boundary issues.

Now, I’ve tried rolling meat under weed rafts before and, to be fair, a couple of barbel did oblige. But this time I fancied a more stealthy approach scaled-down tackle, ninja-like creeping, and only mildly audible swearing when a nettle found my shin.

The first swim I settled into was shallow, clear, and lively. One barbel (probably imaginary) and a gang of loitering chub were milling about like bored teenagers at a bus stop. The plan was to fish here for an hour, then move to a deeper, moodier swim for dusk where dreams of double-figure barbel live and, usually, die.

At 8:00 PM it was still 28 degrees. The sweat was real. I looked like I’d run a marathon in neoprene. But I was fishing, and that made everything else heat, guilt, the impending laundry pile completely irrelevant.

The first tug on the quivertip came quickly... could it be?

Nope. Perch. A small one. Possibly still wearing armbands. How it managed to suck up two pellets nearly its own size I’ll never know. Determination? Masochism? A death wish?

Then came the chub. One after the other, all desperate for a starring role in the “Shoulda Been a Barbel” documentary I’ve been mentally scripting for years. Two came to the net before the swim went quiet. Classic chub move smash and dash.

So off I went to the evening shift swim. A bit deeper, a bit quieter, and with pedigree. I've had barbel over 12lb here in years gone by though recently it feels like I’ve been fishing for ghosts and being outwitted by squirrels.

A few handfuls of pellets to butter them up, a couple of hair-rigged offerings on the dinner plate, and we were back in business. The chub, however, had followed me like bad luck. They battered the rig mercilessly, stripping baits like they were unwrapping sweets.

By this point, I was fed up. So I went full rogue: Peperami Firestick deployed. Let’s see you strip that, lads. And wouldn’t you know it, another chub bigger this time, a solid 4lb brute with a face like it owed me money. Smelled faintly of cured sausage, but then again so did I by this point.

The barbel? Still absent. Probably sulking in a weed bed somewhere, watching me through disdainful eyes and planning their next coordinated no-show. When the bats came out, the insect life turned up to eleven. I was engulfed in a swirling midge soup that made breathing risky and blinking optional.

Still, as I packed down under a star-pricked sky, rods unsnagged and spirits only mildly bruised, I couldn’t help but smile. Barbel? Next time, maybe. But the chub? Oh, they’ll always turn up uninvited like in-laws with keys to your fridge.

The River Arrow - Redeye's and Robots

I've had a really bad cold that thankfully on the way out as I'm in Spain next week for some chill 😎 time,  a couple or three lemsip hot toddies sorted me out throughout the day. So from a sore throat, to a cough, to a streaming nose, a painful cough and losing my voice for 24 hours, a proper one this one, the end is in sight. As I'm typing this though it's almost gone, I think eating everything in sight over the last few days has helped, feed a cold and all that. 

Anyway glutton for punishment I was back on the Arrow again for some reason. To be fair Sam wanted to try and catch a big perch and a couple of the match guy's I'd bumped in to down here, recalled some stories of some huge perch, and even bags of perch winning matches. (last week, 2 years ago, 20 years ago ? your guess is as good as mine)

The problem was Sam came down at 7.15am blurry eyed and yeap, you guessed it, he was going back to bed. Oh well, with the decision made the night before and the gear sorted. Didn't have much other choice now did I !!! 

Now talking about eyes !!!, before you unhook the next fish, look into its eyes. (OK, unless it's a pike, you've got to look into them one at a time, but you know what I mean.) When you've done it, you'll find yourself taking the hook out ever so gently.

We'll start with the roach and get her out of the way because, lovely though she is, her eyes are the least impressive. Gentle eyes, modest and unassuming, but not much else. Like the eyes of the faded daughters of the clergy or the military, who finish up running Olde English Tea Shoppes.

The bream has eyes that are sort of soft and sort of dopy. Like the girls who used to line the wall at the Palais and-in reply to your sophisticated opener of, 'Do you come here often?'-would reply,

'Yer...'

The gudgeon has eyes that are soft and warm, gently smouldering with a hint of restrained passion. If you met a girl at the Palais with gudgeon eyes, you knew that she would finish her chips quickly to make time for five minutes round the back.

(With your permission I'll drop the Palais before I get into any more trouble.)

Perch eyes are bold, brassy, indignant and challenging, saying, 'If I were four feet longer, I'd bite your bloody leg off-right up to your flaming ears!'

Chub eyes are hard and stubborn, like those of a Yorkshireman who is being badgered to pay his round, but who is standing there sullen and saying nowt. (Yorkshire readers over twelve stone and with any skill in the noble arts of self defence or clog fighting, please read 'Lancastrian' for 'Yorkshireman'.)

The tench has the African gold eye of the toad who turned into a prince after the beautiful princess had let him sleep on her pillow all night. But he doesn't have the same luck. There is not a single recorded instance of a tench shacking up with a princess.

(Remember the story of the toad who was still a toad next morning? The princess said, 'But you promised to turn into a prince', 'Just shows you, darlin',' said the toad. 'Some birds will believe anything.')

The eel has small, glowing ruby eyes, set in the most delicately featured face. Neither face nor eyes get looked at while the poor old thing is being bashed, hacked and stomped on. Being an eel is not much fun.

The pike. When he comes to the top those eyes frighten you to death. But look at them properly. You might see what T. H. White saw and recorded in the magical book, The Once and Future King. 'his great jewel of an eye was that of a stricken deer, large, fearful and full of griefs'.

It is, too. And the discovery is one of angling's deep and lasting revelations.

Only mind your fingers.

Anyway I don't know why I bothered, because after catching literally every single minnow out the river eventually some proper big sized perch baits appeared, where under the float they were ignored in the weir for a good 45 minutes, and also in the deep swim for nearly an hour that looked like it would harbour a predator. 

Nada, naff all, zilch, WTF !!!

Then after bumping in to a member who was making the pegs good for a match soon, "I've not caught a perch in ages, let alone a decent one" 😃 Errrrrrr ok !!! 

Maybe Pixel Farm Robotics that had their farming robot in the carpark could offer some advice for easing one's situation and to catch something to put a decent bend in the rod, because after fishing bread on the chub rod, the chublets were obliging, their mums and dads not so.

So the Arrow isn't fishing well for me on this stretch, the 3 cormorants wouldn't have helped that I spooked and the resident herons, but I did well towards the end of the last season, this season it's been pretty pants. Anyway the Avon is back in fishable condition so the Arrow can do one for a bit, and I'll pop back when it's much colder I think when I need that small river fix.  

River Arrow - Sodality and Solemnsides

Yeay we are back in business thankfully the canal was getting to me I must admit !! Anyway I finished on the Arrow last season, so I thought I'd start on the Arrow for this new season. To be honest I fancied coming for a nose to see what it's like in the 'summer' because I got the chub feeding off the top when it was cold, so I wondered in clear conditions when the river is low and the water warm, were they up for it again ?

As a backup I had some maggots and the trotting gear in the car just to try and bank a few fish from this small waterway. 

A arrived just after 6am and had a fish on first cast but it came off just as I was getting the net ready, only a small chub though, oh well. It didn't take long to get the next bite mind you where I had a massive drop back bite and a fish was on.

It felt half decent too and after a decent fight it was on the net. A lovely condition chub that was 4lb on the nose and was most welcome indeed. Nothing was taking bread off the top so in the end I went on the rove where I managed another 3 chub in different swims.

I has ages left so was looking forward to explore the stretch then I was approached by two guys who were pegging out for a match!!! whoopssss, turns out I should have been invited to join a WhatsApp group where the dates are listed.

They offered me to go to an area above where I was fishing but I decided to venture elsewhere for the last couple of hours. When I returned to the car there was at least another 10 guys who were very chatty indeed and gave me some stories of the fish that have come out over the years. 

So to the Warwickshire Avon for the remainder of the morning where I managed two further chub off the top and also trotted the float for an hour and a half for lots of maggot munchers. An enjoyable morning and those Arrow chub are something else, such lovely condition.

The Arrow wasn't as clear as I thought it might have been the Warwickshire Avon certainly is there, the recent rain has topped the levels up though and it was a nice trotting pace despite nothing big showing really. A quick post this, it's Fathers Day after all, a busy day today. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.101 (Maggots)

Now match angling in canals is a specialized form of angling. The matchman's aim is quite different from that of ordinary anglers. His object is to catch a higher weight of fish than his opponents within a limited time. He cannot prebait his swim, nor will he usually risk angling for big fish. He angles for the kind of fish which will enable him to build up a winning catch quickly. 

Time wasted may mean fish missed. Consequently, everything has to be speeded up. Casting, striking, retrieving the fish, groundbaiting all must be done quickly and efficiently. A few ounces, or even drams, can swing the balance in his favour. To lose is not a disgrace. But to win or to be placed is an achievement. Reputations are at stake. Names can be made overnight. The competitive spirit is paramount.

It seems a great pity that all this effort so often reaps such a poor reward in terms of fish caught. Occasionally, an angler catches some good roach, bream, chub or tench, and the win- ning weight takes a spectacular upward leap. But more often than not, the weights returned are low and seldom give a true reflection of the quality of the canal's fishing. 

Some matches are won with a meagre two pounds or so of roach, or even with a mere ounce or two of small fish. One match fished on the Lancaster Canal, in which no less than 1,300 competitors took part, was won with less than four pounds of fish. In another match, fished in the Worcester Canal, the winner out of 164 competitors weighed in four pounds fourteen ounces of small roach. 

But one of the most fantastic match results of all must be the occasion when 200 sticklebacks earned an angler third place and £34 in prize money. The sticklebacks weighed six and a half ounces and were taken on a bloodworm fished on a size 22 hook. Results of this kind are quite common when the catch is composed of small fish. 

Yet individual anglers often take hefty catches of fish, and sometimes large specimens, from these same waters when fishing alone. I can remember taking over thirty pounds of quality roach during an early morning session in the Alrewas Canal a well-known Midlands match venue. This catch was witnessed by a bailiff and a few of the match anglers. Yet the match that was fished later in the day was won with only two pounds of small roach. Many anglers caught nothing.

It would be unwise to jump to conclusions about experiences such as this, though. Comparisons of the respective results in terms of fish caught can be misleading. I had the advantage of an early start in an undisturbed water. Most match anglers are not prepared to take a chance with different baits but prefer those which have proved themselves over the years: maggots, casters and bread.

Other factors often weigh heavily against them, too. They cannot choose their time or place, but must fish when and where the luck of the draw places them quite often in most unfavourable conditions. To get the best from most canals, it is essential to be quiet and still. 

In this sense, the match angler commences at a disadvantage. The unavoidable amount of noise on the banks, and the fact that he is virtually rubbing shoulders with his fellow-competitors, creates adverse conditions which he must accept and strive to overcome. It is to his credit that he catches fish at all.

You do wonder why those matches on the canals seem to rarely happen these days, especially in these neck of the woods where matches were common places even during the river season. There is always those that would blame the Zander but the fact is many matches anglers have now moved to commercial fisheries instead to apply their trade. Easy pickings isn't it !! and with all the gear the modern match anglers seems to carry these days, often convenient as you can park behind your peg. 

Anyway I was back for more early morning canal fishing where I got off to a flyer with a bite first chuck before even any cloud groundbait went out. I only fished maggots today, three of them on a size 16 hook actually, where as back in the day that would have got a WTF 👀😅.

I was catching steadily till the first boat came through at 7.30am, yes on Sunday, after that sport died off where I only managed to get the odd bite or two. In the end with so much crud on the surface and the two got a pain I decided to venture to where I was yesterday morning but this time fish near some reeds to see if I was missing something.

I forgot just how much I like fishing the centre-pin in this type of fishing where you don't need to cast far even if fishing over at the far margin, but it's playing the fish that is so nice. The control over the fish when using relatively fine tackle is unbeatable I'd say. 

Anyway both areas produced a wide variety of fish with the biggest fish this nice bream that gave a decent fight. So an an enjoyable near 4 hour session and the weather was kind as well and it definitely felt spring in the sun, very pleasant indeed.  

The maggots certainly did the trick today and not the freshest of bait either probably a good 7-8 weeks old and kept in my bait fridge in the garage from turning in to casters. A lovely mornings fishing and as expected I had it all to myself too.

Now I need to try and few more spots methinks to see if I'm missing out on some hot-spots and next time I might just fish bread and also feed bread to try and improve the size of the fish, and also the species, because I fancy some decent roach. I have been feeding fishmeal groundbait and small pellets and that could well dictate what I've been attracting in to the swim. 

Oh and I forgot to mention I had a carp sleeper rod put for the first part of the session, where sadly nothing was doing whatsoever up snag alley. I might stick to the Zander sleeper rod next time and wait until it warms up nicely where hopefully the carp will get off their lazy backsides and start moving about. 

That's when the bike will come out to play to try and do some carp spotting because that's what worked last time. The best way to catch them is to find out where they are hiding first.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.100 (Bread and Maggots)

With the bread not doing the business yesterday morning I decided to venture over to a stretch of the Grand Union a short drive away to see what I could catch using simple tactics. So groundbait to kick it off and maggots or bread on the size 16 KKH Preston hook.

A nippy morning around 7 degrees where I rocked up a little later than usual. I was fishing by 6.00am though and the walk down to the swim there were plenty of fish topping and fishy activity so I was hoping for a bite or two. 

The groundbait consisted of Supercrush Green from Sonubaits with a few micro pellets and a handful of hemp to try and get the fish grubbing around.

It took longer than I thought to get the first bite which came after switching to three maggots on the hook instead of the bread for the hook. I also sprinkled the maggots over the float from time to time. 

Obviously I had a sleeper rod out for a Zander as well but the float was the mainstay. The first fish was a slimy small bream but I wasn't complaining after the frustrating session yesterday morning not far away from here on the South Stratford Canal.

Anyway after getting another two quick bites and releasing those fish I decided to retain a few in the net just to get some nice shots for the blog. 

However I got a little carried away because bites were coming thick and fast as soon as the maggots reached the bottom and also the odd time on the drop too.

There was some tow on the canal at this point but with the shots anchoring the float in position it was holding well enough. You can see why a pole would work better on the canal, but they seem a right old faff and cumbersome to me, and it's nice to play a fish on rod and line I find rather than pulling against elastic. 

Anyway after a couple of hours went by really quickly with lots of bites and even a surprise Zander 😅 on the maggots, when the first boat went through at a rate of knots (8.30am ish) where he proceeded to slow down for a boat that was moored up 30 metres from me, the sport went dead.

It has now coloured up to Augustus Gloop tickbox levels and bites almost disappeared like a switch had been flicked. I had a surprise much better perch well over a pound and that was about it. A quick weigh in the net and taking into account the fish I put back right at the start well, a net well over double figures including some Zander snack sized roach, skimmers and small perch too.

I'd bumped a couple of much bigger bream off and if I had managed to land them probably nearly 20lb of fish or even more I'd say. A very satisfying morning indeed but I didn't want to end the session there even when by now the boat activity had kicked up a notch.

So I went back to the car and ditched my float rod and just decided to fish the dedicated Zander gear. I'd had a roach deadbait where I caught all those fish and nothing was doing whatsoever. 

By now the sun was high in the sky and it was very pleasant indeed but the Zander had other ideas, nothing doing, but then I went to fish a new area where I noticed some activity over at the far side where there was signs of fish spawning.

They were definitely Zander as well because when they were overly jiggy with it, their tails came out of the water. I measured the temperature and it was 12.8 degrees which was exactly the same as when I took it yesterday on an entirely different canal system.

I decided to leave the fish to their fun and end the session early to go and have a ramble out with the rabble to see the bluebells just down the road from us. I believe there are a few colder nights next week however with the canal fishing really well today I fancy getting out after work if I can.

No idea where yet might you but with the maggots doing the business today and plenty in the fridge still some more float fishing might be in order. You do wonder why the canals are deserted to anglers because the sport like I found today can be great, give them a go, you never know what will turn up and that's the appeal for me.