The wrench of leaving my beautiful Old Mill on the banks of the Great Ouse after fifteen years has been somewhat softened by a twist of fate in my new Cambridgeshire village retreat. I discover, just five hundred yards from my new home, a privately owned nature reserve holding two mature carp lakes and two well-managed trout lakes.
I was never consumed by the carp bug that seemed to spread like a fire through the fishing world in the 1980s. I was just emerging from my own obsession with competitive angling and into a world of fatherhood and commerce and so the whole carp revolution passed me by.
Now, thirty years on, my world has changed once more. Dramatically. My angling renaissance has evolved as a stolen pleasure. Moments of time which are measured by quality rather than quantity. A series of occasional personal experience and reflection that engage the soul as well as the mind.
The midsummer evening is warm and still as I walk the hidden corners of anticipation around this beautifully managed, but not manicured, little lake. The sun has poured its life-giving energy into the water throughout the day, and the carp are cruising the surface layers in appreciation. They are not particularly big fish, indeed a twenty pounder would be a leviathan, but with ninety five percent commons and every one scale perfect through minimal exposure to anglers, for me, they far outshine the bloated force fed fat boys that seem to be the source of attention these days.
Personally, I have never cared less about the size of the fish I either catch or don’t catch. I couldn’t tell you the precise weight of a single fish that I have caught throughout my career. Whether it be lovers, friends or fish, I have never been influenced by how big they are, but by how much they enhance my life experience.
Back at the car, in glorious isolation, I prepare myself for an hour or so’s stripped back carp fishing. It’s a far cry from the alien world of bivvies, boilies, and bolt rigs. A lissom carbon Avon rod, conventional fixed spool reel, six pound line and a size six barbless eyed hook are all I shall need to enrich my evening. A fresh loaf of bread and a modest landing net supplement the rod and line and, within minutes, I am beginning my second circumnavigation of the lake – but this time with intent.
I must be quiet and cautious, for, without the benefit of controller floats or weights, I am restricted to fishing for fish within the limited range of a large wodge of bread and a well-filled reel. There are numerous attractions for the fish to be within easy reach of the bank though, as during the past two closed seasons the owner and I have created shelter amongst the bank-side alders by half chain sawing through the trunks until the tree’s branches collapse into the water, creating safe havens from both sun and marauding cormorants.
There! Within twenty yards of the lake’s tiny parking area and old fashioned fishing hut, I spot a small pod of circling fish, obviously on the hunt for tasty morsels, either in or on the water. Kneeling what I hope is inconspicuously behind a group of yellow irises, I wait, heron-like, with rod in one hand and a hook concealing flake of loaf in the other. The fish do not appear disturbed, engrossed by their appetite and the need to satisfy it. The beauty of bread is that most fish, certainly these ones, instantly recognise it as wholesome food, usually without the need for pre-baiting, loose offerings or any other kind of temptation. Even on relatively un-fished waters, it is an ‘instant’ bait, with the added advantage of being clean, cheap and incredibly convenient.
As the group edges gradually closer, I take my opportunity to raise the rod and cast the bread up and out into the water ahead of me. Not very far – but far enough. The bait floats serenely on the oily slick of breathless water, line snaking discretely back to my waiting hand. This is a rare form of fishing, as the eyes have more than one thing upon which to focus. Rather than just a float top or a rod tip, I watch the passive bait lying enticingly on the surface, but I also watch the fish in the thin khaki water as they patrol the vicinity. My adrenaline ebbs and flows as the fish either approach or retreat from the proximity of my offering.
My bait has been on the water for all of two minutes now, but it feels like twenty. The old doubts of inexperience begin to knock on my door once more. Has the hook fallen out and am I watching an unattached lump of floating bread? Can the fish detect my human smell and give my offering scant attention?
But wait! Suddenly, adrenaline and heart begin to pump with a renewed urgency. A torpedo grey shape is sliding purposefully in my direction. The scent of the bread has attracted attention. I kneel, tense, rapt and holding my breath. She glides past the waiting morsel, but, was that a pause I detected as she passed by? My mind is screaming for me to be nonchalant. Do nothing. The time will come. My grey companion now pauses and turns, as if having second thoughts. She drifts cautiously back towards the bait, head towards the surface as though sniffing for suspicion. Closer and closer she drifts until, almost touching, the amber lips extend and the bread is inhaled.
The whip thin but hammer strong Avon doubles over as my new piscean companion dives with indignation for the depths of the pool. Our dance begins. I am lost in the purity of these moments. Two lives from alien worlds suddenly connected by a single thread.
This could never be described as an epic struggle. She is a medium-sized fish and, unless I make a ludicrous mistake, the outcome is largely inevitable. She has real spirit however, and refuses to accept this for several minutes, repeatedly boring off again just as I am reaching for the net. But now, steadily, I am able to draw her smoothly over and into the waiting net, ingloriously lifted from her element to be admired and appreciated.
I think she knows she’s safe. She seems to know that I won’t hurt her and lies placidly whilst I quickly remove the hook. A stroke of her perfect flank, a quick photograph for posterity, and I slide her smoothly back into her world to recover.
And that is it. My moment has come and gone, barely fifteen minutes after my arrival. Of course, I could carry on. Maybe catch another two or three fish, maybe not. But I don’t want to. I stroll around the lake one last time, reflecting on my brief but pure and simple pleasure.
Back at the car, I take a bottle of crisp Sauvignon Blanc and a crystal glass from my cool box and savour the evening light. A toast to my new grey companion, a quiet dismantling of the tackle and I can return home refreshed.
