Brits Abroad – Lac Du Menhir

The French Carp Fishing Adventure: Boars, Bites, Bare Bums, and the Albanian Café

It had been a long time coming—the decision was made, the lake was booked, and the mates were selected for the journey. A French carp fishing trip was finally happening. Then, as we all know, Lockdown stepped in and postponed everything by a year. When the day finally arrived, the buzz was real. A lads road trip under the guise of Carp Fishing.

Now, I’d been resolute in my stance against the COVID jab. But France, in its infinite wisdom, decided that no jab meant no entry. So, with a sigh and a slight grumble, I reluctantly caved. After all, carp fishing was more important than principle.

Our destination was the Champagne Region, and the lake was Lac Du Menhir—an idyllic, high-stocked water with a reputation for multiple bites, quiet surroundings, and the perfect backdrop for a good time with friends.

It had been a while since I last fished in France, and as soon as we crossed the border, I was reminded just how rural the country is. The roads were eerily quiet, the country houses were immaculately maintained but somehow gave off an air of abandonment, like something straight out of a history book. The villages? Well, they looked like scenes from the 1940s, almost like time had stood still since the Germans had rolled through. As law-abiding Englishmen, we dutifully obeyed the speed limits and exchanged pleasantries with the locals—our French, naturally, was learned from none other than Del Boy. And, to our surprise, the locals loved us, or at least we thought so.

We arrived at Lac Du Menhir, and the first thing we noticed was a few fish jumping in the corner near the car park. It was a sign. We knew where the prime spots were—swims 6 and 6a. I quickly settled into Swim 6 and doubled up with a mate, while the other two headed for swims 1 and 1a.

The first night went off without a hitch, with two fish landed. We re-baited the rods, and by the morning, we had two more bites. The baiting strategy had worked.

When fishing in France, I always go for broke. I’m not one for holding back. I start with 10 kilos of boilies and particle mix, spread across three rods in three separate spots. The idea is simple: cover as much water as possible, and if the fish start moving in, concentrate on the hot spots and keep the bait going in regularly.

It was a strategy that paid off. In just three days, we landed 15 fish, the biggest weighing in at 44lb. The weather was warm, hovering around 18°C during the first week of April. But day four brought a complete change—a snowstorm. The temperature dropped, and we all scrambled to layer up. But despite the chill, the fish didn’t seem to mind. The bites kept coming, and the stories began to mount.

Speaking of stories, here’s where the trip truly went from memorable to downright legendary. One of my mates, clearly feeling the effects of too much sunshine or perhaps too little common sense, decided to try and defend himself from a wild boar using nothing more than a landing net. It was like something out of a slapstick comedy.

But that wasn’t the most memorable encounter. Oh no. That honor went to the French rescue helicopter. Now, I don’t know what prompted us, but we decided to do a ‘Scottish hello’ and ‘moon’ the helicopter. And, as you’d expect from a group of Englishmen in France, we thought this was perfectly appropriate. We raised our bare backsides to the helicopter as it hovered above the lake.

The French response? Well, that was something truly unique. They didn’t just fly off in a huff. No, they decided to get creative. They flew that helicopter as low as it would go, just to get a closer look at our bare arses. Then, as if to add insult to injury, they caused a windstorm that blew over the bins at the lodge, sending 4 days worth of litter swirling around. The force was that strong it blew over the wooden outdoor table and no doubt our baited areas were essentially floating midwater somewhere nowhere near the original spots. The fish, of course, probably thought a tornado had hit. But that wasn’t all. No, the French weren’t done with us yet. They began practicing rescue drops in our lake. They hovered low and began dropping men down the rope into the water as part of some rescue exercise. I couldn’t believe it.

Despite the helicopter the bites kept on coming.

Now, on the journey back, we stopped at a café that looked, well, pleasant enough. A little pit stop for coffee and crisps before hitting the road. We walked in, and immediately, we were greeted by a series of dodgy-looking geezers who resembled something straight out of an Albanian mafia movie. You know the type— eyes that scream don’t mess with me. Behind the counter, cannabis was casually sold. It felt… odd, to say the least. We bought our coffee and crisps, half-expecting the place to turn into a scene from The Sopranos.

But then, things got even stranger. The owner came out, not with the usual stale baguette or pastry, but with a plate of warm meats and olives. A bizarre offering, but hey, who were we to refuse? I could only describe the place as a sort of “pleasant alcoholic’s den,” where criminal activities are most likely discussed over warm meats and suspiciously strong coffee.

Of course, I trusted these gangsters implicitly and scoffed it all down. After all, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from a lifetime of fishing, it’s that food served by shadowy figures should never be left uneaten.

Midst the snow, the boars, the helicopter antics, and the mafia café, the fishing remained on fire. We landed some stunning fish, and every moment, whether a bite or an unexpected run-in with some unsavory characters, seemed like it would make for an excellent story back home.