A Little Luck – Part 3

For the first time in four days the big fish stole from beneath the oak and out into the quiet lake. The water temperature had risen significantly during the recent ‘Indian’ days and she felt a hunger welling up inside. She cruised awhile, still a little uneasy, eventually circumnavigating the perimeter of the lake before she was content to think about feeding.

Her acute senses picked up on the subtleties of air pressure and the particle drift moving toward the North Eastern bank and she followed the breeze across the lake, back in the direction of the oak, pausing occasionally to turn and watch a struggling insect caught in the surface tension and being towed along with the ripple. Gently sipping them in, each time her suspicious nature was satisfied that nothing was amiss with the tiny, floating, protein rich morsel. She swam purposefully past the oak shelter and into the little bay next to it. Finally settling down to feed in earnest amongst a patch of decaying lilies.

A week later the chilly temperatures that had signalled the arrival of the autumn gave way to a period of unseasonably warm weather. Charlie mused to himself that you could be forgiven for mistaking the days of cobalt skies and low, fiery sun, for mid-July, as he packed his fishing gear into his estate car in shirtsleeves the following Wednesday. He could hardly believe his luck, with a warm breeze picking up from the south and three consecutive nights without a hint of ground frost, he’d have been hard pressed to choose much better conditions for an October carping session.

At the lake, he crept to the water’s edge, parted the curtain of reeds carefully, and peered out over the calm pool. He studied the brightly-lit water intensely for several minutes. Before too long he’d spotted four very big carp cruising through the surface layers lazily. His pulse raced. Although he’d observed large carp at close quarters on countless occasions in the past, the experience had never failed to get Charlie’s adrenaline flowing.

At least three of the carp were well into thirty pounds in weight, but they weren’t what Charlie was looking for. He continued to scrutinise the lake carefully. There were lots of bubbles fizzing up from one patch of lilies and he focused his attention on these. After about twenty minutes he saw what he’d come for. From amongst the tangle of dead and dying lilies he watched in awe as an enormous blue-black inkstain formed on the surface.

For over an hour he remained, squatting uncomfortably, captivated by the vision of this wondrous creature. Again and again he watched as the carp upended and nose-dived from sight. The pads were twitching violently and the water fizzed and boiled as the hungry giant churned the bottom aggressively. When he could bear the discomfort no longer, and with cramp shooting through his legs, he reluctantly shuffled slowly backwards, keeping low still, until he was sure the carp could not see him, then stood up, grimacing as he straightened seized limbs.

He’d left his fishing tackle back at the car, preferring to approach the lake unhampered to begin with and solidify his swim choice. The journey back to his car was an arduous one, the blazing sun drew beads of sweat to his brow and each gurgling step he took across the boggy water meadow awakened an unsavoury smell in the heady afternoon heat. The pungent smell attracting a constant onslaught from countless varieties of irritating flying insects that, Charlie told himself with feeling, shouldn’t even be around at this time of year.

Despite the tiresome trek there was no regret about his decision to park in a nearby by-lane rather than the car park at the dam end. A number of the swims on the North Eastern bank were only accessible by crossing a wide expanse of boggy water meadow from the lane. Access was cut off from any other direction by two muddy drainage dikes, used in the past to adjust the water levels on the meadow during the summer.

In effect, by parking in the by-road, next to a bridge where the two dikes unified, any angler willing to slog across the marshy pasture with his tackle, would find himself on a triangular island. The chances of anyone else making the effort during the week were fairly remote and Charlie hoped, with a little luck, he’d have the place to himself for a couple of days.

Back at the car Charlie took off his battered old safari hat and mopped the beads of sweat from his face.

“It really is incredibly mild for the time of year.” He told himself, opening the car boot and pulling out a well used folding chair and a grubby thermos flask.

Sitting back in the chair he poured himself an anaemic looking cup of tea. It occurred to him, while he sat there, that he would never have been able to do this as a young man, the urge to get to the water would have been far too strong. He chuckled, remembering the many bootfuls of water he’d suffered in his haste to get across that water meadow in the past. Smiling to himself he gulped down the remaining tepid tea and, duly refreshed, he began unpacking his gear from the car.

The image of that big carp filled Charlie’s mind as he organised himself for the hike across the meadow. How big might she be, he wondered, he was almost certain her capture would break his personal best for the species, which stood at thirty-seven pounds three ounces.

He’d been a keen specimen hunter for many years now; the early trips with his father had unearthed a passion in him that had stayed with him throughout his life. Apart from his family nothing else stirred such feelings within him. Even now, after so many years, he could feel the excitement welling up inside as he contemplated the coming session.

“It would be a sad day indeed!” He reminded himself. “If I didn’t get that feeling.”

He’d fished almost fanatically as a young man, barely pausing to court and marry his young wife, Lucy. He knew he’d been a lucky man indeed to have found such an understanding and generous girl. Lucy had always accepted without complaint his frequent forays to the water. In fact, she had given nothing but encouragement, despite the many long hours of loneliness inflicted upon her.

To his credit Charlie had always appreciated this fact and had repaid her kindness at every given opportunity. When she had borne him two wonderful daughters he had stored his tackle away gladly, to take up his duties of fatherhood, resuming his fishing only when Lucy herself had prompted him. The faraway look in his eye when the wind was pushing the ripple at his favourite pool onto the shallows, had been more than she could bear and, once the girls had began school she had persuaded him to return to his sport. All this never failed to amaze Charlie, especially as she herself had absolutely no interest in angling whatsoever.

He had always kept things in perspective, and fished within their financial means. In fact he was extremely proud of his tally of specimens, caught mostly from a variety of inexpensive day ticket waters. There’d been no expensive, exclusive syndicate waters for Charlie. The one burning ambition he had left was to catch a forty-pound carp. Although he knew that, at fifty-five years of age and without access to any proven ‘forties waters’, it was becoming increasingly unlikely that he ever would.

“Unless.” He told himself, with a tingle of anticipation. “Unless!”

Charlie arrived, hot and breathless, at his chosen swim. It was in roughly the same place that his dad had lost the big carp all those years ago. His tackle was set up as quietly as possible and, with no sign now of the fish he’d seen earlier, he baited up the patch of lilies where he’d seen her feeding.

A moderate amount of stewed hemp and wheat was distributed amongst the yellowing fronds. He wanted to add to the appeal that the area had to the big fish without arousing too much suspicion in her. The small grains of corn and hempseed would soon get lost amongst the weed, giving the big fish something to root for and a reason to return.

Satisfied that the right amount of bait had been scattered in and around the pads, he sat back in his chair and made up his rod with a simple, single, swanshot link-leger and left it in the rests unbaited.

It was already early evening by now and Charlie set up his oval brolly back a little from the rods. He spent a few minutes organising his shelter for the night ahead, then lit a gas stove and put a small camping kettle on to boil.

Sitting back, with a freshly brewed mug of tea, Charlie looked out over the silky surface of the lake and wondered if there could be any better way to spend an evening. There was a Great Crested Grebe working its way along about twenty yards out and each time it dived Charlie amused himself by trying to predict where it would resurface. It never failed to amaze him how long these birds could remain under the water, and the distances they could travel while under.

From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of steely blue, flashing past above and behind him. He turned quickly and just caught sight of the Sparrowhawk as she arrowed across the clearing. For an all too brief moment he marvelled as she flew like a bolt, straight at the bole of a giant Crack Willow. Tilting the primary feathers on one wing, almost imperceptibly, just at the moment that she looked sure to dash herself against the tree. Then rolling acrobatically around it in a spectacular aerial manoeuvre that would have had the most seasoned of fighter pilots green with envy.

The remainder of the evening passed quietly, and Charlie occupied himself by watching the various creatures that were busy on and around the water. At midnight he drifted into sleep and slept soundly through till dawn.

Charlie woke feeling a little uncomfortable in his reclining chair. A quick brew up on the stove soon revived him and he positioned his chair close to the waters edge and watched over the baited area. After about a quarter of an hour his spirits soared as he saw bubbles begin to rise from amidst the pre-baited lily pads.

An hour’s observation had proven that the feeding fish were indeed the big common and a slightly smaller mirror and, by the time the feeding spell had finished, Charlie was almost unable to contain his excitement. He watched the fish leave, then retired back to his shelter and prepared a welcome breakfast of eggs and bacon. This was washed down with copious steaming mugs of coffee.

His appetite satisfied, Charlie turned his attention to the fishing once again. He topped up the baited area with a pint or so more of the particle mix. This time though, he introduced a few grains of sweetcorn that had been dyed in black food colourant. This was to be his hookbait when he decided the time was right to put out his rod.

The magical dawn quickly passed and Charlie sat close to the waters edge watching the lilies again. At about 11am the two carp came again. Once more they fed for over an hour and Charlie sat trembling with excitement. She really was huge, he told himself shakily. Again the two big fish left the pads.

Three grains of dyed sweetcorn were put on a size 6 hook with the light link-leger set up and lobbed underarm to land at the very edge of the pads amongst some more of the free offerings. Charlie kept the front rest quite high. This allowed the line to be kept reasonably tight, and to rise out of the water against the stems and at a similar angle. He hoped that any contact made by the carp with the line would be construed as merely a brush against a lily stem.

Charlie settled into his chair, his heart was beating a little faster, he knew he’d probably have to wait a while but the sense of anticipation had grown with the session and he was becoming more confident. It had taken a good deal of resolution for Charlie not to cast a hook-bait into the lilies any earlier. He prayed that his patience would pay off.

Would his patience pay off? See the fourth and final part next week!