A Little Luck – Part 1

The Oak stood half in and half out of an ancient estate lake. The old tree’s writhing mass of tannin stained roots had served generations of fry well as a nursery. The big carp herself had hidden there once, as an immature fingerling, many years before.

She’d charged headlong into the cavern the day before, following a close encounter with an angler’s hook, and she’d stayed there sulking since. She’d been close to defeat when the anglers hook had slipped its hold; instinct had sent her crashing beneath the old tree and into its familiar surroundings. Safe within its sanctuary, the carp had gradually calmed. Hunger would see her venture out into the lake in search of food soon, the recent trauma slowly fading from her mind.

The following evening an autumn sun sat like an over-ripe peach, low on the horizon, sending the hazy golden mist of twilight dancing along burnished treetops, and gilding the prominent spurs of the river valley in the distance.

At the dam end of the lake an angler stood surveying this wonderful ‘cabaret’ of light as dusk fell. Charlie could see the smouldering silver ribbon of the feeder stream, at the far end of the lake, as it picked it’s way torturously down through the unyielding landscape. Falling, finally, in an effervescent tumble over a mossy sluice gate and into the stolid lake.

Along the south-western bank the low sun, probing through a panoply of tall poplars, threw a fretwork of long sepia shadows along the lakes margin. While on the opposing bank it stained the water a fiery crimson, and Charlie could see a Barn Owl, its ethereal form lit by a halo of the last smudgy remnants of reddening light. He watched it intently as it quartered the grassy water meadow in easy, noiseless glides, searching for a complacent small mammal, foolhardy enough to break cover in the deceptive half-light.

A ‘murder’ of crows flapped homeward wearily, sprawled across the richly coloured sky in a ragged line. Exhausted from a hard day of foraging upon the last of the stubble, where the pickings were slim, the harvest now long finished, and competition with the voles and mice fierce.

Though they didn’t know it yet, or, in truth, couldn’t remember it from last season (crows have very short memories you know) things were destined to get much harder for the unfortunate birds. The onset of winter ‘proper’ would see them forced into still harder labour, and soon they would have to spend their days hard at work digging over the formerly fruitful stubble in search of wire-worms and leather-jackets.

This lake held some of Charlie’s fondest memories and, though he hadn’t fished there in latter years, an urge to reacquaint himself with the place had been growing within him for some time now. A recent walk around the place had yielded the sight of a very big carp and boosted his desire to fish there even further. Today had been a reccy trip for a session he had planned in a couple of days time.

A Robin landed close by, perching on the handrail fixed to the dam wall. The little bird had obviously encountered anglers before and seemed quite tame. He reached into his shoulder bag and took a crust from a plastic lunch box, the remnants of a cheese sandwich he’d had for his lunch which he’d eaten at the lakeside.

He crumbled the dry bread between his fingers and thumb and flicked some on the ground to the Robin’s side. The bird dropped to the floor immediately and pecked at the breadcrumbs nervously. Charlie noticed that it had a somewhat ragged appearance, and was missing one of its tail feathers.

The hungry Robin cleared every crumb before flying off. Charlie watched its unnatural, wobbly flight and said to himself with a degree of sadness, that poor bird would be lucky to see out the coming winter. “At least you’ve fed well today little fellow,” he murmured as it disappeared from sight into the bushes.

Charlie had spent a lot of time at this lake with his father as a youngster, when they’d enjoyed many a day fishing with a crowquill float and breadflake for rudd. Or freelining lobworms for the elusive tench, and of course they’d spent many hours in pursuit of the ‘uncatchable’ carp.

His mood darkened a little, seeing the Robin, and remembering that fateful day. The day his father had managed to hook one of those, almost mythical, carp. The events of that day amounted to the one and only real regret he had after a lifetime of angling. In truth it was probably the reason he’d neglected to fish the lake in recent years, he admitted to himself sombrely.

He was ten years old and accompanying his father for the very first time on a ‘proper’ carp fishing session. The lake was quiet, with just the semblance of a warm breeze ruffling the surface, as the young boy and his father tiptoed into the Oak swim. Dragonflies buzzed and clicked in the clearing, and there was the pervasive smell of water-mint in the air. The older man motioned noiselessly for his son to stay back a little while he crept slowly forward. He crawled, down on all fours, keeping his body low, like the young soldiers that Charlie had seen training on the village common.

A few minutes passed before his father turned to Charlie, his face flushed and glistening with sweat, his eyes held a feverish, almost manic look. The young lad was taken aback by the transformation in his normally stoic father, and he hesitated to come forward at first when his father beckoned him; with a finger held to his lips to signal the need for silence.

His momentary fear was soon replaced with a tingle of excitement, as he crept forward to join the older man. Peering through the slender wands of reeds, Charlie, at first, could see nothing to warrant such enthusiasm as he stared into the gloomy water. He followed the line of his father’s arm as he slowly extended it to point to a large patch of lilies to their left.

Charlie let out an almost audible gasp as his eyes suddenly focused upon a group of three carp that were working their way towards them just below the surface. He’d never imagined a fish could be so big! He’d sneaked the odd look at his father’s treasured angling books and had seen pictures of mighty looking specimens, however nothing he’d seen in any book had prepared him for the sheer ‘presence’ of these majestic creatures.

As they came closer the largest of the three carp veered away from the other two to come to rest no more than a couple of yards from the young boys nose. The carp, a common of about fourteen pounds, hung there below him, her broad dark back kissing the surface and her deep Chestnut and honey coloured sides glowing in the warm sunshine.

Charlie was rigid, not daring to move a muscle, his mouth hanging open as he stared in disbelief! It was unquestionably the most spectacular sight the young lad had ever witnessed. He felt truly privileged to have shared this wonderful spectacle with his father, he felt sure they must be the only people ever to have seen these secretive monsters at such close quarters.

His father was growing impatient; Charlie’s excitement was infectious. He whispered to the boy. “Come on lad, let’s move back and get this tackle sorted out.”

The youngster was reluctant to break the spell this mystical beast had cast over him but the urgency in his father’s voice told him he’d better move!

They shuffled back from the waters edge quietly and he crouched in a daze, barely noticing as his father tackled up a cane rod and greased the line. There was nothing by way of terminal tackle other than a hook, and this looked huge to Charlie. The little hooks he’d used in the past were tiny by comparison; you could bury one of those out of sight in a single brandling or a pinch of bread.

His father crawled stealthily back to the water; cane rod in one hand, and a home made landing net in the other. He motioned the youngster to bring over to him their only other item of luggage, a little canvass bag. Charlie scurried forward eagerly, handing the bag to his father.

A loaf of fresh white bread was produced from the bag and Charlie stared with disbelief as his father tore off a piece of crust fully two inches square! The older man proceeded to bury the large hook in the bread then, satisfied it was properly hooked, he dapped it briefly in the water below. The crust was flicked out, expertly, to land on the very tips of the Lilies; a slight twitch and it was on the water, tight to the pads.

His father sat back and tore two larger chunks of bread from the loaf, tossing one to the lad with a grin.

“We aren’t going to let them greedy beggars have it all son.”

Charlie nodded his head enthusiastically in happy agreement, and set about the bread with vigour.

They returned to silence. Young Charlie smote by the atmosphere of the place. The hypnotic drone of insects, the perpetual, rhythmic, chorus of birdsong and the sweet, incense-like collusion of wildflower perfumes all served to intoxicate him; and he sat in a sea of intense pleasure. Watching his dad fondly. Waiting for a monster.

The stark white crust bobbed merrily on the gentle hint of ripple, the soft breeze keeping it pinned snugly against the cluster of Lilies. There was no sign of the three carp that had been present earlier. His father had explained that this was just what they wanted, in order that they might make a cast without disturbing the fish.

“Far better to let the fish find the bait lad, than the bait find the fish. Once they’ve been spooked it’s a done job.”

Part 2 soon. Will Charlie see his father catch the monster?