Search for Solitude.

After moving from the Midlands to the South. I found myself grappling with the hustle and bustle of fishing in this new world. The incessant hassle of day tickets, the questionable etiquette, the continuous recasting, the voyaging bait boats, the drunken voices, and the dubious smells drifting between swims—it just wasn’t me. I longed for solitude. A space to escape the noise, to find peace, and to cast a line without a thousand eyes on the water. But such a place was a rare gem, harder still to find.

I wandered into a local tackle shop, I asked the question that had been on my mind for months: “Any syndicates round here, mate?” The response was dismissive: “Dead man’s shoes.” In other words, a place was only available when someone passed away or gave up their place. But then, fortune smiled upon me. I managed to secure a ticket for a small 15-man syndicate.

When I first saw the lake in February, it didn’t hold much promise. It was little more than a muddy hole in the ground. But by summer, it transformed into something magical. The lily pads draped the water’s surface, reeds swayed gently in the breeze, and the shimmering sunlight caught the lake in a way that was nothing short of enchanting. The absence of light pollution was a blessing; the stars overhead gleamed at night. I even woke up to number of Muntjack moving across the far bank. A sight that had become all too rare in the frantic world of busy, crowded lakes.

The fish weren’t huge by modern standards, but they were beautiful in their own right. The commons had a soft golden hue, while the mirrors bore the Galatian-like scales of old. There were no “Simmos” or prize specimens, no Instagram-famous monsters. The fish seemed untouched by modern celebrity, their scale patterns resembling memories of an earlier time, when carp were caught for the love of the sport, not the spotlight.

The lake, just under an acre in size, was a quiet retreat. The only obstacle was the field of bovine guardians. A herd of large, lumbering cattle with inquisitive eyes. I was surrounded by bullocks a number of times, touched cloth a few times, but if you were brave enough, or foolish enough to make the trek, you were rewarded with moments of peace, solitude, and some truly excellent fishing.

I would have to adjust my gear. The platform swims needed stage stands, and leadcore leaders had to be replaced with lead-free alternatives. The swims were compact and a brolly was needed. The syndicate leader generously allowed me to begin baiting a week before the season started, a rare luxury that I was eager to take advantage of.

Preparation was everything. I stumbled across a 15ft drainage pole lying about. I grabbed it, hopped into the boat, and began poking around. The middle of the lake was a boggy mess of soft silt that stank terribly. So, I steered clear of it and focused instead on the far margins. I found small clean patches, no larger than a square foot each. It became clear that the carp were creatures of habit, feeding only in those specific areas. Any bait placed just an inch outside these spots would go ignored. Precision was key.

The opening night arrived, and with it, a sense of anticipation. I packed up my gear and made my way to the lake. Having images of the fish I had seen fresh in my mind. I hoped I would land one of the Mirror Carp that was easily distinctive. It had 6 small scales on its flank.

As Luck would have it, that first morning I was rewarded with the mirror I had hoped for. A stunning fish with six distinctive scales on its flank. It fought like a train, refusing to cooperate on the mat. But eventually, I had it in my hands, the target fish banked in one.

The next morning, I caught another of the named fish—a common with a large patch of disturbed scales on its flank. In time, I realised this one was friendly. It would be caught time and time again throughout the year by various anglers.

By the third morning, I banked another of the lake’s bigger fish, and as far as self-takes go, this one is up there with the finest of them. A friend Joked that there was no point going back after the first session as I had caught what were at the time, three out of four of the biggest fish in the lake.

My wish list moved to a carp with two distinctive scales and a huge tail. A Powerful Carp. It was clearly an old fish, and right up my street.

I began to drop every rig from the rowing boat, the side of which ironically bore the note: “This is not a bait boat.” I used it to drop rigs carefully onto the clean spots and the bites came regularly. It became clear that baiting heavily worked wonders, drawing the fish to the areas I had prepared with care.

I fished the lake until September that year, landing the largest common twice.

That year I also landed the new target. The two scaled Mirror. I went on to catch this fish seven times in three years !

The following year, however, the dynamics began to shift. Syndicate numbers had increased, and the peaceful solitude I’d once found in the lake became increasingly difficult to find. But there was one more fish I wanted. A mirror with a unique scale pattern, the one my friend had caught two years earlier. It had a Galatian-like appearance. I would have been disappointed to have left without it.

I arrived early one morning, placing my bait just past the pads on a rocky area. The fish liked to patrol this part of the lake in the afternoon, and I hoped for a bite. But to my surprise, the alarm screamed off that very morning. It came over the net cord and it was the fish I had been chasing. It was a mid 20lb’er. But what a fish it is !

I carried on fishing the lake until August / September. Banking another belter of a common.

It became busier and busier. For two years, I rarely saw another angler, and now on a Wednesday night. There are five on a lake just under an acre.

Moments like this planted the seed that I would need to leave. The quiet solitude I had once enjoyed had been eroded. The magic had faded, and I knew it was time to move on.

I joined another syndicate, I made a few trips to France, and have begun seeking out other serene venues across the country. Venues like Ashmead, Little Farriers and The Copse. Fishing excites me again and there is a very special trip planned for the not too distant future.

Fishing, I’ve come to realise, is as much about the journey as it is about the fish. We all make choices about how we spend our time, and as life moves on, so too does our fishing journey. But that little lake, with its golden-hued commons and Galatian mirrors gave me solace, good fishing, and unforgettable moments. And for now, that’s enough.