Paw: Scotland's Biggest Mirror

Where do I begin with this crazy adventure that unfolded far too quickly and brought me to where I am now? I’m still processing it all and wondering where my next campaign will take me. It’s only late May (2024), and I expected to be at this much longer. I’d dedicated this year to Paw—a carp that other anglers have pursued for years—but it took me just eight weeks. And in those eight weeks, it was only five day sessions, one 24-hour session, and one 48-hour session.

Here’s how it all started. I’m a Scottish carp angler, one of those chaps with a massive passion for it. There’s a select few like me in Scotland, anglers who are far better than I am, some of whom are close friends. They know who they are without me naming them. We always send a wee message now and then to see who’s where and how things are going. But sometimes, like me, we go rogue—left alone to chase mythical carp in Scottish lochs.

Paw is a carp I’ve known about for years. I first tried to catch him in 2015, spending nearly a year on the effort, but I failed. To be fair, I wasn’t ready for that challenge back then; I probably jumped in without enough carp fishing experience or knowledge. I started carp fishing around 2010, and by 2015, I hadn’t caught that many decent carp yet. I was just fishing my local fishery, which has only a small 2-acre lake. The loch where Paw lives is an 11-acre expanse, with depths of up to 24 feet.

In January 2024, after finishing my last project, I was looking for a new challenge and decided to target one specific carp in Scotland. I thought, why not go for Paw? The loch is only 15 minutes from my house, so I could give it all my attention. I think that’s key when targeting carp—it lets you get to the loch at all hours to watch for signs.

It was mid-January, and I was on WhatsApp chatting with the last chap who caught Paw in 2020, one of my good friends. We had a good natter, and I picked his brains on a few things—as you do. Every little bit helps, as they say. To be honest, I’m the kind of bloke who would speak to him every week because I often feel uncertain about what I’m doing. I’ve always been like that, but when I reflect back, I usually realise I was on the right track. Such is life.

I knew I wanted to start baiting at the end of February, but not too much, as it’s Scotland, and the loch is deep. Here, the carp don’t really wake up until mid-March, edging into April.

My first outing was on 28th February, a weekday, so I was pretty sure it would be quiet. Just as I thought, there was no one on the loch, so I was a happy chap. I took the Deeper on my wee 9ft rod and a lead in my pocket and started investigating three different spots. Out of the three, two felt prime. One was Peg 1, a very popular peg—easy to get to and always busy. The reason I considered Peg 1 was the amount of bait it had seen over time, so I thought, if the carp were still alive, they might head there.

When I say “alive,” it’s because I wasn’t entirely sure. The loch has otters, and it also floods. We think the carp were stocked around 1995, so if I’m correct, Paw would be over 30 years old. No one had reported Paw coming out since 2020, and before that, not since 2013, so he’s a rare sight.

I decided on an area where I could hide away from other anglers, and to be fair, I wanted to control the bait going in and be able to monitor the area closely. I also wanted to stay away from the youth of today who like to drink down by the loch. We all did it back in the day, so I can’t judge, but I wanted a quiet spot.

With my spots chosen, I led out—7ft deep on the middle rod, 6ft on the left rod’s plateau, and about 9ft on the right-hand rod. I started baiting lightly with particles and a few boilies.

This loch is full of bream; some chaps can haul in 100lb of bream in a day, and I’m certain the loch holds only three or four carp. I know of three for sure, and I’ve caught two of them. My thinking was to attract the bream into the area so it was always cleared of bait. I didn’t want any rotten bait lingering that might put the carp off. Admittedly, I was never sure the carp were getting the bait, but that was my thought process.

STAGE 1
March came, and I was scattering just a kilo of bait across the areas where the three rods were set, doing this once a week until April arrived. It’s now the 8th of April, and I’m out for my first-day session. I wasn’t quite ready for a 24-hour stint yet—maybe it’s my age or just the fear of the cold—but a day session would have to do. I ended up with two bream that session, which reassured me that the bait was getting eaten and the rigs were working as intended. Snowman rigs are my go-to for targeting specific species, so all three rods were set up with them. Confidence is key, and my rigs had to be spot on.

In between these sessions, I was popping up to the loch at first light and dusk. Sometimes, I’d head straight there after a night shift, putting on the head torch at 6 a.m., just before the dawns reached half-four. I timed my walks before any other anglers arrived.

I kept my brolly tucked away in the trees, well back from the water’s edge. I’d hide behind the trees, watching the water, trying to stay out of sight from other anglers. Did it work? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. The bream would often move into my area, and I had to deal with them.

After eight bream and a few more day sessions, I started to hear crashes around late evening. I missed seeing them at first because I was still hiding, but when I did jump up, I could see the ripples where it had happened.

My first 24-hour session came and went, with just one bream to show for it. I began to wonder if my area wasn’t the right one, especially as more anglers were fishing Peg 1. I was starting to suspect the fish had moved elsewhere.

Determined to get a clearer picture, I decided to use my underwater camera and baiting pole. I cut a wee slot in the baiting pole so the camera wire could slide down into the loch. I scanned my areas—only two of them, as my left rod was set further out in the 6ft zone. Looking at the screen, I was disappointed to see a few boilies still on the bottom. Not a lot, but enough to make me rethink my approach.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to the loch for a full week—eight days, in fact—before I could fish again. So the next night, I thought, bugger it, and scattered 8 kilos of maize and hemp into the area. My thinking was to get the bream in to clear the area of bait.

STAGE 2
So, it’s now May, and I’ve just completed a 48-hour session, catching three bream again. However, I was certain I’d seen two shows of carp. The following morning, while packing up, I spotted another show close to Peg 1. I was left thinking, what should I do? The carp were showing near me, but also near the favourite swim.

On 20th May, I managed a day session—well, more like half a day from 4:30 a.m. to 1 p.m., as that’s all the time I had. I had to pack up by lunchtime, so I only put a handful of boilies on each rod, no more particles. I wanted the carp to focus on the boilies. I was concerned that the particles were giving them too much to forage for, possibly making them ignore my hookbaits.

At 9:15 a.m., the left-hand rod went into meltdown. The Delkim was screaming, and the 10ft rod was bent right over. I jumped to my feet, ran into the water, and picked up the rod, joking to myself, “That’s not a bream.” I played the fish up to my waist in the water, and just as I was about to net it, the handle snapped at the block. I couldn’t believe it. Panic set in as I desperately wanted to land this fish. I managed to guide the carp into the net, using my left hand to support the broken block. Finally, I coaxed the common safely in. I couldn’t believe my luck. I knew then that my approach was right. This stunning, immaculate common weighed in at 23lb, a carp that hadn’t been seen since 2014.

Buzzing as ever, but realising I had to head home, I packed up grinning from ear to ear and went back to the family. Four shifts at work awaited me, but all I could think about was getting back to the loch. The next session I could manage was the following Saturday. Not my usual fishing day, but I’d just finished a night shift at 6 a.m., and with my daughter having a party at home that night, I thought, right, I’m going fishing.

It was lunchtime, and I asked the wife to drop me off as I didn’t want to leave the van in the car park—too many stories of vehicles being damaged. Once dropped off, I thought to myself, how do I hide from the other anglers? Well, I think I managed it. I arrived, set up the brolly and bed, got my rigs sorted and checked, then had a cuppa while watching the lake, waiting for the coast to clear before casting out.

I decided to bring the middle rod closer to the reed line. I forgot to mention earlier that in my previous session, a carp had rolled tight to the reeds, and how it didn’t hit the line, I’ll never know. I had used the camera the week before and found a clay-stone area that looked like the spot—the one I needed to be on. Anyway, the rods went out at 5 p.m. with a light scatter of boilies on each.

Time passed, and at 8 p.m., a carp showed over the middle rod—not close to the reed line where I was fishing, but on the old spot, 10ft further out. I thought, “Oh bugger,” but also, “It’s only 10ft away,” though I couldn’t help but worry it was on my old spot. I was convinced it was Paw—I knew it was a mirror, clear as day. The next few hours were mental, just waiting and watching. I even spotted another carp roll near my left rod 20 minutes after Paw first showed. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to witness it.

At 9:35 p.m., I checked my phone and had just messaged my mate to say I’d seen carp rolling and was about to make myself a cuppa. Famously, as all carp anglers know, I had just made a lovely cup of tea and was about to take the first sip when the middle rod went into meltdown. Oh my god, it slid forward in the butt rests, the rod tip bent downwards, and line was peeling off.

I jumped into the water and grabbed the rod—10ft, maybe the wrong size but easy to carry—and held on for dear life as the line continued to peel off. I knew I had a very good carp on. Was it Paw? Probably, but I focused on getting it in the net. For an old carp, he put up a fight, taking line just when I thought I could apply some pressure. He even headed towards my left rod, but luckily didn’t get tangled.

The battle went on for a while—how long, I’ve no idea—but I still had 6ft of reeds in front of me. By this point, I was waist-deep in water, playing this very angry male carp. I thought, I’m not netting this unless I go further in. So, I waded until the water was just half an inch from the top of my waders and positioned the net past the reeds. The old warrior was tiring now, and as he rolled onto his side, I went to net him. But the net wouldn’t sink properly because of the reeds. I thought, bugger it, and pushed past the no-go area on the waders. The water started flowing into my waders just as the carp slid into the net.

I backed up quickly to stop more water from getting in and then looked in the net. It was a mirror carp, lighter than the pictures I’d seen of Paw in previous years, and I doubted it was him. But when I rolled him over, the three scales that form a paw print on his belly confirmed it—PAW, the one I always wanted. Back in 2020, he weighed 35lb 14oz, but was he any bigger? He didn’t look it.

I got him in the sling to weigh him. I was shaking and buzzing, and he came in at 36lb 2oz—a tiny bit bigger, but looking very old now. But who cares about the weight? He was the one I wanted, and my campaign was complete.

Eight weeks, and I’m done. Campaign complete. As I type this article, I’m contemplating what to do in 2025. For the rest of this year, I’m going to enjoy some mixed fishing and relaxation—and why not? I want to thank everyone for the chats, my wife for listening to my nonsense, and a big thanks to Nutrabaits for their awesome baits. Two PBs have been made on this bait, and I’m sure it wouldn’t have happened without them.

Anyway, from Scotland, take care and tightest of lines.