‘Five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour, nothing …and then suddenly the centrepin screeched out its battle cry. The float had disappeared so quickly that it took me by surprise, I’d been absorbed and immersed in the stillness of the dawn’
Siting in the shade of a willow tree of the pub garden with a pint of Kent’s finest during a long hot August afternoon and thinking about fishing was about all the enthusiasm I could muster for being out by the waterside with rod and creel. Dies caniculares as the Romans called them, or more commonly known as the dog days were upon us. Parched countryside, wilting trees shedding leaves early in an effort to survive, bird song muted, farm animals, wild mammals, humans and dogs alikeseeking shade from the ever-relentless heat. Lethargy reigned supreme in the shimmering haze.
On my slow amble back toward the cottage later that afternoon, trying as hard as I could but mostly in vain to keep to the shady side of the lane, I spotted what looked like a small circular copse situated in the middle of a field. I wandered further along the lanewhich eventually led me to a gate which entered the side of the field. Being an inquisitive type, I hopped over and headed toward the trees whilst trying my best to look innocently lost, a skill honed over many a year since my misspent youth growing up in the countryside. Although borrowed here and taken slightly out of context J R R Tolkien wrote…“Not all who wander are lost”… put it perfectly.
As I approached, I caught a faint whiff of water on the dry arid air and as my footsteps brought me closer, a glint through the vegetation confirmed my suspicion. I crept around the pool looking for signs of piscine life and as I approached a small clearing, there basking in the sun were three beautiful armour plated wild carp positioned to one side of an over hanging bush. My heart raced with excitement at the discovery, and I pondered how I could possibly try to return on another day to try and catch one.
I’ve held a deep affection for wildies for much of my angling life. Long sleek muscular fish, plated with bronze gold and deep copper scales. They are to beoccasionally found in those quiet untouched places deep in the English countryside… if one looks carefully. Gaining permission to fish for them though may be as much of a challenge as actually locating them. First of all, finding out who owns the land isn’t always easy and with the lack of a blessing to cast a line can leave the angler at large with a quandary, to fish or not to fish? Although I would never advocate the act of trespassing or poaching, if after extensive enquiries as to who the landowner is, one is left with two those two options. Remembering though how a crisp ten-pound note in the back pocket of your trousers or the inside breast pocket of your jacket can often quell any irate and unsuspected meetings with the very person you have been seeking permission to fish from. It doesn’t always work but can sometimes help to open a beneficial dialogue and a road to friendship.
Of course, as you’d expect, any investigations are best carried out where the land owners, farm hands, shooting crowd and the locals meet. Where better to be chatting about such matters than in the pub, pint in hand with plenty of friendly banter? This could though require repeated visits and not a small amount of hard-earned cash being handed over the bar before any useful information may be gleaned.
Try as I might It appeared that either no one knew or perhaps weren’t prepared to reveal who the owner was…plan B was looking increasingly like the only option or forget it altogether, which for me wouldn’t be easy having seen those beautiful fish which has set my pulse on an upper trajectory.
Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on one’s perspective, I don’t sleep that well and am often to be found lurking around in the kitchen of the cottage at some ungodly hour, drinking coffee, reading or just mulling life’s matters over before the light breaks across the woodland. I enjoy the peace and solitude for what it gives me and on occasion I find the opportunity to throw some fishing tackle in the back of the Landy and go for an early wander.
With the daylight hours shortening the gap between dawn and people being up and about was also shortening. Back in June there’d normally be a good three hours before most would stir, now in late August that precious time was more likely reduced to one. However, on a Sunday when even countryfolk may be inclined to treat themselves to a bit of a lie in,my rationale was that I could still possibly muster a further hour.
Now you may wonder, why the slight lean toward subterfuge? Well …I hadn’t mentioned it before but the gate I’d hopped over to find the pool in the first place had a hand painted sign attached to it, clearly stating that “Trespassers would be shot!”
So, Sunday it was to be. Two-piece Avon rod made up ready, landing net, hooks and shot in a tobacco tin, spare floats in a small tube and a pair of forceps all shoved into various pockets of an old wax jacket and of course the “peacemaker” ten-pound note folded and placed into the back pocket of my trousers.
When I left the cottage that morning it was dark and unusually warm. My way guided by the bright moonlight, so bright that I could have perhaps driven without lights, although of course I didn’t. Down through the single-track lanes I headed until I found the spot some four hundred yards away from the pond, which I had previously earmarked as a safe place to abandon the Landy before continuing stealthily on foot.
“Excuse me sir, can you explain to me why you are walking along this public highway at this time of the morning in the dark with a fishing rod and net?” were the words I imagined I’d hear if by remote chance I was apprehended by the rural crime officer out and about in his pick-up. I pondered endless possible replies, none of which seemed plausible. I needn’t have worried, as I was soon climbing over the gate having taken one more look at the sign and heading for the pond. For a change the hay at this time of the day was dry and my trousers and walking boots remained so. Often the early morning dew can leave one soaked below the waist when transversing such terrain at this time of year.
The breaking light revealed an undisturbed little paradise, lilies grew around the margins along withreed and sedge, broad oaks sheltered the far bank, all was quiet save for the gentle cluck of a moorhen going about its business and pleasingly there were signs in the form of bubbles upon the mirrored surface of the pond that the carp were enjoying an early breakfast, perfect.
I removed the elastic bands holding the two sections of the rod together and assembled it ready for action. A couple of pinches of sweetcorn were taken from my bait tin and gently thrown to a likely looking spot before I adjusted the float for depth mainly by guess work and then with an underarm cast flicked the baited hook and quill to take up position pending an enquiry.
I sat low behind the reeds, peering at the float and looking for movement beneath the surface which would indicate the presence of fish nearby. In the back of my mind, I planned my reaction should I be rumbled by the owner as the clock ticked and the light grew ever stronger. One fish would satisfy my needs, I yearned for that chance, the connection with this ancient strain of piscine beauty.
Five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour, nothing …and then suddenly the centrepin screeched out its battle cry. The float had disappeared so quickly that it took me by surprise, I’d been absorbed and immersed in the stillness of the dawn.
The check on the reel was quickly switched off as I lifted the rod and connected with the fish to reduce any unnatural noise and a battle royal commenced. The fish surged across the pond, rolling and sending up a spray of water droplets which caught the early morning rays of golden sunlight as its tail slapped the surface with much force, it was one angry fish, determined to make and break. I turned it, but itquickly had me in another fix such was its power. In the first few seconds of connection I felt rather overwhelmed, not knowing the pool or where the unobvious danger areas were located and just tried my best to hold on and play the fish in open water when it let me, The soft Avon rod gradually soaked up the power of the runs and soon we were at a stalemate, with the fish circling deep under the rod tip, vortexes and swirls breaking the once placid water surface. I was of course aware that the disturbance could have filtered through an open bedroom window of a nearby cottage on this sultry morning and kept my profile as low as a spaniel would whilst following the scent of game. Watching the boy over the years had taught me well, stealth was the key.
Gradually I gained more line as I brought the carp uptoward the surface and in one deft movement with the landing net it was mine to marvel in a quiet spotunder the trees. A couple of photographs later and I gently slipped it back into its watery home.
I quickly broke the rod down, shouldered the creeland beat a hasty retreat over the field toward the lanewith a huge smile and a chuckle breaking through my beard…crafty old dog!
Writing & Images R.B. Traditional – The Weald, Kent, Summer 2026
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