Are You Carping Or Camping?

He—let’s call him Barry—arrived having consumed all available advice on social media. Regulation white van was loaded with the latest long-distance rods, bivvy, bedchair and Rolls Royce reels. Eager eyes revealed a desperate hope that looking the part would take him halfway there, that he was ready to break all records, smash the syndicate! Having hinted at the glory of his first season, Barry left the car park with a jaunty swagger, the mantra location, location, location gently floating on the air, eyes glued to a digital map of the lake on his iPhone.

Twenty minutes of ‘intense’ watercraft later and Barry was back, unloading his mountain of shiny new gear. Clutching at windswept straws and a plan concocted in bed, he headed for a swim in No Carp Bay. Marker rod foamed the water, Spombs were loaded, baits cast, lines tuned to a high C sharp, and designer bobbins were hung. Finally, it was time to sit back, brew up, watch and wait. A time for reflection! A time for doubts to creep deep into the neanderthal part of Barry’s brain, stirring the hidden inner Noddy he was desperate not to release. Fortunately, he already had a strategy for dealing with such occasions: time to break out the cans of Stella! Half-a-case-in and confidence was restored. Relax everything is fine, I’m the next big thing! Hells bells, I’m a shoe-in for top rod!

But as the days and blanks notched up you could see the confidence draining from this syndicate virgin. A glazed bunny in the headlights stare had replaced that initial beady-eyed confidence. And behind the mild brown eyes, doubts multiplied: am I really up to it? Was I onto something, or was it just wishful thinking? Very soon, Barry was nowhere to be seen at dawn. As I passed on my early morning bailiff walks, his bobbins and string gently wafted in the cool south-westerly, rigs untouched by the scaly residents. Gentle snoring vibrated the pristine fabric of his luxury sleeping quarters. Barry was away with the naughty syndicate fairies, dreaming not of sweet scaly success but a trip to McD’s for another blank softening double sausage and egg McMuffin.

To date, Barry has fallen headfirst into two ruts, or rather, two deep silty gullies inhabited by novices. Firstly, having got lucky early doors with one of the stockies, Barry developed ‘Favourite Swim Syndrome’, and punished the bailiffs by text about whether it was free each time he was heading to the lake, seriously considering turning around if it was taken. 

And secondly, having endured a long, but entirely normal run of blanks, pessimism about ever catching again overwhelmed him. He cursed his bad luck loudly and often, which inevitably led to the company of others in a similar predicament. And in a well-worn ritual, this year’s crop of campers took to fishing side by side, a long row of piano wires deterring any carp from interrupting the daily barbeques and beer runs to Aldi. 

As summer arrived, Barry became increasingly alarmed by the weed racing to the surface in every corner of the lake. His nights became filled with swantoners, as he bemoaned the impossibly bad line lay. How are you supposed to fish in this, it’s a bloody joke. You should put in weed killer or dye the lakes. We didn’t have this sort of problem at the Muddy Hole day ticket complex! Unable to discern any spots he resorted to pub-chucking solid bags amongst the underwater foliage and fishing bits of flip-flop in mid-water. 

It wasn’t long before Barry fell out with his fellow barbequers. The weed clear zone had become a battlefield, hotly contested fishless real estate bombarded with leads from every angle, causing constant bickering and handbags at dawn disputes. He resorted to a self-imposed solitary confinement, and could be found skulking in uninhabited corners, hunkered down, bivvy door zipped up. Once set up there was zero chance of Barry moving, it was just a matter of logging onto Netflix and waiting for the session to end. 

Fair play to Barry, he did turn up every week. Perseverance is a highly useful quality on the syndicate and can at times cover a multitude of carpy shortcomings. And boy, Barry had more than a few. But, amazingly, one Saturday morning in early September, it happened. Barry had his second take, not a stocky this time. One of the big girls had hung herself on his Flip-Flop Rig. I wasn’t there, but by all accounts the battle was nearly over, the net beckoned, when one last lunge flat-rodded him, and having his reel on anti-reverse and clutch screwed tightly down, the strain was too much and his hooklink knot gave way. The rod sprang back and his string lay limp in the margin. Those present left in silence, unable to find suitable words of consolation for a self-inflicted wound of this severity.

It was too much for Barry, he was a broken man! For those last couple of months, the dude was a shadow of the eager beaver who had arrived that spring. His lights on but nobody home gaze, suggested either an over-reliance on the locally supplied herb, or that he had stared long and hard into the abyss and had nothing more to hope from his syndicate membership, or perhaps both. His halted monotone conversation frequently alighted on the value of his carp tackle, illuminating an inner impulse to sell the whole lot on eBay and be done with it. Several times he finished our bankside encounters with the same throwaway line, I’ve always fancied match fishing you know!

My words to Barry The Blanker, as he departed the syndicate car park for what turned out to be the last time, were: next year you’re going to have to up your game a bit mate; put in more effort, sweat on the details, do something different to everyone else. He nodded gravely, “I’ve got to fish further out and use Ronnie Rigs.” I shut the gate behind him and waved goodbye.

The thing about the syndicate is, if you’re faking it, you will be found out. You can sit there all year, but unless you’re the real deal, a sharper carper, you might as well reel in, sit back and enjoy the scenery, you’re a CAMPER!