‘Twilight creeps in fast at the pool. The first evening I fished there, as I sat hunched over my rod, watching my float fade and melt into the gloom, I became aware of the silence’
I know of a pool, old and deep, hidden within a copse of mature trees. The beech, sycamore and ash protect and cocoon the water from the outside world and from prying eyes. Sparkling roach shoal there and pumped up perch harry the depths. Stillwater chub are the pond’s enigma. However, the jewel in the crown of this watery haven is a dwindling colony of old, feral, common carp, impossibly old and stygian black. Nine is their number and fools they are not. Even though the pond is largely neglected, the carp are age enough to have seen most angling baits and ruses. Cunning and wily, these carp are well versed in the ways of outwitting even the most competent of anglers.
Around the perimeter of the copse runs a barbed wire fence and you enter the copse through an old, creaky gate further adding to the protected, guarded nature of the pond. Once inside, the place reeks of atmosphere and presence. Towering trees and bulbous rhododendrons shade and cover the pond, fuelling the mysterious character of the water. I only visit the pond infrequently, choosing to go there when I need peace and solitude.
To sit in the shade of the trees my mind stills and I drift in meditative contemplation, the only sound the mellow coo of the wood pigeon; a timeless timbre that lulls and soothes the mind. A fishing rod is often surplus to requirements but it would be folly to be without. A float, drunkenly half-cocked completes the picture, for is the float not the ultimate conduit of hallucinatory perception? The outside world seems far away, another realm governed by clocks and burdensome timescales, appointments and deadlines. The only creatures at odds with this slowness are the hawking dragonflies and pond skaters that skitter hither and thither with a feverish energy. Here, the passage of the sun is the only measure of time and all too soon the shadows begin to lengthen…
I have often read about waters having eerie, almost supernatural, qualities but in all the years that I have fished, being by the waterside at dusk, through the hours of darkness and, more often than not, alone, I have never felt uncomfortable until I fished here. Twilight creeps in fast at the pool. The first evening I fished there, as I sat hunched over my rod, watching my float fade and melt into the gloom, I became aware of the silence. Not a thing moved, no bird sang, the air felt heavy and still, as if nature itself was holding its breath. I began to feel uneasy, as if many eyes were watching me from behind. I hurriedly packed up and left. Stepping out of the copse into the pasture, the oppressive weight of the place lifted immediately, any previous thoughts and sensations feeling irrational and dreamlike. Old places collect old memories and who knows what tales and events have taken place here over the years? Maybe I should dig deeper but some things are better off left alone.
The pond is found within the Haigh Hall estate on the edge of Wigan in Lancashire. Created by damming Mill Brook, it is a remnant of the estate’s industrial past, specifically related to the nineteenth century coal, mining and iron works. In 1838 John Sumner, the proprietor of Haigh Brewery, demonstrated his forward-thinking by requesting William Peace, the chief mining agent to the Earl of Balcarres, to install a pumping plant. This innovative solution would deliver water from the pond to the nearby brewery by aid of a windmill. The construction of the windmill was completed in 1845. The brewery closed in the 1930s, rendering the windmill redundant. In 2011, the windmill underwent a restoration project and it now stands proud today, adorned by a fish weather vane. Walking to the pond across the pasture flanked on the left by the windmill adds to the charm of fishing this water.
The fishing at the pond is far from easy; the fish are not huge but provide enough challenge to warrant careful consideration in order to unravel this piscatorial puzzle. The water sees little bait and the fish more than likely rely on an almost exclusive diet of naturals. The fish can afford to be picky and discerning over anglers’ baits when they have a veritable banquet of snails, bloodworm, caddis, daphnia, midge larvae, snail eggs, fish spawn and fish fry to choose from.
The carp are super attuned to their environment, the slightest sound or vibration alerting them to the angler’s presence. When I visit the pond I am at pains to open the old, creaky gate ever so carefully. I walk heel-to-ball, careful not to snap any twigs or crunch the many beech-nut husks that litter the paths. Slow and deliberate I try to move, not a sound do I try to make, blending in becoming part of the background summed up in “study to be quiet”. Yet still these carp always seem to know I am there.
To introduce any more than a couple of pieces of floating bread is to invite failure. The carp have been angled for in this fashion in past times I’m sure and simply disappear from view once the bread is introduced. The next obstacle to catching these carp comes from the many stillwater chub that inhabit the pool. I try not to view them as a problem as they are beautiful fish, scale perfect, sleek and slender. Who knows where they came from but once stocked they seem to have thrived and several are now north of the three-pound mark. Maybe in years to come, as the population slims, the remaining chub will attain weights that may encourage the more ardent angler. The frustrating thing about these chub is that they pounce on any bait that an angler offers, the subsequent disturbance putting the carp on edge.
The first time I fished the pond I introduced floating crust and, as the baits drifted below the overhanging rhododendrons,they began to disappear. Swirls, ‘cloops’ and sucking had me hurriedly setting up a rod. Creeping into position, I lowered the bait into the shadowed, inky water by the overhanging foliage. There then followed that state of being that only anglers can relate to. Time slows, thoughts disappear and the whole focus of the individual is concentrated on that floating, bobbing piece of crust. The spell was shattered as the bait disappeared into a swirling vortex, the hook was set and the water exploded but chub, not carp, was the outcome. This was to be the scenario that played out time after time.
The next tactic to try was to float-fish. However, where the carp favoured was deep and under the rod tip depths of sixteen feet were encountered and tackle had to be set up ‘slider’ style. Groundbait was introduced and various baits tried. Any worms and maggots were gobbled up by the many voracious little perch, while bread, meat, cheese, sweetcorn, paste and whatever else was offered resulted in the same – a chub in the net, sometimes several.
That’s as far as my fishing went on the old brewery pond. The carp remain uncaught and elusive. I am sure that if I applied myself and put in a concerted effort I would eventually land one. However I really don’t feel the need to prove anything and I quite like the fact that they seem unobtainable. Maybe I am being lazy but why force the matter?
I fish a lot and catch more than my fair share of fish from elsewhere. It is nice just to have a place to retreat to that is quiet and peaceful. It is important to have these waters where a carefree attitude can be applied to one’s angling and where catching isn’t the be-all-and-end-all of a day’s fishing. Or am I really just making excuses? I’ve often wondered that if I fished on at the pond after dark would the carp be more likely to be caught?
As I alluded to earlier, the odd feeling that descends onto the pool as night falls makes me feel uncomfortable and the thought of spending the hours of darkness there alone makes me uneasy. Maybe there is a presence here. Maybe this presence is the anglers of old who protect and guard these carp, wanting them to feed in peace: a fanciful thought but one that I am happy with, knowing the carp are free to feed under the veil of darkness with only the bats and owls to bearwitness.
Writing & Images – Danny Taylor, Summer 2025
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