The Last Of The Survivors!

Were they still there, or were they just ghosts? It was a question that I couldn’t answer. Deep down I hoped that what once were gnarly old mirrors had survived the rigours of life, evaded capture when many were caught and moved, and had lived happily since it was a syndicate all those years ago. This autumn, I was to find out: were there any remaining survivors?

My quest for an ancient dinosaur in Cambs on a large gravel pit came to a close back in the spring, with an incredible 44 mirror. It had happened all too quickly, not that I was complaining, but it had brought my plans to an abrupt end. So summer was a time to relax, enjoy some floater fishing here and there, while spending time with my new pup, Barley. I guess fishing came second through the warmer months as I concentrated on training the dog in readiness for a well-behaved, new, bankside companion. He needed it, he is a cocker spaniel pup full of beans! And so I flitted about, dabbled on the big pit for a few weeks, caught some stunning carp along the way from other venues until I finally bit the bullet and began my campaign of which I’ll title Last Of The Survivors.

The historic pit of which I refer to as The Riding School Pool, due to a horse riding club next-door, is around 25-30-acres in size and was part of a complex of lakes. It was the original syndicate back in the day. A huge, overgrown island pretty much splits the oval-shaped lake in two. In the 80’s and 90’s it was known for its unique strain of carp, some almost dink-like with huge, plated scales across their shoulders and floppy, saggy old tails. They weren’t the only ones though! Size-wise it had produced mirrors to over 30lb – other big, dark, hump-backed characters, longer, oval-shaped specimens, others heavily scaled, they were all unique but I loved the old dink-like characters.

As time moved on, and the original owners began to see the money that could be made, they started to move fish around the complex. The residents from The Pool were caught one by one and took the short journey to the neighbouring gravel pits of where many still reside to this day. In fact, the 44 in the spring originated in The Pool. The majority of the stock had vacated… but not all of them, as I was to find out late last summer.

A huge, overgrown island pretty much splits the oval-shaped lake in two

On a blisteringly hot summer’s day, I traipsed my way around School Pool, just because it was something to do more than anything. It was scarily overgrown, so much so that I questioned whether I could be arsed with the hassle: no swims, just nettles, bushes, branches, and some more nettles and branches with a few thistles thrown in. Quite why I decided to battle my way through the stingers I don’t know, but it may have been fate. By the time I’d reached a nice spot to sit down in my legs were red raw, bumpy and very itchy. The lake wasn’t exactly manicured! In fact, it was like a fortress of foliage was guarding its treasured royals. If there was anything left, this time they weren’t going without a fight. I sat on the high bank on a bone dry, muddy hill watching the calm surface of which was covered in thick, green blanket weed. Not only was the lake doing its best to be hidden, so was the surface world below!

Resident swans were dipping their heads into the weed, picking out bits and pieces here and there, twigs and other random stuff. I was taking it all in, whilst licking my wounds, quite literally rubbing spit on my hundreds of stings, in between some surface fishing on the lake next-door. I’d got bored of watching them repeatedly cruise under my Mixers, and was drawn for a walk.

Eventually I relaxed, and sat there picking grass, flicking twigs into the edge as you do. I laid back to sunbathe for a few minutes, before ants tickled my arms and legs forcing me to sit up. Scanning into what could only be described as a football pitch of weed I noticed a dark back gently bob under the carpeted surface stirring the calm water with the slightest ripple. It was well hidden underneath its weedy version of camouflaged netting, but the sun was twinkling off its back. Only an angler who knows what they’re looking for would’ve noticed such a muted sign of movement. Although subtle, it was a telltale giveaway to me. I’d always been told that the lake was pretty much empty, maybe the odd common left. But this definitely wasn’t a common.

Scanning into what could only be described as a football pitch of weed, I noticed a dark back gently bob under the carpeted surface stirring the calm water with the slightest ripple

As the temperatures soared even higher that day, I noticed even more activity. One, two, three carp were now in my sights, all quietly basking in the soft, blankety, surface weed. If this place still held a couple of mirrors I imagined them to be crusty old warriors, real characters, battlers that evaded capture all those years ago. I painted imaginary pictures of dark-backed mirrors with rippled, rough old skin, the odd battle scar and huge floppy tails. They would be true survivors and if I could get one in my album, regardless of size, I’d treasure it forever. I really didn’t know what was there that day, other than three carp. They could’ve been 15-pounders, but that wasn’t what it was about. They had lived happily for years in this pool untouched, unpressured whilst their friends were moved into the pit next-door.

I left that day with a fire inside me to return for an autumn campaign. I didn’t plan to fish until mid-September. I wanted to prime some spots, clear a few areas of weed and get them sampling some boilies. Barley was also going to join me on the campaign, so I wanted to ensure he was ready for the task in hand. He needed to learn the ropes, get used to night fishing and ultimately keep patient in the boat. He was only a puppy so it was a lot of work, but we got there.

On any venue, I like to pre-bait, I call it ‘harvesting an area’. I use large masses of seeds to do this: hemp, wheat, parti-blend, anything tiny and appealing really. Using a bait scoop I literally freight the area with particles. I want the fish to tear through the bottom, through the weed and search out every last morsel. I think the seeds aggravate the carp. They find them hard to feed on and will literally smash the bottom to pinpoint each seed. It won’t just be carp either, tench are very good at this. If you find an area that the fish visit, you can bait weedy spots, silty areas and after time they will clean and eventually polish it down to a fine gravel.

I spent many days in the boat. I looked for depth variations, gravel bars, silty troughs, but spots were hard to come by and I didn’t see any more carp. It was lifeless. The weed was incredible, towering Canadian weed rafts under the water, blanket weed covering most of the surface like a rug and all sorts of other odd-looking water plants. After much research and time, I settled on two areas to concentrate on. One was an area of lower lying weed. I prodded around with the landing net pole and beneath the weed was tough bottom. This was ideal as I could feed and feed until it became fishable, that was as long as the carp or tench fed there. However, I was confident, the fish were unpressured, in fact they wouldn’t have seen bait for years. I also had the luxury that it was gin clear and could keep checking each spot as to whether or not it had been visited.

The second area was a gravel bar running off to the left of a small dot island. This was about 30yds from the bank and ran right to left in a 20yd length. However, it was only a metre or two wide and then sloped off into weed. It was a long, narrow bar slightly shallower in depth than the rest of the lake. I felt that they would search this rare feature particularly in warmer conditions. The bar was covered in a thin layer of sediment too with the odd strand of weed so it wasn’t blatant for a rig, not that I thought they’d be at all wise to a hook and line.

I baited twice/three times a week for a month leading up to September and on every return visit the bait was gone! I couldn’t have written it. I knew there was a head of tench still in there but surely they weren’t doing the lot. The weedy area was getting cleaner every trip and so I started to add some boilies into the equation. I was testing the Pacific Tuna at the time and so I began peppering both areas with 20mm baits. This would give me an indication of whether it was tench or not as they’d struggle to swallow the bigger baits. It was hard work travelling over an hour to bait up, but needs must, I was in the zone!

As time moved on, and the original owners began to see the money that could be made they started to move fish around the complex

Another week of baiting and it was finally time for my first session. I remember driving along the A14 with Barley in the passenger seat hoping, wishing, praying that the pre-bait had been eaten. It was overcast and warm. I bumped along the track and soon had the gear out the van. There are no swims on the lake, so I had to wrestle back a few marginal reeds to get my storm sticks and buzzers in the water. The weed was savage, in fact the two areas I’d been going to and from in the boat for the last month were the only areas to get a line in the water, the weed was that fierce!

I knocked up three Hinges, all complete with tuna hookbaits, which were oozing with salmon oil. They smelt and tasted divine. Hooks were finely honed and were looped onto the bristle filament section that I’d created into a Multi Rig to maximise time should I need to change a hook. It’s a great little rig and one my mate Tom Betts had harked on about for ages… now I know why, so cheers for your help mate.

I donned the waders and crept into the margins. The trees cascaded over the reeds and made casting extremely difficult. All the branches above interlocked like fingers. Again, it was as if the lake was stopping me casting! I had to crouch down but that was no good. I then lowered to my knees, being ever so careful not to let any water over the waders and carefully flicked my rig to the gravel bar 30yd or so out. The drop was almost non-existent. I was in the weed. A gentle flick and it cracked down. I popped the line in the clip, plucked the weed from the rig, and it was take two. This time it smashed down, a sensation that is even more exaggerated with the braided main line that I religiously use everywhere these days.

It was a magical night. Deadly silent. I could hear the creaking of the rotten old branches above my bivvy and the odd squawk from one of my feathered neighbours. The moon was big, it lit up the starry sky. I drifted off to sleep at around midnight, I hadn’t seen or heard anything carpy, but everything had gone to plan.

Stupidly I’d forgotten to set my alarm, I’d overslept but the shrill of a Neville had me racing into my waders in a complete daze and I took the plunge into the margins, grabbing my left-hand rod as it buckled over. Two wild lunges shredded line from the spool before all went solid. I put the rod into the rest, popped a life jacket on both Barley and I, grabbed the rod, before we climbed into the boat, quickly undid the rope, pulling ourselves carefully towards the weedbed. It was solid resistance, but I slowly gained line as we neared the weed. Eventually I was above her but she wasn’t budging. I placed the rod in the bottom of the boat and grabbed the end of the braid in my fingers before carefully hand-lining myself to the weedbed. It started to grate and give way a little, before a huge kick ripped the braid from my fingers and I was in again. I reached for the rod and battled it out with one of the survivors.

Perfectly oval in shape, skin rough as sandpaper with tiny little wrinkles along her flanks

My efforts were rewarded with two more survivors, making a total of three very, very special autumnal carp

They had lived happily for years in this pool untouched, unpressured whilst their friends were moved into the pit next-door

It was a very tough battle but soon enough up popped a scarred mirror that was black as your hat. Wow, she was better than I could have ever imagined. I guided her without any hiccups to the waiting net and soon a treasure that had been there all these years was laying hammocked in the folds of my net. She was majestic. Perfectly oval in shape, skin rough as sandpaper with tiny little wrinkles along her flanks. She was tense, her dorsal was bolt upright as I held her aloft and her deep, orangey belly glowed in the morning sun. Her oranges contrasted with a jet-black back and shoulders. A huge, overslung mouth perfectly unblemished completed this incredible creature. I had done it. I had filled the space in my album, in my heart that I longed for… I’d landed one of the remaining survivors! It was arguably the pinnacle of my angling achievements.

I ended up fishing hard. I would get myself to the lake three or even four times a week if I could; fishing, baiting, looking. I kept it ticking over. It was hard work, but I was loving every second of it. My efforts were rewarded with two more survivors making a total of three very, very special autumnal carp. Were they the three that I saw that day in the summer? Something is telling me that there are more… and I get a feeling that I haven’t finished yet. One thing is for sure, I’m finished for this year, but can’t wait for next!