Arriving at the venue, reached through picture postcard hamlets, via a spidery network of narrow, twisting, country lanes, I was presented with a view of an artificial lake of about four acres, formed by the damming of a small stream. I was first struck by the depth, or lack of it. All around, the water was discoloured by the recent foraging of feeding fish, yet none were immediately apparent. Apart from carp up to thirty pounds, the lake was reputed to hold bream and tench into double figures, yet even in such shallow water, none were to be seen. Suddenly, a small carp was spotted half way along, and then another. I was relieved to find that the water did deepen slightly at the dam end, but it still had a depth of barely more than three feet. There was a small, tree filled island within easy casting distance, and in the distance to the right, the stately home overlooked the sheep-filled pasture land, which rolled down to the lake on both banks. Behind us was a dense thicket with mysterious excavations, where in years long past, an eccentric millionaire kept his stock of exotic wild animals, including lions and alligators. At the far end, barely visible through the undergrowth, were the silted up remains of a medieval stock pond, where ghostly monks were reputed to roam.
The air was almost unbearably hot and humid,making setting up camp a real, energy-sapping chore. It wasn't until the heat of mid-day that I had placed my first baits into a hole in the marginal weed, some fifteen yards along the bank. With the bale arm open, I walked the rod back to the bivvy and set it upon the rests. Before I had chance to cast out the second rod, the reel was screaming and incredibly, I found myself attached to my first fish. The fight was unspectacular in the weed, and I was convinced I had hooked one of the small commons seen earlier. Once it was in the landing net, it was with some amazement that I suddenly realised that this fish was quite a bit bigger than I had first estimated; in fact it was actually quite large, and a very pretty fish as well. It was a golden flanked common carp, far broader and deeper than those to which I was generally accustomed. It was a bit of a shock to see the needle on the scales shoot round to twenty pounds and eight ounces: the scales had been zeroed beforehand, to take the weight of the wet weigh sling into account. Unfortunately, this flurry of activity put paid to any further action for a while and all fish activity ceased, except for the busy perch, which continued to harass the small fry in the margins.
At about 7.30pm, David, who had been suffering from the humidity, decided to nip to the village pub to quench his thirst. I decided to stay behind, as the skies blackened ominously. Within minutes of his departure, as the first rain drops began to fall, a crack of thunder heralded the beginning of a torrential downpour. All those millions of gallons of water that had evaporated from the land during the last two days were about to fall back to earth with a vengeance. I zipped myself into my shelter, praying that a sudden carp run wouldn’t force me out into the open, and a certain drenching within seconds of doing so. The storm was certainly spectacular, with lightning flashes and rolls of thunder that rumbled from side of the sky to the other. Trapped in my enclosure, I tried to amuse myself with the radio, but it was rendered inaudible by the sheer volume of the raindrops, which were beating out an intricate but deafening drum roll on the canvas over my head.
It was nearly dark when David returned. The rain had abated, but he was still wet through by the time he had walked across the field. Within ten minutes he was snoring away, leaving me alone with the tigers, monks and alligators. At around midnight, one of my rods was away again and after a short scrap, another thick bodied common was soon in the net. This one really was much smaller though, weighing in at 10lbs 14ozs. Shortly after putting it back, I felt convinced that someone was walking towards me over the fields, as I could hear a hacking cough, followed by a noisy clearing of the throat. It was only when I heard a similar sound from the opposite side of the lake that I realised that rather than being under attack from all sides by a band of heavy smoking cut-throats, I was actually surrounded by flocks of thistle munching sheep.
Shortly afterwards I had another screaming run, resulting in another bronze common of sixteen pounds exactly. Meanwhile, David snored away in the adjacent swim, oblivious to all the action. Just after first light, yet another carp took off, a mirror this time, weighing 18lbs 6ozs. Again, it was different from the usual strains found locally, being mainly grey, with just a few scattered scales. David awoke shortly afterwards and as the sun approached the horizon, landed a small common of about six pounds. While it was still on the unhooking mat, his other rod was away, but this one buried itself in the weed until it managed to shed the hook. It had been an interesting session and I felt quite privileged to have been invited, yet it all felt rather artificial and not something that I would want to repeat too often.