Now anyone who’s been around a bit – in the fishing sense, of course – will know that elevated tarns and lakes (not sure of the distinction) are ALWAYS clear, near-sterile, weedless and home only to small trout that get a better press than they deserve (“tis but an hour’s walk over the Devil’s Causeway then a furrrther half-mile ‘longside the tumbling Patterson Brook before you’re doing battle with some fine troot…nay big yins but merry, sporrrting fush of perhaps four or five oonces”)
You know the score.
But this morning, after threadling 6lb line through the eyes of an Avon, I planted my backside on soft, good quality grass and delved into my bag for the maggot box. Instead, my fingers clamped onto a spongy plastic bag and immediately knew it was the week-old liquidized bread I’d failed to take out after my previous outing. I took a look at the mouldering contents and decided it was probably good enough to attract something – if not to actually feed. I’d heard that the tarn held carp of all things, but I wanted to see these Welsh Wildies for myself so I squeezed the crumb into balls and slung them to the modest ripple.
Before I could tie a hook the unmistakeable kiss of a carp drew my attention to the margin; there, a small number of bronzed fish were innocently playing, it seemed; no rush to demolish the bread-balls, just a care-free display of bon-cypry and an apparent willingness to share. It was a pretty sight, no less; one I was loath to disturb – but I’m an angler: it’s what we do.
It would have helped enormously if I’d bought a loaf with me but the only bread I possessed was that of a crusty ham roll I’d plastered with mustard that morning – and it was going nowhere other than my stomach, so it was good ol’ pellet again.
As I tied the hook and swivel, an unsuspecting sheep leapt onto the rock I was seated behind and frightened the f**king life out of me! ‘An American Werewolf in London’ made quite an impression on me all those years ago and the memory kinda lingers (for aficionados of ‘Not the Nine o’ Clock News’) Fortunately the sheep was chicken as me and ran off bleating like a…well, like a sheep.
Anyway, I hair-rigged a pellet with no extra weight, cast it beyond the dancing carp and very unsubtly skimmed it back across the surface to where they tangoed – coincidentally a small village just outside Llandrindod Wells (Tangoed Welcomes Careful Drivers) Within a minute the line tightened and I was into a small but feisty wildie of perhaps 3lbs top whack – but mission accomplished!
I really must go back with my wonderful woman before the summer is out, for a night maybe; a dark night in the wild, Welsh hills with a warm blustery wind for added drama – I love it!
Adrian Lander
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