On the Marsh : River Carp

The fishing journey is, by its very nature, ever evolving. Many of us start small, cutting our teeth on local club lakes and rivers, before graduating to the more polished world of syndicates. Yet, for some of us, there comes a point when we long for something raw—something wilder. And so, I found myself staring down the barrel of a full circle. It was the beginning of May and that magical date in June was fast approaching.

The marsh drains of the Southeast called to me like an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. They’re an odd hybrid, although listed as a river, it is more of a canal, their waters still and languid until heavy rains force the floodgates open, breathing life into them with a gentle, flow. Their heyday as match venues is a distant memory, but the whispers of what lurks within their depths have only grown louder over the years.

Carp. Big, wild carp.

The rumors are irresistible: commons built like torpedoes, mirrors with the weathered appearance of old soldiers, their flanks telling stories of survival. In a world where carp waters can often feel sterile, the marsh drains are the antithesis. The banks are untamed, shared only with marsh harriers, cattle, and sheep. Human footprints are few and far between—just the way I like it. For those that do not know the marsh, it is remote and at times an unpleasant environment. The ground is soft, often waterlogged. The banks are steep and at times treacherous. The flat lands of the Marsh mean the wind is a constant. A gentle breeze elsewhere, but on the marsh, it is enough to fly a kite.

The Quest Begins

The decision to fish the Marsh was born of curiosity as much as ambition and solitude. My friend Karl was keen for the adventure, and so the great recon began. We tramped along the banks, narrowing our efforts to a stretch of just over a mile. It wasn’t the wildest part of the drain, but it was accessible. With our lives firmly tethered to the demands of work and family, we needed to be able to park, bait up, and be back on the road in under 40 minutes.

The first walk yielded promise. Two fish spotted: a mirror nudging 20lb and a smaller common, both grazing lazily in the margin reeds. On a stretch of water over seven miles long, this was a sign—a proper touch, as Karl put it.

The plan was simple but ambitious. Heavy baiting with particles, pellets, and Origin Baits boilies would be enough to clear an area. The idea was to draw in everything with fins, letting the Tench and bream clean the area before switching to boilies as June 16th neared. We knew the risks. Bream are the gatecrashes of river carp fishing, and the chaos they bring with liners at 2am in the morning is enough to call for a few F-bombs.

Trials and Tribulations

It wasn’t all idyllic walks and carp dreams. The local bullocks had taken a particular interest in our endeavors, treating us to regular charges of bovine bravado. One encounter saw them bucking and stamping alarmingly close, clearly relishing their role as unwelcome gatekeepers to our chosen stretch. It added a layer of unpredictability, a reminder that these banks belong to nature first and anglers second.

Despite the trials, we persevered, baiting three times a week and slowly building our confidence as we again saw another carp in the area cruising along the nearside bank. A week before the start of the season, a bare lead cast over the spots revealed solid, polished clay. The fish were feeding. The stage was set.

June 16th—a date that once held mythical status for anglers. Though many waters now fish year-round, for us, this was more than a nod to tradition. It was the culmination of weeks of preparation and the start of an adventure.

We arrived at midday on the 15th, unwilling to risk someone else claiming our carefully primed area. Luck was on our side; no other anglers appeared. As the sun dipped and the first cider was cracked open, Karl and I shared the kind of conversation that only fishing companions understand. Talk of life, of fish, of everything and nothing. By 11:50 pm, distant head torches signaled we weren’t entirely alone in our pursuit of the river’s ghosts.

At last, the rods were cast, and I slid into my sleeping bag.

Success and Solitude

“Mate, I’ve got one!”

The effort had paid off. Months of baiting, walking, and battling curious cattle had come to this. It wasn’t just about the fish—though it was a beauty. It was about the experience, the pursuit, the hours spent on a quiet stretch of water where the only sounds were the wind in the reeds and the occasional cry of a marsh harrier.

Anglers go a whole season on the river with two fish being a success. We bagged one on an overnighter.

Looking into the net it was a classic looking river common, long and lean. The outline of the scales dark and clean. I had slept through the commotion, Karl had had several bream in the night and decided to double up 18mm Origin Baits Jaffa, to avoid them. It worked. The smiles were a thing to remember. This is what angling is all about.

The hard work paid off. The time, effort and money were worth it all. The river is a special place, it’s not for those that like comfort. The long Marsh grass hitting the top of your bed chair, the ticks and mosquito’s. For those that are determined, the carp are definitely catchable. Luckily enough, in the era of manicured lakes. The Marsh remains for those who can endure and love the elements.