Yateley: The Copse: Pt 1.

There comes a time in every angler’s life when the waters they fish no longer stir the imagination, and the search for something deeper—something steeped in history—begins. I had reached that point after finishing my stint on a local syndicate. I had another ticket at the time for a lake known for fast growing carp. They were largely mid 30lb fish, with a couple of 40s. I decided however to wait. I will fish this lake when I believe the fish have reached their top weights, so not this year.

The local club waters offered quality fish. The Sussex Scaley had died earlier that year, and the available waters lacked that magic, or spark that is needed for the suffering that is, carp fishing. My heart was drawn to what I can only describe as a heritage lake, a place where the whispers of history are present in the atmosphere. That place for me, was The Yateley Copse Lake.

For those unfamiliar, the Yateley Complex is to carp fishing what Shakespeare is to literature—a cornerstone of culture. It’s hard to overstate its significance, though the younger anglers who fish there today often seem unaware of the privilege they hold. The carp in these lakes are special. The commons are deep mahogany, their scales edged in fine lines as if a craftsman had etched them with care. The mirrors, with their proud shoulders and over-slung mouths, carry an air of distinctive elegance. The originals are not just fish; they are living relics, treasures worth every ounce of effort.

But fishing the Copse is not for the faint-hearted. It can be busy, with an assortment of anglers who interpret “etiquette” in their own peculiar ways. Spodding during bite time is a particular problem—an act that feels like throwing a house party at dawn while your neighbors are still asleep. But there’s little you can do except mutter under your breath and hope for a swim where you can avoid the chaos.

Between 2022 and 2024, I made numerous attempts to hold one of these special carp. Life, however, had other plans. Three-night sessions would be cut short after a mere 24 hours. Sometimes, it was the call of duty from a pregnant partner; other times, the relentless demands of a newborn with a tendancy for nocturnal awakenings.

The cruelest blow came after one such sabotaged trip. I’d baited heavily and left early, only to learn a week later that both Shoulders and The Orange—two of the lake’s A-Team—had been caught from the very spot I’d fished. There’s no heartbreak quite like knowing your hard work paved the way for someone else’s glory.

By September 2024, I was determined to break the curse. Autumn had arrived, and with it, a rare opportunity for a proper session. The Boards swim was my chosen home for the trip. It was busy. I did not belive that leading around for an hour would either help my chances, or win me friends. A bait boat, yes, I admit it. It proved the most practical tool for finding a clear spot. Bait boats may feel like cheating. They are however significantly quicker and far less irritating than an angler thrashing a lead into the lake for an hour. To then begin spodding for another hour.

The lake recently had blue dye put in. Luckily it was beguinning to fade. The weed was still present, just not visible. Finding a clear spot was imperative. I could have chosen to lead around, but with large weed beds and no idea where to start. I decided that practicality outweighs purism.

The spot was set: a washed-out bottom bait over a mix of Origin Baits, Jaffa and Antarctic Red boilies, particles, and seeds. It was unseasonably warm for the time of year, with high pressure reigning supreme. Big fish conditions? Perhaps not ?

Night fell, and my alarms stayed silent. As dawn broke, the stillness persisted. The occasional graceful nose of a carp poking above the water, followed by a trail of bubbles. The time was now, surely ! But, nature called—an inevitable moment in any long session. I arranged my “facilities” with the sort of dignity only an angler can muster. And of course, just as I prepared to answer one call of nature, the other came roaring to life. Beeeeep.

I was in.

The fish took line, but not uncontrollable. The lead had dropped off. I worked it gently toward me, heart pounding as its dark, glistening tail broke the surface. This was no ordinary carp; this was a Copse common, one of the mahogany beauties I’d dreamt of.

And then, disaster.

The net caught in the chicken wire on the boards, the carp took a sharp turn to the reeds, and for a moment, all seemed lost. I stood there, rod bent, contemplating the cosmic joke of it all. Had I really traveled this far, sacrificed so much, only to lose at the final hurdle?

But fate, for once, was kind. With a steady hand and no small measure of luck, I coaxed the fish free and brought it safely over the net.

There it was. A Copse Lake carp. I couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of triumph and humility. The Yateley Copse had proved that time, and a little bit of effort will provide moments of joy lasting memories.

And as I sat back with a steaming cup of tea, the autumn sun warming my face, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Carp fishing, like life, is rarely straightforward. But that’s precisely what makes it worth every moment.