Late November and my weekend job had dried up. A quick phone call to Graham Gutbucket fired my enthusiasm for the ice-trodden winter banks of carp land. I had been grafting solidly since August; in fact the last time I had ventured out was for a six-dayer in Fletcher’s Valley. This resulted in a 16lb mirror and a near trip to the divorce courts.
The water was calling me with great urgency. Our original plan had been to visit Wyreside Fisheries, but the weatherman had forecast freezing conditions, and due to the fact that the local waters had a six-inch layer of ice on them, we were inclined to believe him. Instead we headed for the Mersey Valley, an amiable type of water, which held not a bad tally of twenty pounders for our neck of the woods and in addition it was only about three-quarters of an hour down the motorway. Pointing the car Southbound we were soon at our destination.
A very helpful young lady sold us the tickets and gave us a route map plotting the journey around to the far side of the lake (an adventure by itself). This involved returning beneath the motorway, negotiating a number of death defying right hand bends, travelling through a housing estate of obvious ill repute and eventually, after knocking on numerous doors for directions, (go away or I’ll call the police), we finally found the country track which lead over a pontoon bridge around a sharp left hand bend, complete with numerous burned out cars, which deposited us behind the islands, the said deepest area of the lake.
The ever helpful ‘Frankie goes to Altrincham’, gave us a nice edge on the phone, while the bucket had knocked up a large amount of ‘Tettenhall Balls’ – “Cheers Rob!” – especially for the occasion. So it was with great anticipation that we climbed over the hill only to be faced with a vast area of lake looking like an ice rink. We did attempt to break the ice, but to no avail, three local Eskimos had spent the night on the far bank residing in bivvies which looked like igloos and a quick chat with them revealed that the lake had frozen at around 2am. So, reluctantly, I made my way back round to the rangers office for a refund. On returning back to the Bucket’s swim, I bumped into Chris Tabbron, founder of the 1960’s Manchester Specimen Group, who was taking his dog for a walk. What a small world.
Meanwhile, me ole mate Gutbucket had managed to chisel out a one foot hole with the assistance of a long range brick and, although I admired the lad’s enthusiasm, our casting technique, plus six hungry rods, may have proved a little too much for this now available area of water. Very reluctantly we re-loaded the phallic symbol (Lada Riva for the uninitiated). Actually ‘Frankie’ had mentioned that although my car probably wouldn’t get nicked in the valley, it could get turned upside down and used as a skip, don’t you just love those Lada jokes Yawn!
The wind was getting heavy, which I put down to the curry the evening before. The next meal was looming and I was becoming more aware of the Bucket’s cannibalistic tendencies, so we dropped back onto the infamous Sale Water Park for this strangely one-off session. Sale is seclusion by itself, every carp angler’s dream; water skiers, motorboats, jet skis, wind surfers, the works. And it gets worse in the Summer.
From a fishing point of view, although expensive by local council standards, particularly with the insurance ticket, (should the angler snap off and kill a water skier) Sale is indeed a very hungry carp water. In the deepest depths of Winter you can still expect a good half dozen carp or so a night. Not big ones mind, but with an average size of 5 lb and when conditions are like this…….. well, it’s good just to get a bend in the old rod. The lake also contains a small stocking of old silurus, (Wels Catfish), but captures are rarely recorded.
Because of its huge acreage and geographic positioning to the Easterly winds, Sale Water rarely, if ever, freezes over. So we decided to sample her delights, but she wasn’t having any of it, so we fished the water instead (there’s a joke in there somewhere, trying to get out). My pitch proved to be a real mud bath; the mud intermingled with a thick brown clay loam which, even in freezing conditions, managed to find its way everywhere. In fact the ‘Bucket’, who had found a nice clean grassy section of bank, managed to cover himself from head to foot as he dropped in for a brew (literally).
The baits were cast out, Gutbucket retired to his new 38 degrees below, nine seasons, erect in a minute bivvy tent complete with storm pouches, bait cellar, double glazing, central heating and blow up doll, while MWA being a real tough, but poor guy opted for a pair of mini storm sides (mistake number one).
Shortly after dark three members of the Chorlton Mafia arrived on the water and pitched up to our right. The M60 Motorway (then M63) loomed high overhead giving ample lighting for tying up rigs and playing carpies, although it was difficult to hear the buzzers above the hum of the traffic. No sooner had we settled down than none other than Boggart Mike and some members of the Clough Division appear out of the darkness (small world indeed). They had also been displaced by the weather.
Another brew, a bit of partying and another round of the ole bluegrass, baits recast and amazingly the lovely little carpies got their heads down. Boggart Mike, as usual, took the first fish (don’t you just love this guy), a cute little mirror of around six pounds. Next it was the turn of the Chorlton lads who grassed one and lost one. The Bucket had had an immediate take on his first cast, but unfortunately lost the fish around a buoy rope (tee hee). I suppose I still haven’t forgiven the Bucket for capturing Mr Angry at 23 lb from Fletcher (stuffy git), but in all fairness he did put the work in and spent a considerable amount of time on the water (one Hour to be precise).
At 7pm my left hand rod leaped from the margins, followed by a rather vigorous fight that produced a lovely, beautifully marked, good conditioned mirror carp of 7lb 2oz (okay, so it had no mouth). This being the last of the action for the night.
On a serious note, every fish we caught had a damaged mouth or scales missing, it is thought the reason can be attributed to inexperienced anglers. This is the main reason why anglers should be encouraged to join and support organisations like National Association of Specialist Anglers/Specialist Anglers Alliance and the Carp Society. Its to our own advantage that we educate these guys rather than shun or excluded them.
Meanwhile back at the farm, the weather was turning even worse, the winds becoming more piercing, sleet ice was being driven against the motorway bank and as the song says, “when the going gets tough, the tough get going”, so the Boggart lads departed just after midnight.
Two sleeping bags (don’t tell the wife), a thermal one-piece, Barbour’s and a bottle of mother’s ruin and my teeth are tap dancing. The Bucket was knocking out the zzzz`s and from where I was sitting things looked pretty glum and the Samaritan’s were engaged. Three twentyfive and I’m looking like an extra from a Peter Scott film, when all of a sudden a very large, mean looking traffic cone comes flying overhead, missing the carp mobile by mere inches. The culprits being three drunken nesbits who had launched this unwarranted missile attack while they had been strolling along the hard shoulder of the motorway. The Bucket being quite partial to a bit of head slapping, was the first up the embankment, while I reluctantly brought up the rear (well I’m not as young as I used to be). Jumping onto the hard shoulder we recited the shires time honoured battle cry Eeeeeeraaaggghhh Awwwwrr! And were surprised to see the drunken nesbits take flight across all six lanes of the motorway (can you believe those guys).
Riot over and we are all back at camp. An early morning fry up brought us back to the land of the living. The dawn twilight was rather timid at showing itself and the first starling eventually coughed itself into life at about eight am. The Chorlton lads packed up and departed, while shire stalwarts Tom and Jonah’s smoke propelled van was seen approaching along the perimeter track; another quick party and we left them to it.
Before our departure for the homestead we took one last look at over the water (as you do) vowing never to return, but I returned home to come face to face with my worst ever nightmare: the mother-in-law had come to tea and suddenly Sale didn’t appear too bad after all.
