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Dwarves, Vikings & a Giant - Part One
When Andy Mackie asked me to put an article together for Dynamite, my answer was both quick and emphatic; no way, too busy, like to keep my head down, struggle not to offend anyone and then he offered me a tin of tiger nuts – free as the air and unopened. If he’s prepared to bring out the big guns then I’m in.
Around 2010 I became a bit disillusioned with modern carping – it comes to us all at some point but, thankfully it’s not for ever. However, a man needs to fish, to avoid genital shrinkage and depression, so I spent a couple of fascinating seasons focused on specimen angling.
Everyone should chase three-pound perch at some point. They are truly massive, achievable, and proper characters. When not eating my livebaits they are probably starting pub fights or wolf whistling Rudd. My brief carping interlude ended abruptly when, a mere seven years after putting my name on the list, I got an email offering me a place on the Wasing syndicate. Now this was a game changer and I felt that welcome spike of excitement knowing a new chapter had started. Roll forward to the start of the season and I’m unlocking the gates for the first time. Half a mile of torturing my old Mondeo on the track later and I was parked up looking at an achingly beautiful carp water. For those who don’t know, Cranwells Lake at Wasing is twenty-three acres of shallow, immensely fertile water with a couple of islands. I was going to say “if Carlsberg did carp lakes...” before remembering it tastes like goat urine. Let’s go with “if Kronenbourg did carp lakes...”. You get the picture. The lake was beautifully laid out with only a dozen or so swims, and the anglers were a brilliant mix of welcoming, eccentric or pissed. There’s got to be something very special about any lake that can grow a true English carp bigger than any caught before or since. When I joined, the Parrot was nudging sixty pounds and was the prize above all else, though a couple of the A team were very close to fifty and there was a very healthy head of dark, scaly fish as back up. As a welcome, the first swim I set up in gifted me a pair of Hobbies chasing dragonflies just yards away. I was blown away at the sight, not realising just how common it was in the warmer months. After successfully breeding the following year there were a family of seven Hobbies working the lake each day. I soon went from slack jawed amazement at seeing my first Wasing Hobby to barely a glance and finally shooting them with laser pens...I am, of course joking – I always missed. I fish a couple of nights, every other week and those first few sessions were brilliant, if not overly productive in the summer heat. I had rediscovered my love of carping with a vengeance, soaking it all in for those first few nights with just an upper double to start the ball rolling. It has long been a bait boat dominated water and it is easy to see why. Many of the fish were concentrated in areas more than a hundred yards from the bank, generally in clear areas amongst weed, small channels or very shallow areas of less than three feet deep. To bang a lead out into such shallow water would render feeling for a drop almost impossible and the casts it would take to finally be happy with a bait would frequently see the fish drifting off to quieter pastures. I have nothing against bait boats, using them a lot at Cutt Mill in the late nineties – to see a good bait boat angler at work is an impressive and overlooked skill in itself. Like any form of angling, if it can be done, it can be done better and there were some fine anglers at Wasing. I frequently saw boats used in conjunction with a throwing stick, boats dropping single baits and a level of stealth that impressed. Softly opening hoppers had been modified and boats were often drifted silently onto the spots when wind allowed. At the time I didn’t own a boat, but was kindly lent one by a good friend. It was neither fancy, nor stealthy – possibly the only steam powered boat on the lake, but it did the job. It did lack the all-important echo sounder though and I would laboriously tow a marker float out towards the horizon often to have it drop neatly into solid weed. And repeat... My moral code is simple when it comes to gadgets – if I didn’t have it, it was cheating and once I have one then it’s to hell with the haters, they’re just jealous! I learnt a little more each session and, as I became increasingly tuned in to the lake my results became more consistent. The fish themselves were astonishing and full of character. One near thirty in particular blew me away during that first season, as it was a big plated, fully scaled fish on one side, yet a zip linear on the other -a truly bonkers animal! In late March, a weeklong deluge saw the River Kennet burst its banks and the already perilous track became a tall order even for 4×4’s. I had three days off work and a car full of tackle so wasn’t taking no for an answer. At one point on the journey, my engine screamed as the front of the Mondeo lost traction as it floated in the deepest section, but it kept going. The garage later described the water damage as permanent! Importantly though, I was in, had the lake to myself and the forecast promised drier days ahead. I walked the banks, as always, to look for clues and witnessed some incredible carp behaviour. A section of the Kennet was rushing over the track and into the shallow margins of the lake, leaving a huge brown trail through the normally clear shallows. Two carp had fought their way upstream, like migrating salmon and were thrashing about in ankle deep water where cars would normally drive. I watched them for a while as they dropped back downstream into their rightful home and noticed more shapes, hanging just off the strongest flow. I clearly needed to get baits as near to the influx of water as possible, where carp seemed to jostle for position in the current. I found a muddy, but functional swim where I could wade baits into the zone. The fish seemed far less spooky than usual, clearly spurred on by the newly coloured water and intoxicating flow. Six fish followed during the next day or so before bites seemed to slow and I went for another wander. Away to my far right was a huge area of woodland, out of bounds to anglers. About 150 yards into the woods, where I may have inadvertently wandered, there was another powerful stream that flowed in from the overflowing Kennet. This was an even more significant amount of water and I felt sure there would also be fish nearby. By now, the whole lake had coloured considerably, so I didn’t see any definite carp but it looked and felt right. When I got back to the swim and looked to where I thought the stream came in I realised I had no clue where it was. From back in the swim, all I saw was a uniform line of trees at range and even binoculars couldn’t pick up the subtle ripples of the flowing stream. A plan was needed. I prepared a baited rig and had the bait boat ready to go before heading back into the woods with a pocket full of multi-coloured foam nuggets. Like a flotilla of tiny Viking ships, I tossed the nuggets into the stream some 30 yards away from the lake, deep in the woods. Then I ran back to the swim as fast as chest waders and boggy ground would let me. After a few sweaty seconds the flotilla emerged – miles away from where I initially perceived it to be – and drifted out into the lake. Target located, the boat was sent out to the new flow and bites came quickly. Ten fish graced my net over those three soggy early Spring days and the knackered car and wader-induced fungal infection had all been worth it! In the next chapter, some of the A team make an appearance, there may well be lager and a Welshman commits murder...
Dwarves, Vikings & a Giant - Part Two
Being a shallow lake in the fertile Kennet valley, Wasing played host to plenty of feathered bait robbers – coots and tufties plagued the anglers and many of us used ever more powerful laser pens to deter them. Misty mornings would see fine displays of what looked like giant light sabers competing to scare off packs of the airborne boilie munchers. It’s fair to say, tufties were hated – their persistence could drive an angler bonkers, so it was even more surprising when I struck up an unlikely friendship with a very odd tufty that was sat calmly by my rods one morning.
Generally, they know humans are bad news and stay well clear – but this one merely stared at me. So odd was its behaviour that I forgot all previous hatred and crumbled a boilie as a peace offering. The tufty ate it gratefully and moved closer still. Two hours later the bird was nestled next to me, at the entrance of my bivvy, eating from my hand.
This forbidden, and thankfully not consummated, love affair between man and bird continued for weeks, with my little friend strolling up to many anglers and winning them over. If only they were all like that! The affair ended in tragedy as an angler known to all as The Wizard took his Dad fishing with him on a guesty and the tufty was captured and subsequently eaten by the Wizard’s Dad. In defense of the duck snaffling duo, I should point out that they are very, very Welsh. My second season saw results pick up, as they should do when countless hours up trees and walking the lake makes the picture ever clearer. Multiple captures were common, and every capture knocked off the list made me feel that I was one step closer to the Parrot. On a big water it’s hard to single out a particular fish and realistically target it, however fashionable the concept is. My mindset was more along the lines of – if you catch them all, your target will be in there. I saw the Parrot in the water just three times in three years on the lake – twice when it left the water and once when it sat in a snag tree. There’s not enough in this to single it out, so crunching the numbers was the way – and there’s nothing wrong with that. Being there was amazing and remains some of my most cherished memories. Tactics wise, I liked to feed them plenty of boilies and tweaked things a little to gain every edge I could. Most baits were dropped in shallow water – often just two or three feet deep. I took 20 mil boilies with me but always sliced each one into discs. It’s quite a relaxing pastime, sitting cross legged with a cold beer and a sharp knife, discing baits. Many happy hours melted away. As the lake was so shallow and tap water clear it was easy to see your baits and I did a fair bit of experimenting. In three feet of water, dropped by bait boat, 20 mil boilies fall pretty straight, creating an area a little larger than a dinner plate. The same amount of identical boilies made into discs would result in an area of bait three times the size with over a hundred individual food items. The discs flutter down like leaves and settle beautifully over bottom debris, yet still retain a good size to deter nuisance fish. The amount of extra surface area achieved by slicing a boilie five or six times is massive. If you were the sort of angler who might take the time to actually calculate the extra area I’m almost certain that you’ll never get laid. Many lakes have an individual fish with a reputation for fighting very hard, and Cranwells was no exception. I caught this fish three times and it behaved the same each capture. As the rod was lifted into the fish on each occasion it was immediately and savagely wrenched back down, reel screaming, followed by run after dogged run. Even on the bank it was angry – mine was just one of a few nets it smashed once landed. It was neither massive, nor beautiful, being an upper twenty mirror with a dubious mouth and a lump on its side, but what a fish. It probably had a chip on its shoulder – living in a lake with numerous beauties and giants. There were a few ghosties in Cranwells, some reaching 40 pounds – but I must confess to not being a fan. Their true home will always be the fairground, in a giant plastic bag, not in a bloody carp lake. I was at the lake one New Years Eve, when I hooked and landed a sizeable Common a couple of hours before dawn. In my head torch, it looked beautifully shaped and low thirties. Feeling very chuffed that I was out on the bank doing my thing, I sacked the beast, ready for a celebratory photo shoot at breakfast. Opening the sack that morning that was literally full of ghostie was the angling equivalent of going to bed with a supermodel and waking up with a fat lass with a neck tattoo. I fully appreciate that anglers in the North East of England will assume she was the supermodel, so the reference may be lost. By the end of that second season, I had not just regained my passion for carp fishing – I had become borderline obsessive. I would find my mind wandering constantly to those hallowed banks and the Parrot was never far from my thoughts. I considered giving up my ticket at one point, as the great fish had not been out for so long many of us assumed it may have died – possibly as a victim to the occasional otter that would hop across from the Kennet to wreak havoc. Other great fish did grace my net, topped by the fabulous Floppy Tail. The Parrot did resurface in the net of another lucky angler and was then caught again quickly – as is so often the case with fish that go on the missing list. All I had to do was keep crunching the numbers, keep focused – and my time would come...
Dwarves, Vikings & a Giant - Part Three
Wasing days continued to roll by in the best of ways. Warm winds causing Mexican waves amongst the stands of bulrushes, the ever-present Hobbies harassing any dragonfly brave enough to risk a little jaunt and carp, always the carp. Such a brilliant strain of fish in that valley and invariably dark as conkers.
There’s a lot written about the importance of always finding the fish first. My days on Yateley Match Lake were memorable for many reasons, one being the endless stream of bobble-hatted keenies going round and round, mumbling some mantra about finding the fish whilst waiting for a sign—or perhaps the onset of puberty, whichever came first. And despite my slightly barbed teasing, they were right. Damn true—you need to find the carp as number one priority.
What’s talked about less is what happens then. I’ve read many an article where our intrepid hero finds some fish, casts at them, and fills his proverbial sacks. I would suggest on all but the most overstocked or under-pressured of our carp waters, casting right on top of fish will cause those same fish to drift away. The secret is to get there before them. Many years ago at Cutt Mill, a few of us caught the lion’s share of fish by mounting our binoculars on tripods and then sitting for hours watching the endless bubbling the shallow, silty lake threw up. You could identify individual clusters of bubbles and follow their progress. They generally follow a pattern—usually along a contour that matches the bank rather than random zig-zagging. Once a target was selected, the rickety bait boats we used at the time were dispatched a couple of rod lengths along the imagined route. It worked spectacularly well. Wasing had some similarities but on a different scale. In the crystal-clear, shallow water you could track the progress of groups of carp. Dark shapes, each one mirrored by its own shadow on the bottom, again following the contours of the lake. This lake, due to the extreme clarity, meant a few rods’ lengths away was rarely forgiven by the carp as a place to drop the bait. You generally had to pick the next swim along, after figuring the likely direction out, and lay your traps there. Brilliant fun and hugely exciting. I landed one of the most desirable Wasing carp, known as BiPolar, doing exactly this. He was in a hurry though—feeding and moving like a thing possessed. I had a comical race to throw the bare essentials from one swim to the next before managing to swing a PVA bag out some 30 seconds before he rounded a bush and was on me. I think he swallowed the bag whilst it was only partially dissolved! I’ve mentioned just how beautiful the Wasing lakes are and, during my third season, I decided to have a wander round with my family and show them the sights I invariably rattled on about at home. Whilst doing the rounds, my youngest happily wandered about poking sticks in badger crap and collecting feathers, whilst my wife and I exchanged pleasantries with a few anglers. A judgmental woman at the best of times, I sensed she was less than impressed at the fragrant, camouflaged, farting creatures that I called friends. “You ok?” I enquired, feeling it may be time to retire to a country pub. “They’re like hobbits,” is all she said, nodding towards the gathered anglers behind us. We then passed the legend that is Terry Hearn on the way back to the car. He was sat, cross-legged, outside his bivvy, nibbling gently on the roasted leg of a muntjac. Pleasantries exchanged with Tel, we carried on and my wife whispered in my ear, “He’s The Hobbitiest of Them All!” There’s a name for the next book mate, no thanks needed! So, back to the fishing, I get easily side-tracked. I mentioned only ever seeing The Parrot twice in the water. Once when it half jumped out, thirty yards in front of me on a huge November westerly. I say half jumped out as it was an ungainly sort of flop really, but unmistakably him. The second occasion was more significant. I was in my usual position, wedged 40 feet up a tree and scanning a half-acre bay just next to a swim on a heavily wooded peninsula. The bay was between two and three feet deep and held the odd protruding stump with a sturdy snag tree in its deepest recess. I saw what looked like two groups of two or three fish approaching. The sun was against me and it was initially hard to make them out, as I could mainly see silver, reflected light in the ripple. Once about 50 yards away, my steep angle helped, and they came into glorious focus. The first group was a gloriously synchronised pair, a mirror and a common, both around thirty pounds. That’ll do, I thought, and was even more encouraged when they both dipped down and found the odd morsel. The second group of fish wasn’t a group at all. It was The Parrot in all his glory. Four feet plus of simply ridiculous carp. When you think that this fish was long, male, and had no belly, it helps give an idea of what the length and width was like. You’ve got a couple of decent thirties glued together in the one skin. I can only apologise to the Reed Buntings that were within earshot of me. I didn’t handle the moment with any grace or dignity. Instead, I simply chose to repeat my favourite swear word seventy times in a row without pausing. He fed as well, like a dog on hot chips. Clouds of silt spewed out of his massive gills and every time he turned, I could see the thick white lines where his scales lifted from his flank. I’m actually glad for the swearing or I’m pretty sure I’d have forgotten to breathe and eventually tumbled, stone dead, from the tree. I’d seen carp in this bay before, but I’d never seen them stay long. On this occasion, they were there two hours before calling it a day and drifting back into the main body of the pit. I’m often a little slow on the uptake, but not this time and I set my gear up on the wooded peninsula and made a plan. Deep in the bay was almost suicidal fishing, due to the protruding stumps and snaggy tree. The mouth of the bay was lovely though, with the dense weed beds of open water giving way to sparser areas of silkweed, silt and gravel I pretty much formed a carp-style roadblock across the mouth of the bay, with about 20 yards between each of my traps. For a massive fish, The Parrot had a surprisingly tiny mouth, due to some historic damage before it had even become a double in this special valley. Therefore, I opted for 12mm pop-ups on all rods over a pound per rod of disced boilies. An early hours take had me scrambling, and a Common just ounces away from 30 pounds resulted. I can’t say for certain if this is the one I’d seen the previous day, but I suspect it was. The reflected light that morning made it pointless climbing my favoured tree again, so I had to sit on my hands and wait. The timing suited beautifully though, as I was wiping the last crumbs of a bacon sandwich from my mouth when the middle rod trundled off. Solid is the best word to describe what I then felt. Nothing spectacular, no mental runs like the common gave me some hours earlier, just that feeling when you pull harder, your rod bends more and nothing else. I pulled my chesties on with no grace. I would even say that if any man reckons he can pull that move off whilst playing a fish and looking cool, he is a liar. I threw the net in front of me and headed out to do battle at the same moment the huge tail of the fish emerged and slapped the surface, just like a catfish. I should point out that there’s no catfish in Wasing and The Parrot is famous for doing exactly that. I’ve played an awful lot of carp in my lifetime and like to think I’m competent at the job, yet I suddenly felt anything but that. Terrified and gibbering better suited me. The great fish also decided to wake up, bow-waving repeatedly away from me each time I gained a little. When the moment came, the great fish slipped over my net cord just as surely as the cold water rushed in my chesties, having recklessly overextended myself in sheer, bloody terror that I might lose it at the last minute. It was mine, and I took a moment or two just to look down at its great, grey back. I remember pulling my mobile from my chesties to call my nearest and dearest, then not really being able to speak. I can’t lie—I shed a little tear. Three years of working extra shifts to pay for tickets and stupid bait boats, a million(ish) hours up trees and a lot of graft suddenly hit home. Obviously, I grew a pair and sorted myself out way before the inevitable paparazzi-like horde of willing hands turned up to help weigh and admire the most magnificent carp Sixty-two and a half of the Queen’s pounds, if it matters. Having caught my target, that was my last season at Wasing and I almost enjoyed it more now the pressure was off! I dearly cherish the laughs, some great fish, the lake, and many friends. Having included dwarves in the title of a three-part article I am contractually obliged to mention them. However, this is tricky territory indeed in these times where it’s hard to mention anything without offending someone. Don’t judge me here. Carping has long been associated with superstitions. Everyone knows magpies are magic and stating a fish is huge before it’s in the net is a sure-fire way of making them fall off. But who knew that dwarves are also potential game changers when it comes to matters of bad juju? Many years ago, I started fishing a lake in the Colne Valley whilst I was on a run of big fish and flushed with both confidence and success. We all have those purple patches at times, where it seems you can do no wrong. One hot summer day I was reclined on the far bank of this lake, expectantly waiting a bite as a number of fish were showing right on the money. I was a little surprised to spot what appeared to be a large unhooking mat on its side making its own way along the far bank. Moments later I realised that I now had company in the form of another carp angler, clad entirely in camouflage, who also happened to be a dwarf. He huffed and puffed his way around the lake and finally deposited a small mountain of gear in the swim right next door to me. The lake was otherwise empty and the angler came round for a chat, apologising for being so close but explaining that he too had seen the fish around this area. He showed me a few pics of him holding some of the ancient carp the lake held and he made all the right noises when I showed him pics of a couple I’d been lucky enough to snare. We spoke the universal language of carpers, shared a beer, and got on well enough. My new friend then went to get sorted in the swim next door, plopping his baits out a respectful distance from mine. A short while later, my attention was drawn to a gentle snoring from his swim and I could see through the hedge-like foliage between us that he was fast asleep. He was also curled up, like a camouflaged cat, on his unhooking mat. Now please focus, if you will, on the “not judging me” agreement we made. In hindsight, I could have, no, should have, reacted differently. Without hindsight, my immediate reaction was to tape my phone to the end of a storm pole with the aim of just taking one, innocent photo as this may have been the best thing I’d ever seen. A combination of getting the giggles and bottling it meant that the photo never did get taken, yet the damage was already done, I was struck down by the worst run of luck that lasted more than a year. I hooked a fish that very afternoon that fell off. Then another. The next few months I was cursed with every bit of bad luck imaginable and my high-flying confidence was replaced with utter despair. Coincidence perhaps, or evil dwarf magic? Anyway, enough from me. Summer’s with us and there’s carp to be caught. Very best of luck to you.
