Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.130 (Canal Zander)

It began, as many great stories do, with a casual wander into a second-hand bookshop, the kind with creaky floorboards, a faint smell of must, and shelves stacked just chaotically enough to suggest treasure. The bookshop in question was Ye Olde Booke Nook in Stratford-upon-Avon, a town more accustomed to tales of star-crossed lovers and brooding Danish princes than canal fish with attitude.

Malcolm Trench, a local historian with a fondness for angling and Ribena, had popped in hoping to find a dog-eared copy of Henry V. What he found instead stopped him cold. It was a small hardcover book, familiar in size and style the unmistakable format of a vintage Ladybird. But this one bore a title no collector, historian, or child of the seventies had ever laid eyes on: How to Catch Canal Zander.

The cover was classic Ladybird: bold illustration, earnest expressions, and a child propping up fishing rod with more determination than skill. 

A zander eyes wide and vaguely suspicious held up in aberration. Malcolm, knowing a curiosity when he saw one, purchased the book immediately for the princely sum of £1.50 and three compliments to the shop cat.

Back home, he opened it and was instantly transported.

The book told the story of Bill, an enthusiastic but slightly clueless child, and his Uncle Reg, an experienced canal angler with the fashion sense of a 1970s geography teacher and the patience of a saint. 

Their mission was simple: to catch a zander, a fish so elusive it was rumoured to only appear under cloud cover and when fed sausage rolls by hand.

As with all Ladybird books, the story was delivered in crisp, earnest prose accompanied by detailed illustrations Uncle Reg stirring his tea with a bait hook, Clive falling into the canal mid-monologue, and various waterfowl looking quietly disappointed.

Uncle Reg, clearly a man of principle, dispensed wisdom with the frequency of a wise hermit.

“Zander don’t care for jazz, Clive,” he intoned on page five. “Stick to silence or soft Morris dancing.” On another page, he cautioned, “If you see a heron, bow respectfully and say nothing. It’s probably the mayor.” These pearls of wisdom, delivered deadpan and completely without irony, were arguably the emotional heart of the book.

The book concluded, not with a triumphant catch, but with a shared pork pie and the zander swimming smugly away. “He’ll be back,” Uncle Reg said, staring into the murky water like a man who’d made peace with life’s mysteries. “He always comes back.”

Speculation soon followed. Was this a genuine Ladybird publication lost to time and budget cuts? A forgotten prototype from the company’s experimental Obscure Outdoor Pursuits series? Or the fevered invention of a particularly bored illustrator left alone with a sketchpad and a flask of Bovril?

Experts were torn. Some believed it was a real piece of forgotten publishing history. Others were convinced it was an elaborate hoax the kind of beautifully-crafted parody that emerges every few decades to remind us not to take nostalgia too seriously, and that canal fishing really isn't capturing oneself, or anyone else for that matter !!. 

Still, the signs were promising. The layout was authentic, right down to the tally number and font. The back cover even bore the old open-wing Ladybird logo and a puzzling quote from “The Canal and River Trust (Probably).” Regardless of its origins, one thing was certain: How to Catch Canal Zander had captured hearts. Online forums buzzed with discussion. Collectors posted screenshots and wish lists. And somewhere in a dusty office, a Penguin Random House intern was almost certainly being asked to “look into this.”

As for Malcolm Trench, he did once since framed the book and placed it proudly on his mantel. “It’s not about whether it’s real,” he said. “It’s about the feeling it gives you that warm, ridiculous, slightly damp sense of wonder.”, then again I might just stuck it on Ebay !!!

Have you switched off yet ? I'd a load of deadbait turned up so better get fishing !!

When I got cutside for this short late afternoon session the CRT contractors had made a right mess of the canal down at the Hot Spot because all the grass they had been cutting had literally ended up all in the water. I was amazed that there were a couple of lure chuckers managing to cast their lures within the grassy deposits and after a natter with both of them, where one of them had managed 3 fish, the other was currently blanking. 

I headed much further up the stretch where there is plenty of cover where the zander reside and with the rods having to be elevated to get the line off the surface, what I didn't expect was a zedlet within literally 5 minutes of the floats being out.

 A good start but I wanted something bigger so I went leapfrogging sections of cover to try and find them. I had a good chat with a champion drinking boat dweller on subjects such as the work, beer, whiskey and the state of the world. He was walking his 3 legged spaniel that didn't seem any worse with his affliction, apparently a coming together with a car when he was a pup was the cause. A good half an hour staring at motionless floats we parted our ways and I walked to another area where Zander reside.

There seemed to be much more fish activity here and within 10 minutes the left hand float fished tight to some reeds jumped in to life and was heading down the canal.

A better Zander this pulling one's string and after a spirited fight it was in the net. That's better, not a monster but a fish in great condition and the circle hook exactly where I wanted it, a perfect hook-up. With it retained in the net for a rest up before a piccy I got the float out again and within a few minutes this time the right hand float started to go to the left. 

A really confident bite this so I tightened up to the circle hook where as soon as the fish felt the resistance it bolted off and actually launched itself out of the water, taking the other float with it !!! Yeap a snot rocket jack pike. It was landed quickly enough but I ended up with the world's biggest tangle which called the end of the session. I'm still not feeling the canals really, but with a load of new deadbaits now, I might head up to the Hallowed to see if I can catch anything more deserving of a trophy shot. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.129 (Bread Munchers & Magnet Fishing)

Now it all started with a very optimistic plan: Sam and I would rise early, hit the canal marina at the crack of dawn, and gently pluck bream and hybrids from the water like serene, fish-whispering Zen masters. You know, just two chaps enjoying the quiet simplicity of angling, one with nature, rods in hand, sandwiches in pockets. A pure and noble pursuit.

Except we both needed to be prised from our duvets.

By the time we eventually rolled up to the canal, it was less "crack of dawn" and more "brunch with boats." The marina was alive with the chaos of holiday hire boats meandering about like oversized bath toys set loose by excitable toddlers. There was more engine revving and dodgy reversing than a learner driver's convention.

And, of course, all that boat activity stirred up the canal water. The tow was all over the place, so Sam had to stick his rod so high in the air it looked like he was trying to get a signal for canal Wi-Fi. He spent most of the morning adjusting his setup like a frustrated TV aerial technician in 1998.

Still, we gave it a good go. We baited our swims with bread and groundbait, settling in for what we hoped would be a replay of my last glorious bream-catching session. I had visions of thick, bronze-bodied bream sliding smoothly into my net while Sam looked on with the kind of jealousy only fishing buddies can muster.

What actually happened was... absolutely nothing.

Not a nibble. Not a bite. Not even a suspicious bubble. Just us, sat there like a pair of over-equipped statues, quietly pretending we weren’t losing the will to live. And to top it off, the towpath was heaving – like Piccadilly Circus on a Saturday, only with more Lycra-clad cyclists and less regard for personal space. One guy even managed to walk straight through our swim while loudly announcing he was training for a triathlon. We wished him luck and quietly cursed his calves.

Eventually, we reached the universal angler’s conclusion: Sod this.

So, we packed up the rods, took a deep breath, and pivoted to Plan B – magnet fishing. If you’re unfamiliar, magnet fishing is like fishing, but instead of hoping for scaly creatures, you’re trying to haul centuries-old junk out of the murky depths with a magnet that could probably ruin your phone from ten feet away.

We headed to a spot near the locks and bridges, prime magnet fishing locations, which is code for “where a lot of stuff has been accidentally (or drunkenly) thrown in since 1793.”

The sun had come out by then, and the skies were so blue it almost looked Photoshopped but don't be fooled. It was still cold enough to remind us that the British spring is more of a concept than a season.

After a good hour of flinging the magnet into the canal and pulling out increasingly disappointing bits of nothing, Sam finally struck gold metaphorically speaking. He reeled in a solid chunk of metal: an ancient-looking rivet, encrusted with history and canal gunk.

We both stared at it like archaeologists discovering an old Roman toothbrush.

“It’s probably from the South Stratford Canal itself,” I said, with all the confidence of someone who definitely didn’t just make that up. “Built between 1793 and 1816.”

Sam, beaming, declared it was going straight into his collection of tat , a proudly eclectic museum of mysterious metallic odds and ends. One kids’s rubbish is another kids’s weirdly shaped talking point.

So while we didn’t catch any bream, or even see one, the day wasn’t a total loss. We got fresh air, a bit of sun, and the thrill of possibly tetanus-inducing treasure. Not to mention the deep satisfaction of knowing we beat the triathlon guy to the best lockside bench.

All in all, not a bad way to spend a slightly disorganized, thoroughly entertaining morning on the canal.

Moral of the story? Always pack a magnet. The bream might ghost you, but the tat never disappoints.

And here was the prize !!

I don't think I'll be able to retire on it anyway 😃Still Sam went home happy and that's all that mattered !! 

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.