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

After a rather nice impromptu late lunch with Mrs Newey with some thai nibbles in the beer garden of a local pub I got back and wondered what the hell I'm going to fish for the following morning, but then there are moments in angling that feel less like fishing and more like stumbling into a watery conspiracy. One minute you’re minding your own business, unhooking what can only be described as a canal mud sifter with delusions of grandeur, and the next—bang—the surface erupts like someone’s dropped a family-sized bath bomb into the cut. Not subtle, not polite, not the sort of thing a well-mannered roach would RSVP to. No, this was a full-on aquatic kerfuffle. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of surface signs. The gentle sip of a roach, like a librarian quietly judging your choice of bait. The confident swirl of a rudd, all swagger and no apology. But this? This was neither tea nor coffee—it was a full English breakfast of disturbance. Boils, swirls, the odd flick that suggested something…