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An Anglers Journal

‘I’ve caught one! Over the years I’ve read with relish accounts of epic struggles with big fish, re-living them with the writers until even my wrists were aching. The majority of such have been penned by you, oh mentor, for the not altogether improbable reason that you are prolific in the catching and writing of big fish. I am, of course, going to bore you which is a trifle unfair in so much as you’ve never bored me; but I’ve religiously read your accounts so now you can darn well read mine! You have the advantage tho’, no angler leaves unfinished the grand tale of your 44 lb catch— so to ensure that you read on between yawns I will leave the actual weight until last (no cheating now).

‘Mainly at your instigation I elected to squeeze just one more trip into an already crowded October. Jim Gibbinson hasn’t quite convinced me that the first frosts don’t call an end to carping, so I set out minus my usual cheerful optimism, which is a poor start to any fishing trip. I often feel that a good golf-ball-sized piece of my own brand of optimism moulded on to a size two would do great slaughter amongst the carp. For various reasons I arrived at the lake later than usual and had not settled to my satisfaction until 7.00 pm. In my pitch was a dense bed of lilies, they were one problem, but what really daunted me was a water-level measuring post that sticks several feet above the surface.

‘I “greased” the swim liberally with “Pomenteg” (formulated by Dick and Fred you know—they also do a good line in socks and haircuts I since learn!). I managed in the failing light to get my bait squarely in the “Pom” first go, hard up against the lilies. Subscribing to H. T. Sherringham’s view that “you may as well have two rods while you are at it” I baited up a second rod. I don’t consider one rod more important than the other and always give equal attention to both, although in retrospect I think that on this occasion it had more nuisance value than anything else. However, I digress (I expect you’re searching for that sleep-saving little phrase, “to cut a long story short”—well, you’re out of luck chum, I’m too verbose to use it. Tough!).

‘An hour passed with me cursing the headlights of the odd car on the road behind me before the silver paper leapt into the butt ring and hissed at me. I made an awful botch of the strike but hooked the fish nonetheless. Anyway, the “tench” shot up the lake between the lilies and the post so I tightened up to get the nuisance out before he made too much fuss. Again in retrospect it was a funny attitude of mine: I’d come carp fishing expecting to catch tench (as usual) and my brain refused to switch on the red light. My rod assumed an unaccustomed shape and the “tench” kept on going. Blast! Pike on breadpaste—well, not very unusual. I clamped down hard. “Esox” was going to come out in short order or else. Esox continued unabated up the lake and the spool-was getting warm and bare. If only I had continued in this ignorant state of mind until I’d landed it all would have been well, but I was suddenly stricken with the truth and from then on panic set in. I had no idea where the fish was as it had by now stopped running and was “jagging” furiously. I found my torch and lost a Wellington (what the heck, I had only one torch but two boots!) then I followed the intricate design my line traced from rod to post to lilies to fish. I groped for leger weights, said goodbye to my remaining Wellington and tossed some at the fish (no, the weights—you see I had only two Wellingtons and—oh never mind). The weights made a lovely expensive splash (9d a time). The fish was not impressed. How I could have done with “B.B.” and his famous potatoes; him and a few careless remarks like—”This is a monster and you don’t want to lose him” would have been very handy!

‘At this juncture (Wake up! Most rude to nod off like that. With me? Right then) the fish, or submersible “E” type, decided I needed some help so he obligingly sped back into the lilies where I was able to regain line, clear the post and tighten up.

‘Both parties then glowered at each other, licked their wounds and awaited the other to make the next move. Re-uniting my feet with their long lost wellies I tried a tentative yank—the fish squirmed deeper into the lilies. I yanked again, he went in deeper still. I had a good idea—at this rate he would soon be in the car park and up the road where I could run him down with my car—simple!

‘Inspiration again! I tried hand-lining. Out he shot straight at me, turned parallel to the bank and charged through my second line! I treated the Home Counties to some Anglo-Saxon. The silver paper leapt sarcastically into the butt ring. Theoretically I was now playing the fish on a combined line strength of some 17 lb so I felt justified in calling for his unconditional surrender at once. He wasn’t fooled tho’ but by way of a challenge he shed rod number two saying “I can lick you on this alone matey!” He was a liar and a braggard for ten minutes and one Wellington later he was in the net. Mine!

‘An hour later I was able to examine him in the bath at home—surely the most enchanting sight for an angler. I placed him reverently in a nearby spacious pool next morning where I hope I can watch him grow. (My wife scotched a vast scheme for turning the front room into a huge aquarium.)

‘The carp? Oh, it was seven and three quarter lbs. Not a big one but it’s a start.

As a matter of fact I met Ian shortly after the capture of his first carp, I arranged for him to join me for a carp fishing session in Kent. I am pleased to relate that on that trip he caught the second carp of his career. I have no doubt that now he has broken his duck he’ll catch many more carp— he certainly deserves to. Talking of ducks—he caught one of those too. A fine specimen it was—I took a trophy picture of Ian holding his capture. Ducks have very sharp claws you know—the one Ian caught scratched my hand— blood everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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