It had been a totally unproductive few hours. We, that is my good friend John Cooper and I, had fished and concentrated hard for three hours on a lake noted for its tench. It contained very little, if anything, else. The odd brief burst of bubbling here and there had given the occasional rise in hope, but our floats, stare as hard at them as we could, never budged. A cold spring had clearly ensured that Mr and Mrs Tench were not quite ready to venture forth from their winter torpor.
In view of the hopeless odds John suggested a move to a lake on the same fishery with mixed species. I did not need much persuading and within minutes we had decamped and set out our stalls for the supposedly easier option: a small water with carp and silver fish. Even so, the water looked a bit lifeless. Not even small fish in evidence, and still quite cold, even for two in the afternoon in mid-May – and with a steady drizzle to boot.
I chose a swim with a few lilies near the margin, and fished with a fifteen footer a little along the bank and a few feet out; not very scientific and more based on instinct than anything else. But is that not what our great sport is often about? It is of course a cliché to say so, but I shall nevertheless repeat it here: the day you have worked it all out and can predict what you are going to catch and in what quantity, is the day you should give it up…
But back to that cold spring day last year…
In went a little groundbait, along with a few grains of corn. I thought I would just sit it out for an hour or two and wait for fish to home in on the feed. Tackle was five-pound test and a small pole float with three number 6 shot, the business end a size 14 with one grain of corn. Light tench gear, in fact. Highly unsophisticated and exceedingly low-tech; a good bet on a day like this, I thought.
An hour or so staring at the float, and no result, not even a little flicker or two to break the monotony, and I was beginning to wonder if I should have stayed at home. A couple of short periods spent nodding off, a favourite juncture if ever there was one for a fish to fancy the bait, failed to trigger a bite. Nearly as good as pouring the coffee from the flask, that one…
But then I awoke from a third mini-sleep to find myself staring at a patch of water with no float in sight. Even my sluggish brain put two and two together in short order and my right arm obliged by setting the hook into what felt like the bottom. Then, classically, after a few seconds the bottom began to move and turned into what felt like a huge log, or possibly even a giant bream. I called to John that I was into something, but was not quite sure what. Whatever it was, it was steadily moving out towards the middle of the lake. At least by now I was able to dismiss the log theory, and assume that it was actually alive, but not very lively, fish I was attached to.
John, who by this time was on his feet and next to me, commented: “I don’t know what this is, but if I were you I’d take it seriously.” It was then that I felt a little panic creep over me. Whatever this fish was, it was beginning to dictate the odds. Nemesis beckoned. It was if I had had this coming to me for a long time.
Whatever it was made a smooth, unbroken and very determined run for some bushes half in the water. I felt as if some member of the fishy tribe had been selected to put me in my place and make piscatorial mincemeat out of me. Catastrophe loomed.
A couple of equally strong runs followed, but all held firm. Well nearly: my nerves were getting a bit frayed by now and I was getting the shakes, but that is all part of the pleasure of playing a big fish. Eventually the fish was within a few yards of the bank. We had a proper glimpse of it a few times. It certainly was big, and it was a common carp. And to cut a long story short, after several attempts, my good friend John performed the netting ceremony as I gradually walked the fish towards the bank. That fish, which weighed 34 lb (a rounded-down figure – we had the balance but not the usual lump-dangling equipment to suspend a big fish for weighing), seemed to have a more than slight aversion to being led over a net.
There was quite a comic element in the whole performance. John took several photographs, including a couple of me panicking over handling such a bulky specimen. He congratulated me though, on landing a huge fish on what he called ‘trotting gear’. Whether it was tench gear or trotting gear, I began to think I had achieved something. One bite that day, and one fish, but what a fish!
Shortly afterwards I learned that the fish concerned went under the name of ‘Sophocles’.
Apart from being a bit of a dramatic interlude, the whole episode made me think, as any drama should, about my own fishing philosophy. What do we want from it? Why do it in the first place? It sometimes takes an exceptional experience to make us review what we get out of an activity, and my encounter with Sophocles was one such experience: quite thought-provoking. Well, one thing the great philosopher apparently said was: ‘There is no success without hardship.’ Quite so, I felt that I had really earned that fish that day, what with the wintry conditions and the light tackle I was using.
A few days later, when word of Sophocles’ dramatic appearance had had spread, I paid another visit to the lake. What I saw made me turn back and go hot-foot back to the lake with Mrs and Mrs Tench for a bit of sanity, even if it was likely to be biteless sanity. Five anglers were in position, each seemingly permanently fixed in place and each ensconced in a large, comfortable chair behind a pair of rods, with dangling buzzer bars, bobbins and the usual pile of purpose-made, camouflaged gear.
Carp gear for carp of course, and any other fish which happened along totally and utterly outgunned. Values? Fun? More like a life-sentence in my book…
So I won’t be hurrying back. I’ll just continue visiting new waters, looking for new fish. ‘Who seeks shall find’, as Sophocles once said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rod Sturdy
Rod began fishing in his local park lake at the age of twelve, and from there he graduated to chub and roach from the river Tees in North Yorkshire. He now lives in Surrey within striking distance of the river Mole, as well as the Medway and the Eden in Kent and does a lot of surface carp fishing on small waters in the area. Latterly he has enjoyed winter fishing on the Test in Hampshire.
He has contributed numerous articles on various angling subjects and personalities to ‘Waterlog’ magazine and remains a passionate angler as well as a member and promoter of the Angling Trust.
