‘The fight went on for what seemed an eternity; sometimes I gained line, other times the fish took it back. I managed to keep it away from the lily-pads and their rope-like stems but the fish would instead dive and things would go momentarily solid’
As I mentioned in my offering entitled Pastures New Part 1 (June edition) I have been very fortunate in gaining permission to join a couple of small private angling clubs, both fairly local to me, that have their own waters. Now let it be said straight away that I am no carp angler. I have obviously caught a few, more by luck than by design, both from here in Lincolnshire and also back in Yorkshire, but these have been of no real size, not that it matters. However, these small private club waters are home to, well, shall I say somewhat larger specimens.
Enough of this description, these places would more correctly be called syndicate waters, operated with only a few members who jointly care for the venues and for the flora and fauna. They put in hours and, in some cases, days at a time on working parties to maintain the banks and so on. These anglers have spent probably years gaining knowledge of these venues, noting the clear or weedy patches, or where a certain gully or gravel bed can be found, where there is a sudden drop off or maybe a shallow spot, favoured by carp for basking on a warm summer’s morning.These anglers have their favourite rods, reels and angling paraphernalia, and the best ways to use them, they know where the most productive places are for feeding fish in certain conditions and times of day that their quarry may be expected to appear. In short, these anglers have served their apprenticeship. I felt quite privileged, as an unknown, to have been invited to join this band of brothers.
The opening weeks of the new season took me to one of these places. I had spent time at Pheasant Pool, in the past months,either just observing or fishing, and I was by now becoming familiar with the banks, the features, the places to expect to see fish, and when to do so. I learnt the best ways to approach the business of actually catching the residents, either by surface fishing, bottom fishing, free-lining or by my favourite method, float fishing. It was now time to visit one of the private venues, and start anew.
I had become a member of this particular group as someone who would target any fish species, as opposed to me having a singular focus on carp. I had an idea that this lake must contain tench, maybe bream and silver fish, as well as the elusive carp which I had witnessed creating bow-waves and frolicking in the lily-pads pre-season.
The big day arrived and my little fishing van had been loaded and made ready the evening before. All I had to do was to wake up very early, four o’clock as it happened, have a little bit of breakfast toast and a refreshing cuppa, grab my sandwiches and biscuits and be off. Oh, hang on, let’s not forget the bait for the morning. I had soaked and boiled up a quantity of chick peas and also prepared hemp, some of which had been waiting overnight. I also purchased a Warburton’s loaf and a bag of frozen sweetcorn from a local supermarket. This was all popped into my bait bag and then I was off. I did not know which baits I would be using but wanted to be better over-supplied than wanting.
About twenty minutes later I arrived, opened the gate, drove into the venue and locked the gate behind me. I rumbled down the track to a parking spot which was only a five minute walk from the nearest swims. No other vehicles were here at all. Grabbing my bag, rods and the rest, and loading myself up with all the accoutrements that anglers habitually carry, I made my way around the venue. I had decided in advance which swim I would be fishing, based upon the weather forecast of the previous evening which predicted it as warm and still to start with,followed by a brisk north-westerly breeze as the day progressed.
Quickly putting my gear in order and settling down, I looked around and saw that I was the only person there. This was unsurprising as there is no bus service here and, without any other vehicles to be seen, other anglers would have had a very good walk or cycle ride, or maybe would have had to be dropped off.Anyway, I had the entire pool to myself! A beautiful sight greeted me, the early morning sunlight giving the venue a picture postcard view and the film on the lake surface making the pool appear dark and mysterious.
Firstly, I set out the swim as I usually do with seat, rod-rests and net to hand, then threw in a small handful of sweetcorn to my right, close to a patch of lily-pads where I intended to float-fish. I then similarly baited up a spot to my left with a handful of chickpeas introduced into the margins where the hookbait for the bottom rod would be cast. Satisfied that things were as wanted, Irested the swim for twenty minutes.
I took out my old and battered radio which was ready tuned to Classic FM. I do not listen to other stations when fishing as this station seems to gel seamlessly with the art of waiting for a bite. I only use the radio when there are no other anglers whom it might upset but today, as said, being the only angler on the pool, I was in no rush.
I had selected two rods for the day, a split-cane carp rod of no particular noteworthy make, save that in my eyes it was more than a capable tool for the job, rebuilt by myself in the cold days of winter when the ponds and rivers were either frozen or it was just too cold for me to venture out. This rod had a Mitchell 300 fixed spool reel attached which been rescued from a box of bits at a tackle fair, obtained for a very reasonable three quid’s worth, as I remember. I had stripped it down, cleaned it inside and out, removing clogged and solidified grease, rubbed down any corrosion, masked up the parts and re-painted it, finally re-assembling it with fresh grease applied to the moving parts. It functions as well as any shiny new bait-runner reel and feels sturdy in the hand.
I set up the end terminal tackle on this rod with a simple running-ledger rig, quite heavy line at fifteen pounds breaking strain, attached to a fifteen pounds flourocarbon hook-length. I knew that there were large fish present here, although I had only seen them basking in the shallows and wanted the tackle to be up to the job. However, there was nothing fancy about the rig and baited the size ten hook with a chick pea.
I had spotted a clearing between the margin weeds to my left, where the free offerings had been earlier placed. It was only a short cast, more of an underarm lob really, and I carefully plopped the baited rig into the gap. I then catapulted in a few free chickpea offerings, set the rod in its rest with a home-made bobbin indicator and left the bail-arm open on the trusty Mitchell. The line was trapped behind a rubber band line- clip.
Once I was satisfied that the bottom rod was nicely positioned I turned to the float rod; more of this later.
Firstly, I selected an orange-tipped reed antenna with a sight bob from my float tube and the float was set and the hook selected, a size twelve tied once again onto a flourocarbon hook length, but ten pounds b.s. this time. I was hoping for a tench but as there was always the chance of a stray carp snaffling the sweetcorn bait, I wanted at least a half a chance at landing it should one come along. The hook-length was attached to the main line of the same strength. I knew that tench are not particularly fussy feeders and I felt that one, or hopefully more than one, would not be put off by the heavy (-ish) line.
Over the years I have succeeded (well, partially succeeded) in trimming down my tackles. At one time I would take about thirty or forty floats to the waterside, all secure in two float tubes. However, over time (I can be a bit slow) I realised that I never used most of them, so I trimmed down the collection to what I have now, somewhere nearer only a dozen. I think I can trim it down further still but first let me get used to having a lesser selection, just call this thinking a work-in-progress.
After plumbing the depth I set the float to be fishing to be ‘laying on’ style as it used to be called; the float was cocked with the hook-length laying on the bottom and any interest from a fish would either make the float rise in the water or gently slide away; either reaction would be most welcome. I then baited the swim with a few more kernels of sweetcorn to top it up. Before casting in, I removed a few weeds from the front of my swim which would no doubt catch on the line when casting. I am a bit clumsy at the best of times and best remove any possible line traps before they do their best to upset the apple cart. I cast the float and sweetcorn baited hook in the margin to my right, close to the lily-pads, where the free offerings had been earlier scattered. I was hoping a tench would be along soon…
Now it was just a matter of time, so sat comfortably on my seat, rods to left and right and net to hand, just in case. I could take a bit of time to enjoy the warming rays of the sun. There was quite a breeze picking up now and the tops of the surrounding trees were fairly batted around but down here at the waterside it was quite sheltered.
Looking at the float rod set up, I realised that even though it was a very traditional, the total financial outlay for the rod and reel would have been probably less than forty pounds. The rod was a split-cane Avon that had been in a terrible state when I was offered it. A rebuild had sorted that out and a nice ‘searcher’, wide- drum Ariel copy was loaded with ten pounds b.s. line. I had snatched the reel off a certain auction site several years ago for a pittance; there is always a chance that a gem can be missed and this reel was one of them. Call me a skinflint, if you will, but these rods and reels will continue to serve me well, without even thinking about what fish they have caught or where they spent their times past, they are truly ‘traditional’ in every sense of the word, even if the wide-drum reel is a modern clone.
There is one thing apparent on both rods; you may have noticed they both have modern, chrome, ‘ziplock’ reel-seats fitted. I do not apologise for this, the reason is that I was once using one of these rods on the river Wharfe, when barbel fishing. I was using a new Ray Walton ‘pin, first time out. When casting in, the ‘pin slid out of the alloy reel-bands and straight into the river. I managed to retrieve it after a worrying ten minutes and vowed that such a thing would never happen again, thus the fitting of the ziplock.Luckily the Ray Walton ‘pin was undamaged.
Settling back in my seat, I took in my surroundings; it is indeed a lovely place with the thin early morning mist now gone and the sun shining down. There was the occasional plop or splash coming from other parts of the pool, perhaps from water-hens or coots; both species were residents and their antics had kept me amused several times in the past. Pond skaters were also flitting around and the odd damsel fly popped out from the bushes. The residents of this lovely place were undoubtedly waking up and I was hoping for some early indications of interest from either rod. However, this was not to be. I kept up a regime of throwing in a few grains of corn around the float every ten minutes or so but left the ‘bottom’ rod to fish for itself; the baited hook was amongst a bed of chickpeas that would hopefully attract some attention soon so did not want to disturb it.
There is something about float-fishing on still waters that can almost send me to sleep, there is no continual casting, mending lines and so on that you have when trotting a river, unless you are fishing on a windy day. Today, at least at water level, it remained fairly still, with only the chattering of the birds in the trees and quacking of ducks to intrude upon my languor. I felt myself slowly drifting into a sleepy haze when suddenly my senses were alerted to a stream of tiny bubbles that were popping up around my float. That could only mean that something was rooting around the sweetcorn offerings I had deposited there.
I focussed my attention upon the orange, sight-bob float, willing it to rise or sink, willing it to make some movement that would tell me that maybe a tench, or even a carp, had sucked in my sweetcorn bait but, no, there was nothing. The bubbles vanished and the surface of the water was once again still. I sat back, just a little disappointed that there had been no further signs of interest.
Looking at the bottom rod, sat snugly in its rests, I noticed that the amber butt ring appeared to be flickering with a neon glow in the reflected sunlight; in all the years of fishing under my belt, I had never seen the like before.
Mesmerised by the flickering amber, I had to capture the moment on film and, having done so, I was watching the short video clip (see above) and realised that the background music from my battered old radio had really captured the moment, framing the pool’s peacefulness. This had been totally unplanned but the Suite of the Cotswold folk dancers seemed to fit the situation exactly.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the ‘pin had started to slowly rotate and the float had vanished! I had not switched the reel-check on. Taking the rod in hand, I gently lifted into what suddenly felt like a good fish as it kited off to my left, towards the line on the bottom rod. Not wanting a tangle, I applied pressure but the fish turned and headed toward the lily-pad to my right, a snaggy area best avoided, so applied some pressure in the opposite direction. The rod took on a healthy curve as the fish headed out toward the deeper water, for which I was thankful. The fish kited hither and yon, first to one side, then to the other but soon it began to tire and a chubby tench was brought to the net. I placed the net on the lush grass behind me and went to unhook the fish but the barbless hook actually fell out in the net!
It was not a huge fish, probably three and a half pounds, but looked smaller in the large, traditional, laminated bamboo net. A good start, I thought. I noticed that the tench, while apparently in good condition and having plenty of fight, had lots of small scarlet blotches all over its body, a colouration I had not seen previously.I took a quick snap of the unusually marked fish, rested it in the net in the margin and soon it was good to see it swim strongly off.I scattered more sweetcorn in the swim, hoping that ‘Scarlet’, as I had subconsciously named it, had been in the company of others. Casting back to the same spot, I set the rod in the rest once more,this time clicking on the reel check just in case, and sat back. Time for tea!
Keeping a watchful eye on both rods, I tackled the Kelly kettle and in no time a brew and a chocolate biscuit were there for the enjoying. I returned to the job in hand, a job that involved not actually very much but sitting watching a stubbornly static float.In this pleasant setting, it was as though time had stood still for me, nothing disturbed the wildlife. An electric-blue flash of a kingfisher passed me, vanishing into the bankside undergrowth as quickly as it had appeared. Out of sight to my left, past the overhanging trees, a large fish had topped and the ever expanding circles of the disturbed water passed the taught line of the baited carp rod, reaching my float and making it bob and weave. There was no action on the bottom rod, not even a line bite, nor even the telltale nibbles of a small roach, but I decided to leave it in place. I had no reason to re-cast, as far as I knew the bait was intact and just patiently waiting for a hungry fish to pass.
I slowly scanned the pool for signs of surface-feeding fish and I noticed that the tip of the float rod was slightly bobbing up and down to my right. Had another tench taken an interest in my bait? No, the float was still cocked but at a lazy angle on the water’s surface. On the end of the rod was a large dragonfly, it was he who was causing the movement; he was a big one and deserved a picture of his own.
As I took the snap, the float started to wander off in a haphazard sort of way, jerking around and only just sinking beneath the surface. There must be a fish there but waiting until there was a proper bite took forever. Finally, the float went under and away and this time I struck into a feisty little tench; not as big as ‘Scarlet’ had been but welcome nevertheless.
After unhooking the smaller tench, it was rested and released, swimming away into the murky depths. The sweetcorn was working but sadly not the chick peas on the bottom rod. Just as I was thinking about the failure of the chick pea bait and considering trying an alternative bait, slowly the bobbin started to rise. The line gradually and, ever so slowly, tightened; no sudden movement, just a slow pulling on the line which soon popped out of its elastic band line-clip.
Then, it stopped…
What was happening, was this a line bite? Perhaps a fish was just brushing the line as it swam past, maybe catching the line on a fin? I sat on my hands, waiting to see what would happen next; yes, the line started to slowly pull away again. I could wait no longer, picked up the rod and tightened into whatever was on the end. It proved to be a spectacular anti-climax; there was something there but it was allowing itself to be brought in like a soggy paper bag and soon enough I saw what it was, a slimy old bream, and a bit of an ugly thing to boot! It was missing a part of its tail. Had an otter perhaps attacked it in the past? The bream had no spawning tubercles visible so could be a female recovering from its amorous adventures. Whatever, it was the third fish of the day and was laid on the lush grass in order to remove the barbless hook. The bream was then released and swam slowly away. Both hook baits were now back in the water, a few more freebies were scattered to hopefully attract a better fish to either rod, and I returned to my seat.
I had sat daydreaming for quite some time. Music from my old radio played quietly in the background, the odd call from the pool’s avian visitors and the warm sunshine all played their part in lulling me toward a place where I was not quite asleep and not quite awake. In this state for perhaps, oh, I do not know how long,I was suddenly jerked back into the land of the living by the low rumbling of an aircraft. Being reasonably close to RAF Waddington I was used to the roaring of jet fighters flying overhead, but this was no jet fighter, it was the low rumble of a propeller plane. Looking up, I expected to see maybe one of the RAF Atlas transport planes which occasionally fly past, but no, I was delighted to see the outline of one of the most famous planes in the history of the RAF, not a Spitfire, not a Hurricane, this was a single Avro Lancaster (or should I say the one and only flying example) from the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight. Grabbing my phone, I took a few snaps before it slowly vanished over the treetops. There were only two airworthy Lancasters operating in the world at that moment and one of them was passing right above me.
All this had well and truly roused me from my daydreams, so I returned to the land of the idle angler. The bottom rod was stubbornly refusing to tempt anything into biting, and the float rod was likewise unengaged. Now what should I do? Time was moving along and I was to be away for ten-thirty-ish. Looking at my watch it was already ten-fifteen, so it seemed a bit silly baiting up and casting again for the mere fifteen minutes left. I decided to slowly pack up.
Firstly, I decided to put the float rod away and as I was ‘batting’ the line in, the bobbin indicator on the bottom rod bounced twice, then shot up, banging against the cane. The line was fiercely pulled from its line-clip and even though the bail-arm was open,the rod tip was pulled to the left. Dropping the float rod into a handy bush, I grabbed the carp rod and probably only just in time, as the front bank stick was now leaning left at a crazy angle.
I engaged the bail-arm on the reel and the rod was bucking and bending severely in answer to the fish’s efforts to get away. I knew this was a good fish, there was no stopping it and I had to let it have its head, just managing to keep it out of the tangles to my left. Next, it suddenly took off in the opposite direction, out to the centre of the pool and towards a large bed of lily-pads. The drag on the Mitchell 300 sang its song as the line was pulled, a bowline kept taut by an as yet unseen fish. The cane rod creaked under the strain. Although certainly as far as my own use of it was concerned, the rod had handled double figure barbel several times comfortably, but quite what this fish was capable of was an unknown.
The fight went on for what seemed an eternity; sometimes I gained line, other times the fish took it back. I managed to keep it away from the lily-pads and their rope-like stems but the fish would instead dive and things would go momentarily solid. I knew the pool had beds of Canadian pondweed which the fish seemed intent upon entering and I could feel some sawing vibrations as the fish forced its way through the beds.
Eventually, though after what seemed like an age, the fish was slowly tiring of its fight and I was gaining the upper hand. The Mitchell 300 reel was proving its worth and the rod was handling the fight well enough, although bending through from tip to butt. I began to relax a little and slid the cane landing net into the water in readiness for the fish. I then saw it for the first time, its scales reflecting a burnished gold in the sunshine. As a bit of an anti-climax, the fish almost seemed glad to enter the net. It lay there in the net, lying quite calmly after its battle. It was to my eyes huge. I certainly had never caught a carp as big, other fish, yes, but this was a first for me.
Now, what to do? I had a loop of rope which I fastened around the bamboo net pole and then fixed the other end to tent-peg which I had earlier pushed into the grassy bank, just in case of such a situation. Satisfied that the fish could not drag the net into the pool, I set about my chores.
The first thing was to make ready the unhooking mat lying behind me. This done and the mat wetted, the next task was to place the fish in the bowl of the mat, remove the hook, and then once more rest it in the net. It had put up quite a battle and deserved some time to recover. All these things were accomplished quite easily really, with the barbless hook being removed without any problems while the fish remained quite calm. I gave it a quick examination, looking for any injuries or scratches that might need attention; there were none.
Once the fish was back in the landing net and resting, the next job was to weigh it and take a snap of the fish. I had realised quite early in the fight that this was the biggest carp I had ever hooked and possibly the biggest freshwater fish I had ever caught. My Avon scales were prepared and, with the wetted cradle mat suspended, the scales were zero-ed. Only then was the carp, a large common, once more removed from the net and placed back in the wetted mat for weighing: twenty-six pounds on the nose!
I set the phone to take a ‘selfie,’ making sure it was pointing in the right direction, then gently lifted the carp into view. Holding it for several seconds and allowing the camera phone to do its work, I quickly returned the fish to the net for a further recovery period. I had realised early on, after the fish had been netted, that it had an appearance of a ‘wildie’, but one of that size? I seriously doubted it. Taking a moment to have a breather, I looked around. The pool was once again peaceful and the sun shining, insects were buzzing and flitting around and the ever-busy pond skaters were dancing across the water.
The carp was sat peacefully in the net but it was time to return it to its home. It had been hooked in the margins no more than thirty feet from where it now lay in the net. I wondered where it would go once it had its freedom. Slowly it edged its way out from the folds of the knotless mesh. It needed no encouragement, gently, and with a flick of its tail, it was away and out of sight.
I sat down on my chair, suddenly remembering the float rod that was still perched at an angle in the bushes. I picked it up and quickly put it away before starting to tidy up and put away the rest of my paraphernalia. Fifteen minutes later, everything was ready to carry back to the van, the swim had been tidied and there was no sign that I had ever been there. The only beings that had anyclue were myself, the tench, the bream and the carp.
Putting things away tidily was something of a first for me. Today,and probably for the first time ever, my tackles tackle were neatly packed. I checked around, as I always do, for any litter but being a syndicate type of fishery there was nothing. I slowly made my way back to the van and as I left the waterside the carp in the pool decided to have the last laugh, noticing a couple of large, hump-backed fish circling in the small bay close to the footpath.
Thinking to myself, ‘there is always next time…’
The van being loaded, I drove down the track and exited the gate. After locking it behind me, I made my way home. It had been a pleasant morning with an unexpected bonus. Now it was time to return the baits to the fridge, ready for my next fishing adventure,and to make a small entry of the day in my diary. One last thing:while in the garage I had better eat my sandwiches. I had quite forgotten about them and S.W.M.B.O. would never make me another tasty pack up if she discovered that they had not been consumed.
Writing & Images David Craine – The Wolds, Winter 2025
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