Naked Chod, Naked Angler!

Back in 2017 I stumbled upon a unique opportunity, and essentially, it involved test-fishing a lake. It was a pretty informal arrangement. The water was a fair drive from home and the fish weren’t the biggest in the land, but the campaign still stands out as one of the purest carping experiences I’ve ever enjoyed.

Background
Most anglers will have a campaign or a period in their angling life that their mind will flick back to when they think of the so-called good times. We chase that same good vibe, and we try to cultivate the buzz at new places we visit. Sometimes new experiences fall short of expectations and sometimes they match them. Rarely, though, do they top your fondest memories in fishing. 

My own came about when I lived in Essex for a few years—where fishing was seemingly the second-most popular hobby after watching football! Quiet fishing was hard to come by, and I’d often travel back to Oxfordshire to fish, but in Essex, I had a ticket with the Silver End club, and there I enjoyed mixed success. 

I can’t remember exactly how it came about, but whilst doing some filming with Embryo’s operations manager, Matt Pettitt, and Stuart Dagborn, their head fencer at the time, they had mentioned that they had obtained a seriously nice lake, out in the wilds near Peterborough. You could tell they were really in love with the place as they described this overgrown, super-shallow 10-acre lake, full of character, tucked away and surrounded by old trees. Its background was hazy, but following otter predation, the odd fish-kill and the previous owner taking a lot of the fish with him when he left it, the place had been forgotten about for years.

Matt and Stu described how they had carried out a basic survey from a hard-bottomed boat, drifting around for much of the day as they tried to assess the lake’s topography and identify problems, whilst also hoping to spot some fish. Both were pretty convinced that the stock was very low, given that they’d seen what appeared to be the same group of around ten fish several times, a few lovely looking carp being amongst them. From memory, this was February or March, and not a lot more was said after. 

Sometime in March or early April, I had another chat with Matt. He told me that he had allowed a friend to fish the lake and that he had caught two carp. One was a fully scaled upper-double and blind in one eye, the other an amazing, low-thirty mirror. The photos were of poor quality, having been taken on a phone in bright sunshine. I could see, though, that the second fish was also fully scaled, and with its large, open mouth and huge gut, it was a unique-looking strain of carp. All this talk of unknown fish was right up my street, and being the gent Matt is, he said that it would be fine for me to go and fish it, and to see what happened—goodbye club lake!

Away From Home
I didn’t waste much time, and I found myself making the two-hour drive to Peterborough in a loaded estate the next weekend. Most of my fishing has always been close to home: little trips here and there, quick visits without the rods to check waters, and for 24hrs maximum. Fishing somewhere a few hours away sounded like a real pain, but I found it quite liberating. My visits would bring with them a refreshing sense of adventure. I was going somewhere off-grid (with permission!) for two or three days. I had all my food, drinks and kit for my first session prepared, and was ready to unlock a place I’d seen only on Google Maps. It felt like a mini-holiday, as it was getting warmer and the countryside in Peterborough was also noticeably different to what I was used to.

Upon arrival, I pulled up by an old, locked farm gate and was soon passing my barrow and all my kit over it. I had an area in mind, right round the other side of what was clearly a heavily overgrown lake. Matt had explained that the lake was quite unusual, topographically. It was incredibly shallow in the middle, with only a handful of deep strips tight to the edge—the complete the opposite to most waters. When Matt and Stu had boated around, they had noticed that the fish would gravitate to one deep hole near a snag. When I say a hole, I mean one of perhaps two or three metres by six, in front of some snaggy bushes. With birds picking up bait and rigs in the shallow water being a major issue, I was really focussed on getting my kit around there and using it as a starting point, perhaps baiting the area before fishing it each week. The journey with the barrow was hard work, and it involved at least one unload and reload to get everything over a fallen tree. No task was a chore at this place, though. I was on my own little adventure, and loving it. 

First Session
I arrived in the south-west corner, at one of the few swims, as such, on the lake, and with a bit of space to set up my temporary home. Amongst the nettles were remnants of previous activity, like a broken wooden table with vines growing round it, and an old chair which I took possession of, placing it in the swim. The whole place was like a scene from an Enid Blyton novel, untouched by the modern world, very quiet and with fantastic old trees. It was somewhere you’d like to explore as a child, perhaps. Dwelling on all this sentimental stuff wasn’t going to catch me any fish, though, and carefully, I put out three rods, one in the hole to my left and two out in more open water.

During that first session I saw nothing and I caught nothing. I just sat back and observed birds picking up my free offerings. Before leaving, I got in the waders and walked out to the hole to my left. Strangely, because most of the margins were so deep and given that the shallow areas were out in the middle, the swim was one of the few places you could wade. You could access the middle too, as it had a bit of a land bridge under the water. Once you had passed across it, you could walk almost the entire lake, just thigh-high in water. At the hole, however, it was a sheer drop, the depression most likely having been cut out by a digger in the past. Having used so little bait on the trip, I deposited everything I had in the hole, at a depth where the swans wouldn’t be able to get at it; at least I had something to work with when I came back the next weekend.

Second Visit
From memory, I took either the Friday or Monday as holiday to extend my weekend. My girlfriend was buried in her full-time work whilst also studying part-time for a degree, so timing for these rather selfish weekends away couldn’t have been better.

Come Friday, I was straight back into the swim, eagerly placing the rod in the hole and flicking out two pop-ups further out. The session felt similar to the last: pretty dead! For somewhere that Matt had seen the group of fish head to again and again, it really didn’t seem to have much life. Occasionally, I crept up towards the hole, praying that I’d see a submerged grey shape or two, but I saw nothing.

The first morning came around quickly, and it turned out that Podge, the other guy who had been allowed to fish the water, was in the opposite corner. He had caught one during the morning, and I went round to take a few photos of a lovely old, mid-twenty mirror. Like my corner, his was mainly shallow with the occasional deep trough in the edge, and that’s where he had caught most of his fish.

Heading back to my rods, I was happy for him. It was great to see one in the flesh, but it felt like it was all going on in his area and not mine. He wasn’t fishing it regularly, but it was kind of his corner, and I wasn’t keen on the idea of him turning up the following Friday to find me sitting in the swim, kicking back with a cold one. After riding out the final morning back in my own swim, I let curiosity get the better of me and got into the waders again. I walked across the little underwater land bridge and started wading around the gin-clear lake. I hoped to see more of the lakebed, perhaps find my middle rod’s pop-up and see what the presentation was like, and even, perhaps, bump into a fish or two that would give me some confidence. It was the end of the session, after all, so if there was a time to blow my cover, this was it. 

I was a fair distance out into the lake, and certainly close enough to the middle rod to have spooked anything near it. I felt there was more chance of me winning the lottery than the left-hand rod in the hole having fish on it. I’d cast my right-hand rod towards one of the few islands, and all of a sudden, I heard an alarm signal a take. I’d borrowed a friend’s ATTs alarms at the time, as my rucksack had been stolen from my car in Essex a week or two before. Their tone was different to my usual alarms, so I paused for an extra moment or two, looking back in disbelief, but yes, it was definitely going!

Wading like a madman, I made my way back to the rods—it was painfully slow going, given that I wanted to get there so quickly. At one point, I saw something kite past me from left to right about 10yds in front, which can only have been the fish, but I was still in a state of disbelief. When I finally got back to the bank, all the bobbins were hanging motionless. I felt gutted, and for a moment I questioned my sanity. I knew that it could only be the right-hand rod, and so picked it up and wound down with the line heading away from where I’d cast it. Finally, I made contact with the fish and started to play it, but shortly after, it felt like it had snagged up in the middle shallows.

Playing the carp like my life depended on it, I got back into the water with the net over my head and started to march out once again, winding down as I walked. Right out in the middle of ‘my’ half of the lake, I managed to get a different angle on the fish, and with that, it was free. I was then left to play a nice carp on what was a gorgeous venue on my 9ft Scope.

Eventually I gained control. I could see a fully scaled mirror and it dawned on me that I was about to land the biggest fish thought to be in water, one which Podge had caught previously. It went in the net and I let out a cheer, alerting Podge and his mate, who both came round to see what was going on.

Caught up in the moment, I called Matt. He wasn’t miles away and I wondered whether he’d like to come and see the fish for himself. He arrived shortly after and we got the fish out on the mat, ready for weighing and to be photographed. None of us had really looked at the fish properly, all assuming it was the one Podge had had. It then went on the scales, and Matt said hesitantly, “27lb… 15oz.”

I thought they were winding me up, but then reality struck us all. This wasn’t the fish we thought it was, but a Mini Me version—how embarrassing! We laughed about how none of us had noticed, as the photos were taken. It is funny how your mind can play tricks on you when you believe you are certain of something, and how that also rubs off on others—there is a general life lesson there somewhere, I am sure. Nonetheless, I was over the moon to be off the mark.

The main thing I took away from the session was that I had caught the fish on a single hookbait, something I’d not been confident using previously. During both sessions, I’d introduced a handful of baits over each rod with a throwing stick, adding plenty of liquid so that if the birds took them, there’d still be something in the water. Before the bite, I had been well and truly cleared out by birdlife. I doubted that there was a single offering out there other than my hookbait—observation noted. I hadn’t totally given up on the hole, though, and I gave it a good hit of boilie and pellet again before leaving.

Third Session
One week later and full of beans, I was back, heading straight round to the same swim to pick up where I’d left off. It was the first week of May, and with temperatures rising, things could only get more lively. During this visit, I barely even took a photo. In fact, I don’t know what I did do! I was most likely resting on my laurels, my plan of attack remaining exactly the same as last time. I’d had a result, after all, and I needed to give my approach another chance. As on the previous session, towards the end, I headed out in the waders to explore, taking a rod and a net with me, and some corn to freeline. On this occasion I stumbled across a mirror sifting through material on the bottom. It was probably a low-twenty fish, and it left shortly after the cloud of silt I’d put up as I waded cast a shadow across it. 

Fourth Session
By this visit I had abandoned the deep, marginal hole for good. I suspect the fish were seen frequenting it regularly during the boat survey as they looked to head somewhere safe, rather than being there because they liked it. 

This time, I barrowed my kit around the lake, but stopped short of my usual destination, essentially fishing a similar area of water, but from a new swim closer to where I had seen the mirror shuffling along at the end of the previous visit. A damp first evening passed with a strange eruption of water in front of my rods, possibly caused by a spooked otter. Apart from that, all was quiet.

The following day was warmer and it saw me pacing the bank looking for a sign. Eventually, that sign came courtesy of a very subtle bow wave in the north-west corner, up the bank and to the left of me. I also saw a few grey shapes near the two islands. I took a rod up and chucked a Naked Chod Rig with its tiny lead, out into the gorgeous-looking north-west bay. I was in complete hunter mode, walking around the tree-lined banks looking for one to climb to get an aerial view from. Eventually, after watching from a different angle, I saw what seemed to be another bow wave moving fairly quickly in the direction of my single orange Royal Marine pop-up. Seconds later, there was an eruption over the spot and a displacement of water that surely signalled a bite. A tense second or two passed before I heard the alarm howling up the bank, and this saw me running like Forrest Gump towards the rod, which was in total meltdown. Following a seriously powerful battle, I had a beautifully dark, mid-twenty common in the net, and another to a single hookbait. I was definitely on to something. The sense of achievement was fantastic, given that it had been a tactic I’d never put my trust in.

After returning the common, I was feeling really confident. I packed down my camp and headed to yet another swim, having moved clockwise around the lake following my first visit. My new swim would allow me to get closer to where I’d just caught the common, and nearer an area between the two islands where I’d seen a few fish. The swim was sheltered and it looked the part for my final night of the session. With my newfound confidence in single hookbaits cast to likely areas or observed patrol routes, I quickly put two bright-orange offerings out on all three rods, and I settled in. 

As can often be the case in spring, the nights were quiet. Both my bites had come in the middle of the day, so I was relaxing at night and super active and on the hunt when it was light. The final morning came round and I began to pack down slowly, leaving just my rods set up. I was then interrupted by what I believed was a slow liner on one, and I stood over it, unsure whether to lift into it. It seemed like something had become caught on the line, before the bobbin then dropped back. Seemingly, the lake had nothing in it but a small head of carp and a couple of tench, so I felt pretty strongly that something—most likely a carp—had swum through my line. I picked up the rod and wound the rig to the surface. I could see that the bait was fine. I then let it sink back to the bottom, essentially halving the distance at which I was fishing. I’d normally never do anything like this, so it was just instinct in the moment, based on the fact that I’d clearly had a line bite. I was beyond happy, then, half an hour later, I found myself watching the rod churning!

Another awesome fight ensued and I could see that I was attached to an amazing mirror, one very different in appearance to what I’d had thus far. Everything held tight, and the next thing I knew I had a really unique-looking carp in my net, its stomach the colour of Dijon mustard and its upper body glassy like black obsidian. At just short of 28lb, it was no little ’un either, and I had a skip in my step as I made my way back to the car. I couldn’t wait for the next trip.

Fifth Session
I’d had two carp during my previous visit, so things were getting better and better. I never thought I’d be happy, more than happy, in fact, and oozing with confidence flinging out single orange hookbaits on all three rods. Bear in mind that these visits were made on consecutive weekends, so I was really focussed on the water, having a complete green card, as such, at home. I was straight back into the same swim. Soon, I had all three rods out, a couple being cast towards the islands and one in the channel to my right.

Within hours, the right-hand rod was hooping round, and soon after I was standing up, out in the old boat playing another mad, hard-fighting carp. What would this one look like? They all had their own special traits and were quite different to the Oxfordshire fish, so it was really exciting. I finally tamed the fish, a common, and initially I thought it was a repeat capture of the one I’d had earlier in the campaign. Once it was on the bank, however, I saw its tiny, stegosaurus plate of a dorsal fin and I knew it was a new one. This one was a bit special, with purple hues and a lovely heart-shaped tail. It was also the first time I’d caught one the day I’d arrived, so yet another sign that things were coming together. Sitting back on my bedchair under the Lo Pro, I was seriously content and in the moment. Beside a perfect lake in a wonderful setting, I was in a little oasis of my own—it’s surprising what a wet landing net does for the soul!

Despite my daily hunting, I managed only one more that trip. The 21lb common was the smallest of the campaign, but it was another nice carp, and one which I had to go into the lake to land. It had snagged me where the 27lb fully scaled fish had done on the second trip. This time, though, I was unable to wade out because the margins were deep, only the first swim being shallow enough to allow you to walk out into the shallower central area. With the fish snagged, I ditched the trousers, put the net over my head once more and swam the few rod-lengths across the margins until I felt the silty lakebed beneath my feet. Then it was a matter of standing up and walking to the snag. On this occasion, though, the fish wouldn’t come loose, so I found myself down in the water, clawing at what felt like a tissue-soft, old wet log in the silt, on which, the line had become tethered. Whilst this was all going on, I felt the carp shunting into my legs a few times! The moment the fish came loose, however, I was able to get it under control and net it—little did I know that this would be a test run for the final session.

Final Session 
After five weekends and with apparent tunnel vision, I had my first one-nighter. I decided it was worth the four-hour round trip for a day, a night and half the following day. I had no real strategy, other than to put out singles where I thought fish were likely to pass through in the shallow water, with no baiting campaign or anything like that. When I arrived, I quickly noticed that a lot of weed had grown up. Before, there was virtually none, and where it was it was clumped together. Consistently spread stalks rose up close to the surface, and it wasn’t a species I’d seen previously. It caused a huge issue with the presentation, and I needed to come up with a plan.

I lobbed out my usual Naked Chod to a similar area before heading out to check the presentation—always interesting! I realised, though, that I hadn’t brought any spare clothes with me, given that my stay was just for the one night. As with the last session, however, I was faced with a short swim across the deep margin before I could stand up in the middle. I didn’t want to go in wearing my one and only pair of boxers, so after weighing up the situation, I decided to get naked before swimming out. There wasn’t a soul around, but if someone had turned up, they’d have beheld the rather unflattering sight of a naked angler wading around the lake checking out spots—the things we do for our fishing, eh? 

I found my Naked Chod, and the presentation was horrendous. The rig was midwater, my line like a washing line strung towards it, suspended from the fresh growth of vine-like weed which, as mentioned, reached almost to the surface around most of the lake. I was a bit rattled, and after a quick look around, I headed back to the swim to get dressed again. I concluded that the only way to fish properly was to take out each rod individually, swimming across the deep margin to where I could then wade again, before then looking for somewhere suitable to place the rig. Because I was placing them by hand, I made up some of my usual pop-up rigs, along with bottom-bait set-ups with coated braid, attaching them to helicopter leaders, there no longer being any need to use a Chod.

One by one, I swam out the rods out before looking around in the clear water for somewhere to set the traps. After placing each rig, I pushed the lead into the bottom with my foot, and then pushed down the suspended lines as much as I could, out of the way of the weed. I put some free offerings out over one of the rods,—that in itself was a rarity for me at the water. A handful of tigers was scattered around the rig before I made my way back to the swim. 

Thinking I’d caused a fair bit of commotion, I assumed that it would probably not be until the next day that any chance of a bite would come. Fortunately, however, I was wrong, and a few hours before dark I heard a couple of bleeps on the alarm before a huge bow wave headed right alongside one of the islands, having originated from the rod with the tigers scattered around it. The displacement of water was huge in the shallows, and I lifted the rod to reveal that the line direction was totally different from where I’d seen the fish. Essentially, the fish had gone right, alongside the island, but my line had formed a 90-degree angle around the newly formed weed. I quickly grabbed the net and jumped into the margins, doggy paddling with one arm, the other holding the rod up in the air. Winding down to the snag point, the fish came free as soon as I addressed the angle.

Once in direct contact with the fish, I played it for what felt like ten minutes or more, but was probably only a couple. It seemed like a good fish, swimming around me attached to my nine-footer, out in the lake. I then caught a glimpse of what was a fully scaled mirror, and the thought of it being a repeat capture flashed through my mind. This fish seemed bigger, though, every time it came to the surface. Eventually, it went in the net and I stood stunned, looking down into the mesh, knowing that it was most likely the big one I’d seen the poor-quality phone shot of—this thing looked insane in the flesh! Getting the carp back to shore was a bit tricky, with me having to swim on my back with the fish wrapped safely in the mesh of my net. I had to be quick, though, as the light was fading and I really wanted good shots of it this time around.

With the unique, primitive-looking mirror in my arms and the intervalometer firing a shot every second or two, I was beaming. It was the finale of my campaign of six perfect weekends’ fishing. It had been a real adventure in a new part of the country, and one I always hark back to as I sit, beer in hand, fireside in the middle of winter.