FRANCE - FIRST STEPS.

Many moons ago Tat and I went to France for the first time together. I had been over in my youth several times, as had Tat but this was the first time we went as a couple. It was also the first time we went with a specific purpose, namely to try a bit of carp fishing. We were not monster hunting but would be happy just to get our string pulled. At the same time we looked forward to familiarising ourselves with everything that is great about a country that works to live, rather than the other way round.

So in this section of SW Memories you'll find few tales of derring-do in search of France's super-carp. Instead you'll read more about good wine, excellent food, simple pleasures and a few small and not so small carp, caught in the company of great friends who take a similar laid-back attitude to French carping as us. It took us several trips to get things more or les right but the pleasure we got from doing so was considerable. Yes, it took us a while to get a twenty, then a thirty and a forty and beyond but the learning process was and remains hugely enjoyable.

Please also bear in mind that it is much easier to find waters nowadays than it was thirty years ago, however, even if we knew about the now famous 'circuit' waters I doubt we would have fished them. Not our style then, nor has it ever been. We realised early on that you needed to be much more driven if you wanted to fish the super-venues on the circuit and as we didn't even have a chauffeur they weren't for us. We have never been the type of angler who is happy to fight for swims or compete with loads of other carp men either at home or abroad on the more popular waters. To us happiness is not having to share Paradise, and if that means I don't fish the waters that regularly produce the headlines, so be it, I'm not fussed.

Nor am I particularly bothered if the next carp is fourteen or forty pounds. From preference I like to fish virgin waters, or at least, waters that are still something of an unknown quantity. If I can find a lake, or more likely a river with not another carp angler in sight, I'm in heaven. So if you are looking for tales monsters read no further. On the other hand, if fishing simply for the pleasure of catching a carp, regardless of size, in the country that gave the world magret de canard, Chateau Petrus with cote de boeuf, or Chateau d'Yquem with pate de foie-gras, appeals to you, then read on.
To get a flavour both of our attitude towards France and our lowly ambitions for success over there, perhaps the following brief account of our first gite and carping holiday will give you a taste.

Through the Brittany Ferries gite book we had found what looked like a nice little gite that was actually part of an old chateau not far from the banks of the River Loire. The area is known throughout France as “Anjou” and it is one of the most famous wine growing regions in the country, at least we knew that we'd be spoilt for choice when it came to the good things of life. Deep reds, lively roses, sparkling whites, Anjou has them all and in common with all the other wine growing areas the people of Anjou live life to the full. The very essence of life itself seems to revolve entirely around the grape and the full enjoyment of the local produce. It is also an area rich in the heritage of France, and if you like to study history, magnificent chateaux and spectacular gardens, then Anjou is the place for you...as it was for us.

As it turned out that holiday was memorable not so much for the fishing but for the hospitality of the locals, their friendliness and their capacity for the good things in life. So to set the tone of what is to come here is the tale of that first French holiday. It is not a story of giant carp and epic battles but is more a tale of a way of life that we have embraced from the very start and illustrates just why we keep going back to that wonderful country. We start at the end...

The holiday was over, the time to leave. The dusty gravel courtyard spread out in front of the imposing steps of the rather down on its luck French chateau was overflowing with what appeared to be half the village. From the eldest matriarch to the tiniest babe in arms they were all there.

A rotund Hagrid of a man swooped down upon Tat and I we loaded the car. He held a brimming glass of clear liquid in each hand. We knew what to expect. The glass held a wickedly powerful home made Eau de Vie (literally 'the water of life') and Francois, our host for the past two weeks, and incidentally, president of the local angling association, was determined we would leave his hospitality in style. He thrust the glasses into our hands and insisted we drain them in one, then he grasped us one after the other in a rib-crushing bear hug. He shook my hand and kissed Tat four times - twice on each cheek - as he would old friends and nearly knocked me flat on my face as he slapped me on the back in farewell. Time to leave the cosy seclusion of our gite, which was in fact a few rooms on the ground floor of an ancient weather-worn chateau.



M. Renault and the whole family had turned out to see us off in style. There was Grandpa, burnt and shrivelled like an old grape, yet still proud to be a working member of the chateau's farm. A tattered beret sat square on the top of his nut-brown forehead above a pair of still lively, clear blue eyes, his bright blue 'travail bleu' overalls were neatly washed and pressed, and he was smiling hugely from behind a glass of red wine. I knew why he was smiling, we'd had plenty of that same red wine ourselves and it tended to make one smile.

Madame Renault, as fragile and petite as her husband was clumsy and huge, tutted and fussed over a gaggle of noisy children playing at her feet, while the family dog, a one-eared mutt, mainly collie and cocker, looked uninterested in the leave-taking as he dozed, panting in the shade of the barn, one eye half open to ensure that he missed nothing important. He had become an almost constant companion on or daily fishing sessions and we both adored him.

In reply to Post #195
If Francois and his family were sad we were leaving, Tat and I were mortified. Who'd have thought that an evening spent browsing through the holiday brochures in the depths of winter would eventually bring us a brief share of Francois' little piece of Heaven? Now we were leaving after a fortnight's holiday that I swear had lasted no more than a week. We'd had a lot of fun, a few carp, too many wines and too much eau de vie, and perhaps above all, been made so welcome and had felt so at home throughout our stay.

The memories were endless. Tranquil, lazy days by the lake watching the world go by, sipping mellow red wine from chunky glasses over lunch. The weather had been superb and we'd enjoyed a succession of wonderful golden sunsets that kissed the tree tops on the far bank, heralding the advance of darkness, returning the lake to the quiet serenity of the night.

Fishing over for the day, the setting sun would send us back along the dusty road to the cool slate-floored comfort of the gite. We'd stop in the bar, and over a glass of wine we'd rerun the day's events to the locals. For France is a nation of fishermen, and like anglers throughout the world, they love a fishing story, tall or otherwise.

Yet we hadn't really come to France simply for the carp fishing. Indeed, we had no idea if the area we'd chosen even held carp in the first place and it had been on no more than a whim that we jammed a few bits of carp gear into the already overloaded car before we left home.

The holiday had started in the depths of winter while a full blown south westerly gale hurled angry rain against our living room windows overlooking the river. A collection of catalogues, leaflets and brochures lay spread about us on the carpet in front of the fire. France was a new horizon for us both and the carp fishing was just an afterthought. So the choice was made and next day a phone call to the offices of Brittany Ferries confirmed that the gite was free for two weeks in early autumn when the days would still be long, the weather warm and the schools had gone back.

Late September saw us boarding the ferry and after a silky smooth crossing we were soon heading down the motorway in search of, who knows? Carole drove while I navigated. In the back of the overloaded hatch-back a mountain of fishing tackle, luggage and other odds and sods rattled and shook to the road vibration. It was late evening when at last we pulled off onto a pot-holed track that wound through tall trees into a wide courtyard. In the gathering darkness a dog barked. It sounded large and threatening. I am sure France has a larger population of dogs than it does of humans and they all seem to love to bark. This was our first encounter with Sam the hound, about as menacing as a Barbie-Doll!

A door farmhouse opened and tall imposing figure stepped into the twilit courtyard. He lumbered towards, hand outstretched, greeting us warmly in a growl of guttural French that came to us filtered through the wild expanse of his thick beard, our first encounter with Francois Renault. We couldn't understand a word he was saying as he gabbled excitedly about heaven knows what while he ushered us eagerly into the cool, shadowy darkness of the gite, our home for the next two weeks. It was spotless, fresh flowers stood in a thick crystal vase on a well scrubbed oak table, a bottle of red wine stood open and in the soft, cooling evening we drank to our holiday.

In reply to Post #196
Francois had no English at all so I dragged my schoolboy French from the recesses of my memory and haltingly we began to talk. I asked about the fishing and pointed on the map to the river and to a couple of small lakes some ten kilometers away.

“Oh yes,” said our host, pursing his lips and giving a faint shrug. “They are good enough for small fish and small boys. But if you want to fish with the men you must fish our own lake.”

“Your own lake?” I asked.

“But of course,” replied Francois. “The commune has it's own lake here in the village.” He rose from his chair and climbed the stairs to the first floor, beckoning us to follow. He pointed through a landing window. “Look!” Through the trees the newly risen moonlight painted a dimpled surface with silver.

“What fish have you got in there?” I asked, not really expecting anything too encouraging. “Pike, zander, friture (small fry) and of course, carp." he replied. I hardly dared to ask how big were the carp but I did. Francois simply shrugged and spread his shovel hands. There was a yard between them!

I grinned at Carole. Had we fallen on our feet? After Francois had left, two empty wine bottles later, Carole and I sipped a night-cap from an unlabelled bottle that he had left us. We slept well that night.

I got up early the following morning to a warm sunrise already promising a hot day ahead and walked down through the sleeping village to the lake which lay absolutely still in the quiet morning. It was bigger than I'd first thought, perhaps five or six acres or so. Its was more or less square in shape and it looked old and well established with plenty of bank side foliage and vegetation, the banks heavily wooded but clean and obviously lovingly maintained.



The banks were trim and well tended and it certainly looked to be a comfortable spot to fish, and a glance in the margins of the thick green-brown water revealed lake water that was absolutely teaming with life. The far bank was one big mass of lily pads and thick woods came right down to the water's edge. It was absolutely gorgeous. A sign tacked to a tree told us that it was a private lake, but that day tickets were available from Francois' house at the exorbitant price of five francs a day!



First things first. We needed supplies and a trip around the massive supermarket filled the car and emptied my wallet. Leaving the car park, I turned left instead of right. Lost once again, this time in the centre of town, we stumbled across a dark and dusty fishing tackle shop, tucked away down a dingy side street. We needed to buy fishing licences anyway, and while we were about it, perhaps someone could show us the way out of this God-forsaken town. The song and dance act that accompanied our purchase of a `carte de peche` seemed to take for ever, but at last we were granted legal status in the form of a buff piece of stiff paper that entitled us to wet a line.

Later that morning, while we were having breakfast, a deputation from the commune came to visit, our host proudly at its head. We put more coffee on to bubble and hiss through the ancient machine, and though it was not yet ten o'clock, in France it is never too early for a glass of wine. Perhaps this is an opportune moment to open a couple of bottles, I thought. Nobody refused. Perhaps they were just being polite, but I rather doubt it.

In reply to Post #197
We sat around the garden table in the bright morning sunshine, sipping piping hot coffee and thick red wine while Francois gave us the history of the lake. It was all very pleasant, but in truth, all I wanted to do was get on with the fishing, for the beautiful lake was crying out to me. The deputation had other ideas.

Another car pulled up, disgorging yet more visitors and it soon became clear that, like it or not, we were going to get the Grand Tour. The cars bore us away towards the lake along a dusty road lined with poplar trees and for the rest of the morning Francois and his entourage showed us proudly around the lake while a ragged pack of mongrels, Sam at their head, fussed and blundered about in the thick, cool undergrowth. It was a hot and tiring hike but as the tour wound its way back to the cars, lunchtime beckoned and we were whisked off into the village to be showered with still more French hospitality.

It was late afternoon before we eventually got back to the lake, far too late to do any fishing. A few local pike and eel fishermen were slowly packing up while the sun set. The lake was still and brooding set in the a red haze like a deserted arena waiting for the shadowy night players to make their unofficial entrance.

At the crack of noon the next morning (I blame the bar) we were up and about, preparing the bait for the coming day's fishing. We had bought a few kilos of maize from the local milling co-operative and the little yellow grains had been soaking in a bucket of flavoured water overnight. We piled everything into the car, and drove down the dusty unmade road towards the lake.

At the water's edge we set up the rods, baited the hooks with three or four grains of maize and cast across to the edge of the lilies that reached out from the tangle of trees along the far bank. I walked round with a bucket of bait and a baiting spoon and showered a liberal carpet of maize over a wide area. As the sun made its way up behind the tall poplars of the east bank behind us we sat in the peaceful contentment of the perennial angler's wait.

It didn't take the carp very long to find the baited area. Before the sun had even cleared the tops of the trees they had moved in and started to feed. Carole had the first fish, which plunged straight into the pads. It looked to be well and truly snagged, but after a while the lilies started to ping up to the surface as the line severed it's way through their tough roots. Eventually it was free and in open water fighting hard but it was clear this was no monster. Soon it flopped into the net, a small common, maybe five pounds tops. Well, it's a start!

In reply to Post #198
No sooner had we slipped it back than Tat had another, a brother chip to her first fish, another common. A huge area of coloured water showed us that the carp were really feeding hard on the bait carpet and Carole and I had takes almost simultaneously. Carole lost her fish in the pads, but mine was another small common.



And so the day passed. The fish fed sporadically right through it and by the evening we'd had at least dozen or more fish between us, though we'd also lost one or two in the jungle stems of the lilies. We caught nothing big but they were carp for all that, and though we were beginning to doubt our host's proud boast of twenty kilo fish, we were perfectly happy.

That evening Francois and a few members of the local fishing club came down to the lake. They were fascinated by the modern tackle that we were using, in particular the electronic bite alarms and indicators. I had a take while they watched and they fell about laughing at the scream of the buzzer. That evening we dropped the fishing tackle at the gite and walked down to the only bar in the village and for some reason or other did not get back for some considerable time. In my cups I found the label on a soft drink particularly hilarious. See what you think...



The next day's fishing was a repeat performance. The fish came steadily throughout the day, as did the number of visits we had from Francois and his friends, along with a few curious villagers. They were puzzled at first that we were returning our fish, for stuffed carp is a delicacy on most French dining tables. I explained that in England all freshwater coarse anglers return their fish to the water, and this seemed to reassure them that we weren't completely mad. If we were happy, then so were they.

We had come to France to soak up the French way of life, so the fishing took second place for much of our stay. Meanwhile we ate seafood that was fit for a king and drank wine that cost less than a pound a bottle and was still better than anything we could buy for a tenner in England. We felt honour bound to visit the glorious chateaux and the region's beauty spots, and were rightly impressed by both, but each morning and evening we were drawn back to the lake and it's always-obliging carp. We fished a few different areas trying to find the rumoured monsters, but they remained an enigma.

In reply to Post #199
These small fish were not what we had come to France for but to be honest their size did not matter one bit. Francois, his family and his mates became firm friends and in the village the local restaurant treated us like visiting royalty. Though the gite was well fitted out with a modern kitchen, more often than not we ate out, usually in the village and it was the during the small hours that we made our unsteady way back to the welcoming comfort of the gite.

We were invited to the houses of total strangers where wine was opened and glasses sunk. We attended a small fete on the village green, we ate barbeque with Francois and half the village in the grounds of the old chateau. It was magic!



Then all too soon the holiday was over. The fishing had been superb, and once we'd resigned ourselves to the fact that there probably weren't any huge carp in the lake, we learned to greet each enthusiastic run with the pleasure that a carp, no matter what its size, can bring. We must have caught a hundred fish or more, predominantly small commons. If there were monsters in the lake, we certainly weren't clever enough to tempt them. Did Francois truly believe in the monsters or was he gently tacking the pith? Who knows...There is more to carp fishing than the single-minded pursuit of monsters.

That first visit over thirty years ago was only the first of many that followed that were considerably more successful in terms of size of the carp caught, however, as a taste of French kindness and hospitality it was one of the best holidays we have ever had. This was a time pre-Euro when we got about fifteen francs to the pound and a beer cost five francs. You could eat a four course meal with a bottle or two of wine for the equivalent of about a tenner. Hey-ho!



We remember that little lake in the trees, the golden sunsets, the seemingly endless blue skies. We remember the village and, of course, the family of M. Renault. We remember the friendliness of the local inhabitants, the bar with its noisy, boisterous good humour. We remember the old boy in the cap who said he was over a hundred years old and drank half a bottle of red wine a day...it was, he claimed the secret of a long and happy life!



We remember Sam the dog and his red scarf who came and sat beside the rods nearly every day. So many memories...we are swamped by them. In a way it was all a bit too perfect and with hindsight it probably spoiled us for other gite holidays.

In '94 we went back, not to search for Francois' mythical giant carp, which we never caught, but simply to enjoy the good things of life once again. It was as good a holiday as our first visit and one day soon we must go back again, though I doubt if the carp will have grown much over the years! They were certainly no bigger in '94!

In reply to Post #200
STARSHIP ENTERPRISE: MAY 1989

Back in the early 80s I used to share the odd pint with a guy called Chris. For much of his youth he lived in the south of France in a little village called Montauroux in the Var departement. We discovered over a chatty pint that we were both keen anglers. I mentioned that my passion was carp fishing and Chris told me that there was a lake not far from his childhood home where he'd swum and water ski-ed as a youngster and where he'd seen some very big carp which were seldom fished for by the locals. Nor did he fish for them; he was happy as Larry spending his youth in the south of France and fishing was not high on his list of priorities. Yet this particular lake held everybody's interest, for it was here, he told me, that on rare occasions a carp of monstrous proportions was landed. One weighed over 30 kilos. And do you want to know the name of this lake that I was told about at least four years before the UK carp masses found out about it? It's called the Lac du St-Cassien: perhaps you've heard of it!



Time passed and though I kicked myself as the tales of those huge carp filtered back to the UK I somehow thought those fish were beyond my capabilities, some mythical monster that I was not worthy to slay. Even when Carole and I went to France for the second time in the autumn of ‘89 with friends we spent much of the time fishing for mullet and carp fishing never crossed our minds. Yet, back home it seemed there were a few hardy souls in Cornwall who fancied the idea of fishing abroad, and it was fellow Carp Society member, Gary Thomas, who first got the bug in a big way, going to Cassien as soon as the news leaked out. Was I missing out?

As the seasons passed I began to feel a bit jaded with my carp fishing in England and so in the dreariness of the extremely damp and wind-blown winter of 89/90, I sounded out a few Roche A.C. members about arranging a French trip. As it turned out my old mates from College days (and elsewhere), Nige Britton, and Steve Westbury could be persuaded, given a modicum of arm twisting. It was time to bite the bullet and leave the sleepy predictability of our club waters and the ressies and head off for pastures new in search of the (supposedly) big carp in the lakes and rivers northern France. It was Starship Enterprise time: time to split infinitives where no man has split before.

Just one look at the map of the northern France will show you just how much water there is in the region. Draw a line through France from, say, Le Havre through Le Mans down to La Rochelle and see for yourself just how many big blue bits show up on the map. We had set our hopes on a water that I had heard about the previous year when but subsequent inquiries revealed that the lake was currently empty! Bugger!

With our departure only a week or so away our severely limited knowledge of French fishing, was proving rather a drawback. At one stage we even talked about calling the whole thing off, but Steve was having none of that. It had taken many hours of patient work on his missus to get the OK for him to go in the first place: now that he'd got the boss's permission, he was bloody well going, end of story. More out of hope than expectation I rang Geoff Shaw, whose reputation for catching huge fish from French waters was spreading quickly. I outlined our problem and was delighted when he gave us the name of a water that had apparently produced very big fish of over 50lbs. Geoff did warn us that he had no first hand knowledge of the water and he couldn't tell us any more other than it was supposed to be a good bet. But as he'd never even seen the water, let alone fished it we were on our own from there on in. Fair enough. What more could we ask? We sailed on the 8.00 am ferry from Plymouth in mid-May, with ten days holiday ahead of us. The crossing was uneventful, the weather staying relatively calm, and after a few hours heading south we reached our destination, the huge lake Geoff had told us about. It was actually a lac de barrage, a dammed section of the River Villaine. This is just a small part of it..

In reply to Post #201
A beer and some grub was in order for we were tired and hungry after the long ferry crossing and the subsequent drive down to the lake so when I spotted a welcoming sign saying, 'Bar' we needed no further encouragement. It was time to practice my appalling French on the local populace. “Three beers please!” The bemused cafe owner looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face. He obviously didn't understand a word I was saying. Funny, I thought I was doing really well!

I dug into the French/English dictionary and eventually managed coax three beers out of the patron before attempting to explain that we wanted to fish the lake and please, could he tell us if there were any big carp in there? “Yes,” said monsieur. “Some nice carp have been taken from the lake.” I didn't catch the nuances behind the word taken until much later: when he'd said “taken” he had meant it literally! I ploughed on in my halting French, Nige chipping in the odd word from time to time as he resurrected memories of long forgotten school days and distant French lessons. Hunger was gnawing a hole in our guts so we decided to eat at his cafe and talk things over during dinner and a few more beers. We were having coffee when the patron came in with a fish box containing a bloody, but still-alive mirror carp of about 12lb. Proudly holding up his ghastly prize he assured us that it had come from the lake and assured us that his friends had two more out in the boot of their car, taken.



We went outside to examine two double figure commons, both either dead or nearly so crammed into a small metal keepnet (for want of a better word). Nasty though the sight of those dead fish was, they were still big enough to whet our appetite and as soon as we were back inside we were reaching for our wallets, for it appeared that our friendly bar owner just happened to sell the permits for the lake as well.



With the aid of a local map the patron showed us where we could get down to the water and kip by the lake, though he warned us about the night fishing which was absolutely forbidden. We were too exhausted to fish the night anyway, so accompanied by a case of beer to see us through it we set off for the lake.

It was not yet dark as we set up the brollies, light enough for us to scatter some bait about and lace the margins with peanuts, maize and sweetcorn against the possibility that the fish would come in close during the night. We stretched out on the bed-chairs and watched a fiery sunset streak the mackerel sky with red, drinking the case of beer and chatting the dusk away to a background curtain of sound from a million crickets. As darkness fell and a thousand frogs joined in the deafening chorus I put the kettle on for the first coffee on French soil and broke the seal on the cognac bottle. Way out in the bay a carp splashed noisily through the surface and big grins broke out all round.

Despite the fatigue I couldn't get to sleep at all that night. I was kept awake by the almost constant noise of fish crashing out all over the surface of the lake, to say nothing of the never-ending din from the frogs and crickets. Dawn broke chilly and damp with a heavy dew drenching the grass underfoot. With no real plan of campaign it seemed logical to cover all the areas that we'd baited up the previous night. That accomplished I set off to explore, leaving Steve guarding the rods. I'd not gone far when I heard a whistle. I ran back to the rods to find Steve doing battle on one of my rods! “What's it feel like?” I asked. “May go mid doubles,” came the reply.

That'll do for starters anyway. The fish was really pulling hard and the rod was bent right round to it's limit, so we were both astonished to see the size of the carp on the other end. No more than eight pounds, if that. We had to have a photo though. It was a milestone carp after all.



The morning slipped by and as the sun rose a few fish showed themselves over the baits. Not big ones but they were carp for all that. Shortly afterwards Steve had a run on maize that turned out to be another small carp and then I had another and Steve another, not one of them over double figures. Pretty fish, though...

In reply to Post #202
We must be in a small fish area, we thought. Perhaps a more detailed look around was called for. We spent the rest of the morning scouring the water and peering through binoculars for signs of bigger carp but all that we saw were small fish. The long day passed with plenty of action from the small carp, of which there appeared to be thousands. That night we decided to bait up really heavily with a couple of buckets of nuts and the remains of the maize, with a few boiled baits mixed in with the bits. We had taken a wide selection of baits, including ready mades and several kilos of frozen birdfood boiled baits along with loads of other bits and bobs that we thought might work.

The second night approached and Steve and I really piled the bait in and our baited area was soon carpeted with about fifteen kilos of nuts, maize and boilies. Nigel meanwhile had taken himself off to fish another area well up the bank from us where he'd found a nice shelf and plateau about forty yards out.

For all our hard work baiting the swims so heavily, Steve and I never had a sniff that night but up the bank Nigel had an absolute hat full. In fact he never managed to get all three rods fishing at once, and in the end finished up using just one rod. Fish after fish, but nothing over about five or six pounds. By the small hours of the morning he was so shattered he could hardly keep awake to land the next carp. Sadly they were all small ones but they were really hard fighters. He kept telling himself that it was only a matter of time before one of the big lumps we'd been told about made a mistake. But the stream of single figure carp flowed relentlessly and by four in the morning he'd had enough and he threw his rods into the back of the bivvy and turned in.

We were all getting a bit worried about the lack of better fish but then my first fish of the morning was a ten pound common so we felt a little bit better. Unfortunately it was a flash in the pan as in just a few hours fishing Steve and I must have had close to fifty takes, the majority being commons between seven and eight pounds in weight.

At one stage I had fish on all three rods at once. I landed them all then chucked one rod back out only to have it taken on the drop. It was crazy fishing. Steve was the next one to perform the three on at once trick, then I had another take, then another. Nigel didn't even bother casting out. He said it was tiring him out just looking at us.





This was getting ridiculous. Were there any bigger carp in the lake? We were beginning to doubt it. In the end we decided to find a local tackle shop and see if the owner could help us at all. What worried us most of all was the fact that the fish we were catching looked nothing like the dead and dying fish we'd been shown up at the cafe. Those were thick- bellied, dark golden fish, all doubles at that, while the fish we were catching were pale, slim and torpedo shaped. We had our doubts that the fish came from the same water at all and it was obvious that the crafty sod at the cafe had seen us coming as soon as we got off the ferry.

We drove into Vitre, the nearest big town and got lucky by driving straight up to the front door of the local tackle shop. That's handy, Harry! God knows how we'd have found it if we'd had to ask directions for the shop was tucked away in a tiny back street and we'd driven straight to it by accident. The owner said that he knew the water we were fishing and assured us that it didn't hold any big carp at all. These had all been removed a few years previously and killed or moved into private lakes. Following the drain down it had been stocked with 10,000 three to four-kilo carp. No wonder we were getting plagued with them.

He told us about another barrage not far away and pointed it out to us on the map. He even told us that there were a couple of French carp anglers fishing the water who used English methods and that they had caught fish up to mid-twenties. We thanked the shop owner for his kindness and made to leave. The new lake was a fair-sized affair of about 400 acres another barrage lake not far away from our starting point. We were undecided whether to move onto the new barrage straight away or to return to the small fish water for another night. Another committee meeting was called for and that entailed a trip to the nearest bar for light refreshments. We drove back into town, past the chateau and into the old market square. All of us were feeling a tad thirsty, and a few beers would go down a treat. The nearest decent-looking bar was crowded with lunchtime drinkers, getting ready for their midday meal. Idly I glanced at the menu to find a list of some of the most appetising pizzas I've ever seen.

In reply to Post #203
A few beers and a belly full of pizza later we returned to the lake. We packed up in the gentle afternoon heat, piled the gear into the back of the van and set off for the new lake not far away. Less than half an hour later we pulled up on the barrage, dragged the tackle from the van and set off along a steep narrow path that wound its way through a thick pine wood. The wind had picked up during the evening, but it was still dry and warm. The breeze felt very refreshing, blowing hard from an easterly direction, straight into the bay we'd been shown by our friend from the shop. It looked ideal and the lunchtime session had brought with it a feeling of quiet confidence.

This new lake looked absolutely fabulous, and now at least we knew we were on with a chance of some better fish. The lake stretched out down the valley like a long silver snake, winding it's way between rocky points and headlands. I've fished bigger waters since, but at the time it just looked huge and magnificent. I didn't know how even start fishing it. We decided we would be silly to go anywhere but the places we'd been shown by the tackle shop owner as proven fish producing areas. If they didn't pay off for us, we could always move on later to other parts of the lake.

By nightfall we were spread out along a nice bit of bank. Steve fishing a nice gentle slope dropping to the lake bed, a depth of about fifteen feet. Nige was fishing just off a point where he could cover a small, shallow-looking bay as well as the main area of the lake in front of him.

We all baited up at catapult range and then sat back to await events. Nothing happened and as the darkness fell we all turned in. I dozed, not really asleep so I was half awake when I heard the first fish bosh out at about 4.30.am. It sounded very close, almost as if it wanted to join me in the sleeping bag. Shortly afterwards another fish crashed out twice. I noticed how warm the breeze was for the early hours of the morning, a real feeding wind. I somehow just knew I was going to get a take and climbed out of the bag and stood by the rods. I heard another fish jump, this time it was in front of Nige and wondered if he'd heard it.

A violent electrical storm was flickering around the sky in the distance. It was dry and humid and you could cut the atmosphere and the tension with a knife. I walked down the bank to Nigel; it was funny but I wanted to share this charged atmosphere. He was lying on top of his sleeping bag, smoking patiently. He'd heard the fish jump in front him but he reckoned it and its mates were moving down on the breeze towards Steve and my swims. “I've got to have a chance in a minute, Nige,” I said, accepting the offered cigarette. “Be patient, my son. They'll be here directly.”

We smoked in silence, listening the gentle lapping of the waves and the whisper of the wind in the corn field behind us. Even the crickets had temporarily ceased their racket. I went back to my swim and stood over the rods. Why hadn't I had a take yet? Watched pots, and all that, Ken, I said to myself and returned to the shelter of my brolly.

I was lying on top of the sleeping bag when the run came, two single bleeps followed by a blistering run. Everything was shaking and banging as the fish took off at tremendous speed. Nigel was there almost before I was. He'd been changing baits when he heard the run start and came charging over, all energy and excitement. The first run on a completely unknown water can get to you like that. The fish went off like a train and felt big, or should I say, it felt like every fish we'd hooked so far this trip; mean and powerful. It took quite a while to get the fight going my way but once I had the upper hand, the rush of adrenaline dwindled away to a trickle and I realised that the fish was no lunker after all. It still scrapped like a maniac though and it was only after several searing runs for the weed were halted that Nigel scooped the fish up in the net.

We weighed and photographed a very pretty fully scaled mirror at just over seventeen pounds. Meanwhile Steve was in action down the bank to our right. Once more Nige was called upon to do the netting, this time a scale-perfect nice common, also 17lbs. We felt a lot better that morning I must say. We had no further action, and as the sun rose higher in the sky, it was clear that the fish were not feeding during daylight. We saw no sign of fish at all, and resigned ourselves to a long wait until darkness.