In reply to Post #268
The following morning we were on the road bright and early before it got light. My fear was that news of our captures the previous day had got out, possibly from the restaurant owner, and we would arrive in our baited area to find someone else fishing there. With our hearts in our mouths, we drove down to the river. Was someone in our swim? No. What a relief! Out came the rods and some bait and I baited up by using a bait scoop to introduce a bucket of groats that had been soaked in strongly-flavoured water overnight. Three hundred boiled baits followed. Baits on, stringers tied. Any barges in sight...No! So here goes. Four splashes and four rods were soon fishing the margins under our feet.
The weather continued to be kind to us with good sunshine, no rain and light breeze. For some reason I figured that river carp like the opposite weather conditions than lake-dwelling ones...No idea why but there you go!
While we had needed the heavier rods to cast across from the far side, as had been the case on our first day on the river, now we were fishing more or less under our rod tips so the Horizons got left in the rod bag and were substituted with a pair of the 2lb test Hutchinson Spirolites, which we had bought back in the College days. We've still got them and use them too, as they are a dream to play fish on. Here they are set up on the concrete sill of the jetty.
They were joined on the bank by a pair of lovely little Sportex eleven-footers that Tat loves so much. They were built for us by Savay legend Bob Jones with full corks and tiny, lightweight rings. I think the blank was designated the 3353 and they are apparently built to mirror the old glass North Western SS5s; so soft that in a scrap everything bends, even the handles! They are very light with a test curve of 1.5lb, but they are a dream to play fish on, which isn't something one can say about the Horizons.
An hour or two passed without any signs that there were fish in the swim. I wandered up to the village for some grub and a few beers in the hope that my absence might trigger a take. If that sounds strange, well it's often worked in the past; I go off for some reason or other and return to find Tat with a whacker on the bank. It's happened in France before, as well as in the U.K. at Waveney, College and Redmire, to name but a few. This time it didn't work, but I think I might have brought the fish down river with me.
Tat had her head buried in a book, deep in the mystery of Agatha Christie. I was staring at the water and as I watched, a small carp came splashing to the top in that typical untidy leap typical of small carp. We'll have a chance in a minute, I said to Tat. She sat up from he book tensed as if we were both thinking the same thing. It's almost as if we knew that something significant was on the cards. It wasn't anything tangible, but we knew that a take was imminent... 100% certain.
Tat had got up from her chair and was now standing over her rods, while I was up the bank a few yards. For some reason, I looked around and saw that her two rods were banging and shaking in the rests. So did Tat! The buzzer had time only for the briefest of shrieks before she had the rod in her hand and the reel was screaming its head off as a good fish took off across the river with an incredible burst of speed. Savage, searing runs ripped the line off the clutch with consummate ease. Those French carp sure do know how to fight and Tat was now into one that didn't know when to give up!
I guess the fish must have crossed almost to the opposite bank before Tat managed to get a modicum of control over it. Then, in mid-river, the fish slogged it out on a long line, staying deep and using the flow to exert every ounce of pressure on the rod and the line. Gradually, she worked the fish in towards the bank, only for it to take off again on another searing run, this time upstream along the near bank. I was worried that it might shred the line on one of the rocky promontories, but it all held together while Tat worked the fish back with her usual patience.
The following morning we were on the road bright and early before it got light. My fear was that news of our captures the previous day had got out, possibly from the restaurant owner, and we would arrive in our baited area to find someone else fishing there. With our hearts in our mouths, we drove down to the river. Was someone in our swim? No. What a relief! Out came the rods and some bait and I baited up by using a bait scoop to introduce a bucket of groats that had been soaked in strongly-flavoured water overnight. Three hundred boiled baits followed. Baits on, stringers tied. Any barges in sight...No! So here goes. Four splashes and four rods were soon fishing the margins under our feet.
The weather continued to be kind to us with good sunshine, no rain and light breeze. For some reason I figured that river carp like the opposite weather conditions than lake-dwelling ones...No idea why but there you go!
While we had needed the heavier rods to cast across from the far side, as had been the case on our first day on the river, now we were fishing more or less under our rod tips so the Horizons got left in the rod bag and were substituted with a pair of the 2lb test Hutchinson Spirolites, which we had bought back in the College days. We've still got them and use them too, as they are a dream to play fish on. Here they are set up on the concrete sill of the jetty.
They were joined on the bank by a pair of lovely little Sportex eleven-footers that Tat loves so much. They were built for us by Savay legend Bob Jones with full corks and tiny, lightweight rings. I think the blank was designated the 3353 and they are apparently built to mirror the old glass North Western SS5s; so soft that in a scrap everything bends, even the handles! They are very light with a test curve of 1.5lb, but they are a dream to play fish on, which isn't something one can say about the Horizons.
An hour or two passed without any signs that there were fish in the swim. I wandered up to the village for some grub and a few beers in the hope that my absence might trigger a take. If that sounds strange, well it's often worked in the past; I go off for some reason or other and return to find Tat with a whacker on the bank. It's happened in France before, as well as in the U.K. at Waveney, College and Redmire, to name but a few. This time it didn't work, but I think I might have brought the fish down river with me.
Tat had her head buried in a book, deep in the mystery of Agatha Christie. I was staring at the water and as I watched, a small carp came splashing to the top in that typical untidy leap typical of small carp. We'll have a chance in a minute, I said to Tat. She sat up from he book tensed as if we were both thinking the same thing. It's almost as if we knew that something significant was on the cards. It wasn't anything tangible, but we knew that a take was imminent... 100% certain.
Tat had got up from her chair and was now standing over her rods, while I was up the bank a few yards. For some reason, I looked around and saw that her two rods were banging and shaking in the rests. So did Tat! The buzzer had time only for the briefest of shrieks before she had the rod in her hand and the reel was screaming its head off as a good fish took off across the river with an incredible burst of speed. Savage, searing runs ripped the line off the clutch with consummate ease. Those French carp sure do know how to fight and Tat was now into one that didn't know when to give up!
I guess the fish must have crossed almost to the opposite bank before Tat managed to get a modicum of control over it. Then, in mid-river, the fish slogged it out on a long line, staying deep and using the flow to exert every ounce of pressure on the rod and the line. Gradually, she worked the fish in towards the bank, only for it to take off again on another searing run, this time upstream along the near bank. I was worried that it might shred the line on one of the rocky promontories, but it all held together while Tat worked the fish back with her usual patience.
In reply to Post #269
“So strong” muttered Tat. “ This is a decent fish for sure”. I didn't answer. I don't think she knew she'd spoken aloud anyway. I was standing on one of the rock outcrops as the fish slipped by, just a foot or so beneath the surface. I couldn't help letting out a startled exclamation. It was a lovely big fat mirror, a proper carp to my way of thinking, it might even go thirty. Then the carp's shoulders broke the surface as it swirled on the top. Now Tat got the first impression of the fish's awesome size.
“Here's your personal best, love,” I murmured, adding a silent “Don't loose it,” under my breath.
Then suddenly, it was over. After a good fifteen minutes of give and take, the fish just gave up and lollopped into the waiting net. I took the weight and it felt heavy. Up on the bank, we peeled back the net and just stood there for a few seconds, gazing down at the thing of beauty, lying there, in the autumn sunshine, in all its glory. Then Tat just burst out laughing and the spell was broken. It just had to go thirty. It had to! But the scales only gave her 29lb 8oz, no matter how many times we hoisted the sling. (I have this silly dream. Some may call it a nightmare. I dream that I have played a fish of a lifetime to the bank only to weigh it, be disappointed and return it after photos. It is only when the photos come back that the doubts start. It looks far bigger than the weight I'd given it at the time of its capture. Had I weighed it badly? Surely, I must have done. Look at the size of it! It's an awful dream, I tell you!) But what's in a weight? Nothing could take the magic of that moment away. The trip could end right here and now and we'd still return home happy and proud.
But the gods hadn't finished with us yet! There was icing on the cake in the form of a lovely, scale-perfect, twenty pound common for me that took a hookbait cast just inches from the concrete wall of the jetty. Here the water was only about eight feet deep and being comparatively shallow we could detect the presence of carp in the swim, as the discoloured water rising to the surface betrayed their presence.
“So strong” muttered Tat. “ This is a decent fish for sure”. I didn't answer. I don't think she knew she'd spoken aloud anyway. I was standing on one of the rock outcrops as the fish slipped by, just a foot or so beneath the surface. I couldn't help letting out a startled exclamation. It was a lovely big fat mirror, a proper carp to my way of thinking, it might even go thirty. Then the carp's shoulders broke the surface as it swirled on the top. Now Tat got the first impression of the fish's awesome size.
“Here's your personal best, love,” I murmured, adding a silent “Don't loose it,” under my breath.
Then suddenly, it was over. After a good fifteen minutes of give and take, the fish just gave up and lollopped into the waiting net. I took the weight and it felt heavy. Up on the bank, we peeled back the net and just stood there for a few seconds, gazing down at the thing of beauty, lying there, in the autumn sunshine, in all its glory. Then Tat just burst out laughing and the spell was broken. It just had to go thirty. It had to! But the scales only gave her 29lb 8oz, no matter how many times we hoisted the sling. (I have this silly dream. Some may call it a nightmare. I dream that I have played a fish of a lifetime to the bank only to weigh it, be disappointed and return it after photos. It is only when the photos come back that the doubts start. It looks far bigger than the weight I'd given it at the time of its capture. Had I weighed it badly? Surely, I must have done. Look at the size of it! It's an awful dream, I tell you!) But what's in a weight? Nothing could take the magic of that moment away. The trip could end right here and now and we'd still return home happy and proud.
But the gods hadn't finished with us yet! There was icing on the cake in the form of a lovely, scale-perfect, twenty pound common for me that took a hookbait cast just inches from the concrete wall of the jetty. Here the water was only about eight feet deep and being comparatively shallow we could detect the presence of carp in the swim, as the discoloured water rising to the surface betrayed their presence.
In reply to Post #270
Though it was only mid afternoon and there were for sure more fish to be caught down the wall, we'd caught decent fish, a near thirty for Tat and that pristine common for myself, plus a few other doubles. If for no other reason, two lovely twenties meant it was time to celebrate!
We were very happy with our results on the river and at for the time being it looked as if the fishing on the big ressy was likely to be rather grueling unless we got more favourable winds to help push the carp towards us. That meant anything with east in it would do, but there was nothing like that in the forecast. So rather that sit it out and hope, we thought that the river offered better prospects. For a start it seemed as if the river carp we were catching were definitely getting bigger, and also it appeared that the carp were obviously getting used to stopping in the swim on their trek up and down the river in search of food. In the meantime, a glass of beer awaited us in celebration of the day's fishing. (That's one of Roger's glasses of beer, by the way...That will mean something to one or two of you!)
Ah! The best laid plans...Sunday dawned dreary and miserable. It was raining heavily, blowing a hoolie and, to cap it all, there were two French pike anglers in the swim! Undaunted we tried to fish the jetty from the opposite end but it was a difficult cast to get right and we felt that the baits were landing too far out in the flow. So we moved downstream of the jetty to an slight bay that created a small eddy that might hold a few carp...It didn't and we spent a few hours sitting under the brolly watching the river swell and colour-up. In my barbel fishing days, I always considered such conditions as a waste of time and so it proved with the carp as well. Writing that one off to bad timing and bad luck we sought solace in the bar!
We were determined to go for it now, as we were running out of days. The river beckoned and we put any idea of fishing the ressy out of our minds. We would get an early start in the morning and give it our best shot on the river, assuming the swim was free. Meanwhile Tat prepared a casserole for the following day's evening meal and we shared a last glass of Armagnac before turning in.
For once we stuck by our good intentions and were at the river by first light. The swim was free...Yes! but Up the bank some fifty yards or so away a party of ancient French pike anglers were fishing. There seems to be thousands of these old guys throughout France, all fishing antiquated methods, catching sweet FA yet perfectly content in their pastime. They were friendly enough and as usual looked on in amazement at the carp gear. Once again it was the buzzers that fascinated them the most, and we spent a few minutes tweaking the line to produce false runs. After the cold, the wind and the rain of yesterday, today was a complete contrast being warm with a light breeze.
Though it was only mid afternoon and there were for sure more fish to be caught down the wall, we'd caught decent fish, a near thirty for Tat and that pristine common for myself, plus a few other doubles. If for no other reason, two lovely twenties meant it was time to celebrate!
We were very happy with our results on the river and at for the time being it looked as if the fishing on the big ressy was likely to be rather grueling unless we got more favourable winds to help push the carp towards us. That meant anything with east in it would do, but there was nothing like that in the forecast. So rather that sit it out and hope, we thought that the river offered better prospects. For a start it seemed as if the river carp we were catching were definitely getting bigger, and also it appeared that the carp were obviously getting used to stopping in the swim on their trek up and down the river in search of food. In the meantime, a glass of beer awaited us in celebration of the day's fishing. (That's one of Roger's glasses of beer, by the way...That will mean something to one or two of you!)
Ah! The best laid plans...Sunday dawned dreary and miserable. It was raining heavily, blowing a hoolie and, to cap it all, there were two French pike anglers in the swim! Undaunted we tried to fish the jetty from the opposite end but it was a difficult cast to get right and we felt that the baits were landing too far out in the flow. So we moved downstream of the jetty to an slight bay that created a small eddy that might hold a few carp...It didn't and we spent a few hours sitting under the brolly watching the river swell and colour-up. In my barbel fishing days, I always considered such conditions as a waste of time and so it proved with the carp as well. Writing that one off to bad timing and bad luck we sought solace in the bar!
We were determined to go for it now, as we were running out of days. The river beckoned and we put any idea of fishing the ressy out of our minds. We would get an early start in the morning and give it our best shot on the river, assuming the swim was free. Meanwhile Tat prepared a casserole for the following day's evening meal and we shared a last glass of Armagnac before turning in.
For once we stuck by our good intentions and were at the river by first light. The swim was free...Yes! but Up the bank some fifty yards or so away a party of ancient French pike anglers were fishing. There seems to be thousands of these old guys throughout France, all fishing antiquated methods, catching sweet FA yet perfectly content in their pastime. They were friendly enough and as usual looked on in amazement at the carp gear. Once again it was the buzzers that fascinated them the most, and we spent a few minutes tweaking the line to produce false runs. After the cold, the wind and the rain of yesterday, today was a complete contrast being warm with a light breeze.
In reply to Post #271
We had three brim-full buckets of soaked groats ready to go that we'd started the previous night. Incidentally, you may have seen me write about cats and carp bait before, namely: if you want to know if your bait is any good see if the cat will eat it. If it goes mad for the bait then so will the carp. Seems like the gite's kittens love groats!
I put the first bucket of groats in with the bait scoop and topped up the carpet with boilies and then we set up the rods, one set on the concrete sill of the jetty with the baits fishing straight down the wall, the other pair covering margins some twenty yards upstream of the jetty. Note the bucket of groats extreme bottom left of this pic.
It was a glorious day as far as the weather was concerned, but as far as the carp were concerned they weren't hungry! This is par for the course with river carping. The shoals can be huge but they can also travel miles in search of food. Sure, they have their favourite feeding zones with which they are familiar - same as with lake dwelling carp - but sometimes it is a bit of a waiting game. The most important thin g is to make sure there is plenty of bait waiting for them when they arrive at their feeding zone (hopefully your swim!). It was now one o'clock and as true Francophiles we felt the need to feed. Being a Monday the Rabelais was shut but the local creperie du lac was not far away. We piled in another bucket of groats and boilies and adjourned to it's welcoming comfort.
Well fed up and agreeably drunk (sorry, Gerald!) we walked back to the river, and got the rods out of the car. In the warm afternoon sunshine it was hard to keep one's eyes open and maybe one or both of us did nod off for a few minutes. It wasn't for long, though, as a yell from the rods on the jetty jolted us awake. My turn for a fish...Maybe I'd get lucky and land on of those lovely big mirrors...on the other hand, maybe not!
I reckon this little scamp was the last one left in the swim as it was the first and the only take of the day. Perhaps we'd been a bit hasty going for lunch, but what the hell! We called in at the bar before returning to the gite. Pete had left a message for us saying that there were fish showing off the sailing club. Sadly the bankside here was reserved for sailors and plank users so there was no fishing allowed. It looked a very tasty area to be honest and it looked a nice alternative to the other spots we'd fished.
We had three brim-full buckets of soaked groats ready to go that we'd started the previous night. Incidentally, you may have seen me write about cats and carp bait before, namely: if you want to know if your bait is any good see if the cat will eat it. If it goes mad for the bait then so will the carp. Seems like the gite's kittens love groats!
I put the first bucket of groats in with the bait scoop and topped up the carpet with boilies and then we set up the rods, one set on the concrete sill of the jetty with the baits fishing straight down the wall, the other pair covering margins some twenty yards upstream of the jetty. Note the bucket of groats extreme bottom left of this pic.
It was a glorious day as far as the weather was concerned, but as far as the carp were concerned they weren't hungry! This is par for the course with river carping. The shoals can be huge but they can also travel miles in search of food. Sure, they have their favourite feeding zones with which they are familiar - same as with lake dwelling carp - but sometimes it is a bit of a waiting game. The most important thin g is to make sure there is plenty of bait waiting for them when they arrive at their feeding zone (hopefully your swim!). It was now one o'clock and as true Francophiles we felt the need to feed. Being a Monday the Rabelais was shut but the local creperie du lac was not far away. We piled in another bucket of groats and boilies and adjourned to it's welcoming comfort.
Well fed up and agreeably drunk (sorry, Gerald!) we walked back to the river, and got the rods out of the car. In the warm afternoon sunshine it was hard to keep one's eyes open and maybe one or both of us did nod off for a few minutes. It wasn't for long, though, as a yell from the rods on the jetty jolted us awake. My turn for a fish...Maybe I'd get lucky and land on of those lovely big mirrors...on the other hand, maybe not!
I reckon this little scamp was the last one left in the swim as it was the first and the only take of the day. Perhaps we'd been a bit hasty going for lunch, but what the hell! We called in at the bar before returning to the gite. Pete had left a message for us saying that there were fish showing off the sailing club. Sadly the bankside here was reserved for sailors and plank users so there was no fishing allowed. It looked a very tasty area to be honest and it looked a nice alternative to the other spots we'd fished.
In reply to Post #272
The next day's weather was a repeat of what we'd experienced for most of the trip. Warm and still. Tat had been looking at the Series Bleu IGN maps which are very detailed and ideal for spotting tracks not shown on other maps. She had her eye on another swim not far away by an old stone road bridge that looked as if nothing had crossed it since the Revolution. The river here was slow and very deep, even in the margins we found ten feet of water. It was also much wider than the other swim, perhaps 200m across with hardly an discernible current. It looked very tasty! We set up the two pairs of rods to cover the margins and the middle of the river, chucked some boilies hither and yon and sat back to await developments.
As we sat in the sunshine we heard a loud cacophony of car or lorry engines and looking up we saw a procession of vehicles of all shapes and sizes coming slowly towards us down the track to the river. About a dozen assorted vehicles passed a few yards away and the drove along the unmade road alongside the river, heading upstream. It was clearly a group of travelers of which there are many in France, and they were obviously scouting out a new location to set up camp. I was a bit uneasy and I could see Tat was a bit nervous too and even when she had a take she was not her usual calm and gentle self. The fish was soon on the bank and Tat said, "let's get out of here!" Shame we hadn't found the spot earlier as the fish she'd caught was a good twenty, I'd say, though we didn't weigh or photograph it, as the gypsy encampment started to send a delegation down towards us. I felt sure they were going to ask us for the fish so it went back without the usual ceremony. We didn't fancy hanging around, just in case we caught another one. Exit the Townleys stage left!
(We went back to this spot in 2002. The place looked like a rubbish tip, though the gypsies were nowhere in evidence. There were rats running all over the place, in broad daylight too. We didn't stop. If they ever get around to cleaning up the place we'll be back.)
The next day we returned to the jetty swim. Once again the weather remained remarkably mellow for the time of year. Somebody up there likes us! As usual we fished the two and two arrangement and as usual it was the rods on the jetty that produced the majority of the action. Here's Tat in action with a fish that took hard up against the concrete wall of the jetty. Clearly they loved to feed along the wall, probably feeding on the crayfish that must have been here, though we never had any trouble with them.
...and here's the jammy lady in typical pose with a another twenty pound common.
We never need an excuse to sink a few and that evening found us in the bar again celebrating Tat's great day. Two twenties from the river...no mean feat. I was getting my arse kicked by the good lady wife (grrr) in no uncertain manner!
I was pretty happy with our results so far and with only a day of fishing time left we needed to make the most of it. Naturally once again we made a late start thanks to the demon drink but we were on holiday after all. I apologise if the constant references to bars, restaurants, beer and wine goes against the grain for some of you but for us carp angling is as much about the 'afters' as it is about the fishing.
The next day's weather was a repeat of what we'd experienced for most of the trip. Warm and still. Tat had been looking at the Series Bleu IGN maps which are very detailed and ideal for spotting tracks not shown on other maps. She had her eye on another swim not far away by an old stone road bridge that looked as if nothing had crossed it since the Revolution. The river here was slow and very deep, even in the margins we found ten feet of water. It was also much wider than the other swim, perhaps 200m across with hardly an discernible current. It looked very tasty! We set up the two pairs of rods to cover the margins and the middle of the river, chucked some boilies hither and yon and sat back to await developments.
As we sat in the sunshine we heard a loud cacophony of car or lorry engines and looking up we saw a procession of vehicles of all shapes and sizes coming slowly towards us down the track to the river. About a dozen assorted vehicles passed a few yards away and the drove along the unmade road alongside the river, heading upstream. It was clearly a group of travelers of which there are many in France, and they were obviously scouting out a new location to set up camp. I was a bit uneasy and I could see Tat was a bit nervous too and even when she had a take she was not her usual calm and gentle self. The fish was soon on the bank and Tat said, "let's get out of here!" Shame we hadn't found the spot earlier as the fish she'd caught was a good twenty, I'd say, though we didn't weigh or photograph it, as the gypsy encampment started to send a delegation down towards us. I felt sure they were going to ask us for the fish so it went back without the usual ceremony. We didn't fancy hanging around, just in case we caught another one. Exit the Townleys stage left!
(We went back to this spot in 2002. The place looked like a rubbish tip, though the gypsies were nowhere in evidence. There were rats running all over the place, in broad daylight too. We didn't stop. If they ever get around to cleaning up the place we'll be back.)
The next day we returned to the jetty swim. Once again the weather remained remarkably mellow for the time of year. Somebody up there likes us! As usual we fished the two and two arrangement and as usual it was the rods on the jetty that produced the majority of the action. Here's Tat in action with a fish that took hard up against the concrete wall of the jetty. Clearly they loved to feed along the wall, probably feeding on the crayfish that must have been here, though we never had any trouble with them.
...and here's the jammy lady in typical pose with a another twenty pound common.
We never need an excuse to sink a few and that evening found us in the bar again celebrating Tat's great day. Two twenties from the river...no mean feat. I was getting my arse kicked by the good lady wife (grrr) in no uncertain manner!
I was pretty happy with our results so far and with only a day of fishing time left we needed to make the most of it. Naturally once again we made a late start thanks to the demon drink but we were on holiday after all. I apologise if the constant references to bars, restaurants, beer and wine goes against the grain for some of you but for us carp angling is as much about the 'afters' as it is about the fishing.
In reply to Post #273
We set up in the usual place on the jetty with the two rods fishing down the edge and two out in the middle. Runs seemed to be coming mainly from the foot of the jetty's wall and Tat laid claim to the rods straight from the off and as it turned out she was bang on the money. I caught three small commons that final day; Tat caught five commons and three mirrors including another big twenty...Bless! She puts her good fortune done to her mascots, which go everywhere with her when she goes fishing. I've taken them with me on occasion but they never bring me her sort of luck, if that's what it is. Here they are giving me a wave (though it's a good job they don't have fingers as I expect I'd be getting a couple!
And here are a few more of the lucky lady with some of the other fish she caught from the river.
I wouldn't mind but she is so laid back she's almost asleep most of the time. She's either got her head buried in a book or she's filling her face...I love her really, but sometimes I wish she's lay off catching so bloody many!
This is her final fish of the trip...another twenty! Can you hear my teeth gnashing?
We just had to call in at the fisherman's bar that final night. Michael was wedged at the bar with a glassy-eyed look on his face. He'd obviously been there some time and he had a big grin spread across his face. “What's he caught?” I asked one of the others.
“Un Brochet. Onze kilos. Magnifique!”
I turned to Michael. “Congratulations. What a fish!” He beamed a red wine smile at us. “And you?” he asked. “How have you done today in your quest for small carp?” He was back on the jibes again.
“Not so small, old pal.” I pointed at Tat who was trying to look modest and failing badly. “Tat has caught five fish over ten kilos,” I told him.
"From the big lake," he asked, astonished!
"No, one from the reservoir and four from the river." Tat was trying to hide her big smile to no avail.
"Well done lass," said Michael. What was the biggest? Not as big as my pike, I'll bet.”
“Shall I tell him?” I whispered to Tat. She nodded.
“The biggest one from the river was 14.5kg and the others were all over ten kilos."
His jaw dropped as the whole bar laughed that a mere woman could best him. Then he grasped Tat in a big hug. “What are you going to drink? I have to celebrate with a beautiful girl who can fish as well.” He looked at me with a scowl. “Nothing for you! How can you let your wife out-fish you?” He had to get the last word in, though we were kindred spirits for the moment, both seen off by a mere woman!
We set up in the usual place on the jetty with the two rods fishing down the edge and two out in the middle. Runs seemed to be coming mainly from the foot of the jetty's wall and Tat laid claim to the rods straight from the off and as it turned out she was bang on the money. I caught three small commons that final day; Tat caught five commons and three mirrors including another big twenty...Bless! She puts her good fortune done to her mascots, which go everywhere with her when she goes fishing. I've taken them with me on occasion but they never bring me her sort of luck, if that's what it is. Here they are giving me a wave (though it's a good job they don't have fingers as I expect I'd be getting a couple!
And here are a few more of the lucky lady with some of the other fish she caught from the river.
I wouldn't mind but she is so laid back she's almost asleep most of the time. She's either got her head buried in a book or she's filling her face...I love her really, but sometimes I wish she's lay off catching so bloody many!
This is her final fish of the trip...another twenty! Can you hear my teeth gnashing?
We just had to call in at the fisherman's bar that final night. Michael was wedged at the bar with a glassy-eyed look on his face. He'd obviously been there some time and he had a big grin spread across his face. “What's he caught?” I asked one of the others.
“Un Brochet. Onze kilos. Magnifique!”
I turned to Michael. “Congratulations. What a fish!” He beamed a red wine smile at us. “And you?” he asked. “How have you done today in your quest for small carp?” He was back on the jibes again.
“Not so small, old pal.” I pointed at Tat who was trying to look modest and failing badly. “Tat has caught five fish over ten kilos,” I told him.
"From the big lake," he asked, astonished!
"No, one from the reservoir and four from the river." Tat was trying to hide her big smile to no avail.
"Well done lass," said Michael. What was the biggest? Not as big as my pike, I'll bet.”
“Shall I tell him?” I whispered to Tat. She nodded.
“The biggest one from the river was 14.5kg and the others were all over ten kilos."
His jaw dropped as the whole bar laughed that a mere woman could best him. Then he grasped Tat in a big hug. “What are you going to drink? I have to celebrate with a beautiful girl who can fish as well.” He looked at me with a scowl. “Nothing for you! How can you let your wife out-fish you?” He had to get the last word in, though we were kindred spirits for the moment, both seen off by a mere woman!
In reply to Post #274
Happy daze!
The evening seemed to fly by and the drinks slid down. It was getting on for midnight when we tried to get away. Both of us had had too much to drink, but all the tackle was in the car and I didn't want to leave it. “No problem,” said the `patron'. “My wife will drive your car home for you and my son will follow to bring her home. Have another drink!” How could we refuse?
So that was that for this trip. It was not the most successful trip we'd ever had, but it was certainly the most enjoyable so far. We'd caught a decent number of carp using just the four rods between us. All bar one were doubles, with a personal best for Tat, backed up with four other twenties from both venues. As for me, I had that solitary twenty pound common from the river and a few other doubles, but Tat had been the kiddie on this trip, no question. Think I'll leave her at home next time!
We spent the next day looking at a couple of lakes nearby that Michael had said were worth a look. One was private but the other was a huge water that had a reputation for huge pike and zander, but also for some very big carp, which were supposed to live in it's dark depths. Little did I know it at the time but one of those two lakes was going to figure large in my angling life in a few years time, but that tale is for later. That evening, as Tat prepared a farewell feast, I strolled down to the point on the big lake by the gite. In the windswept darkness a couple of French carp anglers were just packing up. They'd had no action all day. I felt quite smug inside!
Georges and Jeanine came up for our final evening along with yet more Chateau Georges. If you were to put a fancy label on his produce and sell it in the UK you'd think nothing of paying twenty quid a bottle for it. We were getting it for practically nothing. The door bell rang. It was Michael and his pals from the bar, come to celebrate out departure in style. If you wonder why we keep going back to France time after time, perhaps now you can understand.
Two years later, in October 1993, we went back to the gite for a week. The big lake looked just the same apart from the level. The summer of that year had been appalling and heavy rains had brought the level up. The point was all but under water. Sadly the river was completely unfishable; over its banks and going through like an express train. But the fisherman's bar was just the same, Michael and his friends just as friendly. The Chateau Georges was better than ever.
Michael told me that in the summer he had been called out to witness a carp that had been caught by accident by a French pike angler. It had taken a livebait! The angler had kept the fish alive in a hessian sack until the official scales had arrived. After it had been weighed and recorded he wanted to kill it. Michael stopped him and returned the fish to the water. He watched as it swam off strongly and he turned to the astonished captor saying, “That one is for Tat or Ken.” What a lovely thought, and a startling change in attitude from a guy who had previously avowed death to all carp! The fish? It weighed fifty-five pounds!
(The record for the reservoir now stands at 28kg and because of this it is getting heavily fished by French carp anglers. I think I have given you enough clues if you want to find it yourself, so good luck if you happen to trip over it on your travels.)
Postscript: In January 1994 we had a ‘phone call from an English angler who had found George's gite by accident in much the same way we had. He had sad news. Georges had died just before Christmas of a heart attack. We were devastated. Georges had become a true friend and his gite a real home to us. We have not been back. Somehow it just wouldn't be the same without him. Memory fades, but from time to time, usually as I'm sipping a glass of rather inferior wine, I think of him, his fabulous wine and his amazing zest for all the good things of life, and I raise my glass, take a gulp and with a lump in my throat say, “Here's to you, Georges.”
Happy daze!
The evening seemed to fly by and the drinks slid down. It was getting on for midnight when we tried to get away. Both of us had had too much to drink, but all the tackle was in the car and I didn't want to leave it. “No problem,” said the `patron'. “My wife will drive your car home for you and my son will follow to bring her home. Have another drink!” How could we refuse?
So that was that for this trip. It was not the most successful trip we'd ever had, but it was certainly the most enjoyable so far. We'd caught a decent number of carp using just the four rods between us. All bar one were doubles, with a personal best for Tat, backed up with four other twenties from both venues. As for me, I had that solitary twenty pound common from the river and a few other doubles, but Tat had been the kiddie on this trip, no question. Think I'll leave her at home next time!
We spent the next day looking at a couple of lakes nearby that Michael had said were worth a look. One was private but the other was a huge water that had a reputation for huge pike and zander, but also for some very big carp, which were supposed to live in it's dark depths. Little did I know it at the time but one of those two lakes was going to figure large in my angling life in a few years time, but that tale is for later. That evening, as Tat prepared a farewell feast, I strolled down to the point on the big lake by the gite. In the windswept darkness a couple of French carp anglers were just packing up. They'd had no action all day. I felt quite smug inside!
Georges and Jeanine came up for our final evening along with yet more Chateau Georges. If you were to put a fancy label on his produce and sell it in the UK you'd think nothing of paying twenty quid a bottle for it. We were getting it for practically nothing. The door bell rang. It was Michael and his pals from the bar, come to celebrate out departure in style. If you wonder why we keep going back to France time after time, perhaps now you can understand.
Two years later, in October 1993, we went back to the gite for a week. The big lake looked just the same apart from the level. The summer of that year had been appalling and heavy rains had brought the level up. The point was all but under water. Sadly the river was completely unfishable; over its banks and going through like an express train. But the fisherman's bar was just the same, Michael and his friends just as friendly. The Chateau Georges was better than ever.
Michael told me that in the summer he had been called out to witness a carp that had been caught by accident by a French pike angler. It had taken a livebait! The angler had kept the fish alive in a hessian sack until the official scales had arrived. After it had been weighed and recorded he wanted to kill it. Michael stopped him and returned the fish to the water. He watched as it swam off strongly and he turned to the astonished captor saying, “That one is for Tat or Ken.” What a lovely thought, and a startling change in attitude from a guy who had previously avowed death to all carp! The fish? It weighed fifty-five pounds!
(The record for the reservoir now stands at 28kg and because of this it is getting heavily fished by French carp anglers. I think I have given you enough clues if you want to find it yourself, so good luck if you happen to trip over it on your travels.)
Postscript: In January 1994 we had a ‘phone call from an English angler who had found George's gite by accident in much the same way we had. He had sad news. Georges had died just before Christmas of a heart attack. We were devastated. Georges had become a true friend and his gite a real home to us. We have not been back. Somehow it just wouldn't be the same without him. Memory fades, but from time to time, usually as I'm sipping a glass of rather inferior wine, I think of him, his fabulous wine and his amazing zest for all the good things of life, and I raise my glass, take a gulp and with a lump in my throat say, “Here's to you, Georges.”
In reply to Post #275
Going to take a bit of a break for a week or two. It's been a long winter but at last I feel the urge to fish again. There is more to come though so be patient!
Going to take a bit of a break for a week or two. It's been a long winter but at last I feel the urge to fish again. There is more to come though so be patient!
Not looked in here for a while and only just scanned through the latest additions to this magnificent thread, gonna take me a while to catch up!
Absolutely brilliant Ken, a real carp life
Absolutely brilliant Ken, a real carp life
In reply to Post #277
Cheers, mate!
Now read on...
RUMOURS: September 1992
In the early summer of 1991 I began to pick up the odd whisper on the grapevine about an astonishing catch of big carp from an unknown water in eastern France. My French pal Franck had told us when we first met of a water in the east that was producing loads of big carp. It seemed that a Parisian carp angler had caught twenty-eight carp, most of which were over thirty pounds in weight, his biggest fish being fifty-one pounds. And all this in just three days fishing, on his own during daylight hours only. He'd caught 1,000lbs of fish, with an average weight of thirty-eight pounds!
I had an inkling that the water was Lac du Der but wasn't sure...I should have picked up on that shouldn't I! Later that same year I heard that Alan Taylor had enjoyed similar, if not better success on a lake, described variously as being in both southern and northern France at the same time. Was this Lac du Der? Finally, in the winter of came news from Bill Cottam of Nutrabaits. He was in the process of putting together the bait catalogue for the coming year. One of his Dutch tackle shops had sent in a story for the magazine. It concerned the capture of a massive carp, almost seventy pounds in weight, from a French lake, somewhere in the east of the country. Apparently a of Dutch guys had put together a catch comprising of thirteen twenties, thirteen thirties, five forties and the Beast, as they called it. Not content with their success one of the party, Arnout Terlouw, a carp angler of great repute in Holland and the rest of Europe, went back to the lake and caught the fish again at a weight of over 65lb. Lac du Der again?
By the summer of '92 I had been corresponding with Dutch fishing journalist, Cor de Man for over a year, and it was from him that the word came back about the lac du Der-Chantecoq, and this was the lake that had been throwing up the big bags of large fish. Arnout's fish was not from the Der but from another, much smaller barrage in eastern France the identity of which was not immediately forthcoming. I began scrutinising the detailed maps of the region with greater care. Previously the area had held little attraction for me, my preference being for the less popular lakes of western France and Brittany. I knew that it was only a matter of time before the masses of UK anglers discovered these wonder lakes but these impressive catches were hard to ignore and I found myself becoming ever more drawn under the spell cast by the prospect of a truly giant carp, so armed with a list of potential lakes and Henri Limouzin's reference book, “Where to fish in France”, I began telephoning the local tourist offices, the offices of the regional angling federations and the larger fishing tackle shops in the region.
My confidence with the French language had been growing with every visit, to a point where I was now able to carry on a basic telephone conversation, ask the right questions and, up to a point, understand the answers. But several phone calls later, I was no further forward and was becoming just a tad dispirited. Then came the breakthrough I was hoping for. It started innocuously enough with a phone call to yet another tourist information office. After a somewhat halting exchange the girl on the information desk gave me the number of a tackle shop in the town. They would be able to give me all the help I required, she told me.
I rang the number, “Hallo!” came a Gitaine-laced greeting. In for a penny, Ken...
“Bonjour, monsieur. Je voudrais des rensegnements de la peche a la carpe dans votre departement, s'il-vous plait!” I impressed myself if not the guy on the other end. The babble that came back over the wire was far too quick for me to understand. I didn't even know if I had phrased my question correctly - I would like some information about carp fishing in your area, please - that was what I had tried to say. The babble continued in my ear. “Lentement, lentement, je vous en prie." (Speak more slowly please.)
If the bloke on the other end understood me, he gave no sign. I had obviously just contacted France's most talkative tackle dealer who was now pouring valuable information down the phone, information that I could not understand. I put the phone down on the hall table, hoping that he would not realise I was not listening for the moment, and dashed into the living room. There I grabbed my pocket tape recorder, checked there was a new tape in the machine and got back to the phone with my own personal French Connection still in full flow.
Cheers, mate!
Now read on...
RUMOURS: September 1992
In the early summer of 1991 I began to pick up the odd whisper on the grapevine about an astonishing catch of big carp from an unknown water in eastern France. My French pal Franck had told us when we first met of a water in the east that was producing loads of big carp. It seemed that a Parisian carp angler had caught twenty-eight carp, most of which were over thirty pounds in weight, his biggest fish being fifty-one pounds. And all this in just three days fishing, on his own during daylight hours only. He'd caught 1,000lbs of fish, with an average weight of thirty-eight pounds!
I had an inkling that the water was Lac du Der but wasn't sure...I should have picked up on that shouldn't I! Later that same year I heard that Alan Taylor had enjoyed similar, if not better success on a lake, described variously as being in both southern and northern France at the same time. Was this Lac du Der? Finally, in the winter of came news from Bill Cottam of Nutrabaits. He was in the process of putting together the bait catalogue for the coming year. One of his Dutch tackle shops had sent in a story for the magazine. It concerned the capture of a massive carp, almost seventy pounds in weight, from a French lake, somewhere in the east of the country. Apparently a of Dutch guys had put together a catch comprising of thirteen twenties, thirteen thirties, five forties and the Beast, as they called it. Not content with their success one of the party, Arnout Terlouw, a carp angler of great repute in Holland and the rest of Europe, went back to the lake and caught the fish again at a weight of over 65lb. Lac du Der again?
By the summer of '92 I had been corresponding with Dutch fishing journalist, Cor de Man for over a year, and it was from him that the word came back about the lac du Der-Chantecoq, and this was the lake that had been throwing up the big bags of large fish. Arnout's fish was not from the Der but from another, much smaller barrage in eastern France the identity of which was not immediately forthcoming. I began scrutinising the detailed maps of the region with greater care. Previously the area had held little attraction for me, my preference being for the less popular lakes of western France and Brittany. I knew that it was only a matter of time before the masses of UK anglers discovered these wonder lakes but these impressive catches were hard to ignore and I found myself becoming ever more drawn under the spell cast by the prospect of a truly giant carp, so armed with a list of potential lakes and Henri Limouzin's reference book, “Where to fish in France”, I began telephoning the local tourist offices, the offices of the regional angling federations and the larger fishing tackle shops in the region.
My confidence with the French language had been growing with every visit, to a point where I was now able to carry on a basic telephone conversation, ask the right questions and, up to a point, understand the answers. But several phone calls later, I was no further forward and was becoming just a tad dispirited. Then came the breakthrough I was hoping for. It started innocuously enough with a phone call to yet another tourist information office. After a somewhat halting exchange the girl on the information desk gave me the number of a tackle shop in the town. They would be able to give me all the help I required, she told me.
I rang the number, “Hallo!” came a Gitaine-laced greeting. In for a penny, Ken...
“Bonjour, monsieur. Je voudrais des rensegnements de la peche a la carpe dans votre departement, s'il-vous plait!” I impressed myself if not the guy on the other end. The babble that came back over the wire was far too quick for me to understand. I didn't even know if I had phrased my question correctly - I would like some information about carp fishing in your area, please - that was what I had tried to say. The babble continued in my ear. “Lentement, lentement, je vous en prie." (Speak more slowly please.)
If the bloke on the other end understood me, he gave no sign. I had obviously just contacted France's most talkative tackle dealer who was now pouring valuable information down the phone, information that I could not understand. I put the phone down on the hall table, hoping that he would not realise I was not listening for the moment, and dashed into the living room. There I grabbed my pocket tape recorder, checked there was a new tape in the machine and got back to the phone with my own personal French Connection still in full flow.
In reply to Post #278
Which is how I came to fill a quarter of an hour of tape with the recorded voice of a distant tackle shop owner dripping priceless jewels of carpy information onto the machine's slowly revolving spools. Several hours with the dictionary and I had all the information I required. Five, possibly six lakes , plus a stretch of river, all of which had produced some very big carp. The lakes were not being heavily fished and the river's potential had hardly been touched. Oh, yes! One of the lakes had produced a leather that had weighed in at thirty-one kilos. Surely this was the venue where Arnout had caught.
The lake in question, one of four that lie within an hour of each other along a deep valley, was big - seven hundred acres big, long and narrow, divided into three sections by bridges that spanned the long finger of deep water. A railway line to the south, a main road to the north. Shouldn't be hard to find. I opened the map and went straight to it. I was all of a twitch, now that I knew where a truly monstrous fish had been caught, but then a letter from Cor de Man arrived. Enclosed was a copy of an article in German magazine, `Blinker`, by a German guy who'd tracked down Arnout's lake. Not only had he caught the same fish, he also gave chapter and verse of how to find the lake etc. Thanks a bunch, pal! Cor wrote that the lake was now getting heavily pressured and the Garde-Peche were becoming fierce! In the same letter Cor mentioned that he'd heard of another lake nearby that was producing some big fish but it too was becoming very busy with loads of Dutch and German anglers on it. It looked is if it was now or never if I was going to get onto one of these lakes before the world and his wife joined me. This is the lake in question, or a small part of it. The pairs of poles driven into the lake bed are a common sight on many French barrage lakes. They are used by pike and zander anglers to moor up. They can be a right pain in the arse!
Now to book a ferry. I was tempted by a good deal on Stenna Sealink's Newhaven-Dieppe route offering a fifty percent reduction for return trips taken in September. It tipped the scales. My mate Speedy Bill had earlier mentioned that he would be only too happy to go carp fishing in France again whenever I fancied. I gave him a call to ask if he was free for the proposed dates. Yes, he was. Excellent!
Before we left home I phoned Cor to tell him where we would be fishing and when. He told me that he and his missus were taking some leave in mid-September and were planning on visiting the same region; that it would be great if we could arrange the dates and maybe fish together. I booked the cheap Newhaven - Dieppe crossing for the morning of 6th September. I knew that Gary was crossing the same route two days earlier and was intending to fish one of the four lakes. We arranged to meet him on the bankside.
Meanwhile, we needed some bait! I rang Mick Richardson of Supremo baits and arranged for Speedy to go round to his house to collect 40 kilos of mixed ready-mades. The information that was filtering back from Cor indicated that there was something of a crayfish problem on the all the big eastern lakes and rock hard boilies were the order of the day. We knew from sad experience that the Richworth shelfies of the time were too soft and not even their 18mm jobs would last any length of time given the presence of crays and poison-chats. A shame, for I had always done well on the Birdfood Enhancer version but there was no getting away from it, the Richworths were too soft for most waters in the east of France. American signal crayfish, six inches long, make short work of most baits, and only rock hard jobs would suffice if we were not to be plagued by hoards of the little monsters.
To augment the ready mades we I got busy with rolling tables and bait guns. As it happened, I was at the beginning of a research program into chemical preservatives that would work on ordinary home produced baits. I had been in touch with a laboratory in Exeter where a member of the staff suggested a preservative called potassium sorbate that he reckoned might do the trick. I bought 500g of the stuff, half of which I sent to Speedy for his bait. (Much later I passed on my findings to Big Bill at Nutrabaits and not long after, with my full approval, the company released their own boiled bait preserver, Preservabait.
Which is how I came to fill a quarter of an hour of tape with the recorded voice of a distant tackle shop owner dripping priceless jewels of carpy information onto the machine's slowly revolving spools. Several hours with the dictionary and I had all the information I required. Five, possibly six lakes , plus a stretch of river, all of which had produced some very big carp. The lakes were not being heavily fished and the river's potential had hardly been touched. Oh, yes! One of the lakes had produced a leather that had weighed in at thirty-one kilos. Surely this was the venue where Arnout had caught.
The lake in question, one of four that lie within an hour of each other along a deep valley, was big - seven hundred acres big, long and narrow, divided into three sections by bridges that spanned the long finger of deep water. A railway line to the south, a main road to the north. Shouldn't be hard to find. I opened the map and went straight to it. I was all of a twitch, now that I knew where a truly monstrous fish had been caught, but then a letter from Cor de Man arrived. Enclosed was a copy of an article in German magazine, `Blinker`, by a German guy who'd tracked down Arnout's lake. Not only had he caught the same fish, he also gave chapter and verse of how to find the lake etc. Thanks a bunch, pal! Cor wrote that the lake was now getting heavily pressured and the Garde-Peche were becoming fierce! In the same letter Cor mentioned that he'd heard of another lake nearby that was producing some big fish but it too was becoming very busy with loads of Dutch and German anglers on it. It looked is if it was now or never if I was going to get onto one of these lakes before the world and his wife joined me. This is the lake in question, or a small part of it. The pairs of poles driven into the lake bed are a common sight on many French barrage lakes. They are used by pike and zander anglers to moor up. They can be a right pain in the arse!
Now to book a ferry. I was tempted by a good deal on Stenna Sealink's Newhaven-Dieppe route offering a fifty percent reduction for return trips taken in September. It tipped the scales. My mate Speedy Bill had earlier mentioned that he would be only too happy to go carp fishing in France again whenever I fancied. I gave him a call to ask if he was free for the proposed dates. Yes, he was. Excellent!
Before we left home I phoned Cor to tell him where we would be fishing and when. He told me that he and his missus were taking some leave in mid-September and were planning on visiting the same region; that it would be great if we could arrange the dates and maybe fish together. I booked the cheap Newhaven - Dieppe crossing for the morning of 6th September. I knew that Gary was crossing the same route two days earlier and was intending to fish one of the four lakes. We arranged to meet him on the bankside.
Meanwhile, we needed some bait! I rang Mick Richardson of Supremo baits and arranged for Speedy to go round to his house to collect 40 kilos of mixed ready-mades. The information that was filtering back from Cor indicated that there was something of a crayfish problem on the all the big eastern lakes and rock hard boilies were the order of the day. We knew from sad experience that the Richworth shelfies of the time were too soft and not even their 18mm jobs would last any length of time given the presence of crays and poison-chats. A shame, for I had always done well on the Birdfood Enhancer version but there was no getting away from it, the Richworths were too soft for most waters in the east of France. American signal crayfish, six inches long, make short work of most baits, and only rock hard jobs would suffice if we were not to be plagued by hoards of the little monsters.
To augment the ready mades we I got busy with rolling tables and bait guns. As it happened, I was at the beginning of a research program into chemical preservatives that would work on ordinary home produced baits. I had been in touch with a laboratory in Exeter where a member of the staff suggested a preservative called potassium sorbate that he reckoned might do the trick. I bought 500g of the stuff, half of which I sent to Speedy for his bait. (Much later I passed on my findings to Big Bill at Nutrabaits and not long after, with my full approval, the company released their own boiled bait preserver, Preservabait.
In reply to Post #279
I got busy making up forty mixes of a Preservabait-enhanced Enervite/Hi-Nu-Val combination, flavoured with a sweetener and the same liquid enhancer that Bob Baker was using in the birdfood shelf lifes. The finished baits were dried out for 72 hours before being bagged. I had my fingers firmly crossed that my home made preservative would do the trick. Bill, meanwhile, was hard at work in his own bait kitchen, making tons of his own, highly unique, Obnoxious Blend mix, also flavoured with the liquid enhancer that he'd been using since his early days in Savay. By a strange coincidence his baits smelt remarkably similar to my own. I can't think why!
With over seventy kilos of boilies to cram into my little Renault, let alone the rest of our tackle and clothes, there was absolutely no room for any particles or mass baits. We would just have to rely on boilies to do the trick. As we waited impatiently for departure-day to come around, news came back from Chantecoq of still more incredible bags of big carp. It certainly appeared that the lake was one fit to go straight into the book of dreams, with thirties being commonplace and forties almost equally so.
Franck Matin (see earlier posts) rang to tell me of a trip to Chanty from which he'd just returned. In a ten day period two of them had caught fifty-three fish of which thirty-three were over thirty pounds and ten over forty pounds! Franck broke his personal best five times in two days and when I tell you that his previous PB was thirty-eight pounds, you'll realise what a staggering achievement that was! On the down side, Franck told me that there was considerable aggravation from the authorities over night fishing and the need for boat licences. Camping on the lakeside was strictly forbidden, even putting a brolly up was construed as camping. And then there was the mud! If you've fished there, you'll know what I mean. If you haven't, well, lets put it this way, Franck said me that, no matter what I had previously experienced in the way of mud, nothing compare to Der when the level was down.
It sounded awful and though it was clearly the next big circuit water, full of thirties and forties. I think there has got to be a bit of beauty in a lake, and fishing a sea of mud, albeit for big fish, wasn't as tempting to me as you might imagine. For all that, it would be silly not to take a look at the water.
Just before he was due to leave, Gary rang. Someone had been tempting him too. and he was going to look at Chanty on the way down. I agreed that a look at the lake couldn't do any harm adding that we could always move on if it was not to our liking. I knew only one landmark on the lake, the church at Champaubert, so we arranged to meet up by the church. Cor had mentioned a reasonable camp site there, so we amended our plans.
I poured over the map, and eventually sorted out what I hoped would be the best route to the lake from Dieppe. We would be arriving in France at about ten in the morning on the Sunday. Five hours maximum to the lake, I thought. The allegedly terrifying Peripherique, the ring road around Paris, will be almost empty! Piece of cake...Oh, you think so do you?
The day before we were due to sail I packed the car and then dove up to collect Bill on the Saturday before we were due to sail. After squeezing his gear into the car we walked up to the pub for a few beers to ease the tension that always swamps me whenever I get anywhere near the M25. A message awaited us when we got back to Bill's house: Gary had rung to say that Chantecoq was an arse'ole of a place! Cancel Plan B: revert to Plan A! I wondered what was wrong with it. Bill's sister who had taken the message mentioned something about mud! I was secretly pleased that we'd be giving the lake a miss, to be honest.
Sunday, first light, saw us boarding the ferry at Newhaven. I was knackered having passed a sleepless night in excited anticipation. The crossing was the usual mix of beer and boredom, but at least the weather was kind to me. At Dieppe we drove straight off the boat and in minutes were deep in the heart of the Normandy countryside, heading for Rouen, and the motorway to Paris. By lunchtime the slender finger of the Eiffel Tower loomed ever larger as we approached the capital and its legendary ring road, the Peripherique.
I got busy making up forty mixes of a Preservabait-enhanced Enervite/Hi-Nu-Val combination, flavoured with a sweetener and the same liquid enhancer that Bob Baker was using in the birdfood shelf lifes. The finished baits were dried out for 72 hours before being bagged. I had my fingers firmly crossed that my home made preservative would do the trick. Bill, meanwhile, was hard at work in his own bait kitchen, making tons of his own, highly unique, Obnoxious Blend mix, also flavoured with the liquid enhancer that he'd been using since his early days in Savay. By a strange coincidence his baits smelt remarkably similar to my own. I can't think why!
With over seventy kilos of boilies to cram into my little Renault, let alone the rest of our tackle and clothes, there was absolutely no room for any particles or mass baits. We would just have to rely on boilies to do the trick. As we waited impatiently for departure-day to come around, news came back from Chantecoq of still more incredible bags of big carp. It certainly appeared that the lake was one fit to go straight into the book of dreams, with thirties being commonplace and forties almost equally so.
Franck Matin (see earlier posts) rang to tell me of a trip to Chanty from which he'd just returned. In a ten day period two of them had caught fifty-three fish of which thirty-three were over thirty pounds and ten over forty pounds! Franck broke his personal best five times in two days and when I tell you that his previous PB was thirty-eight pounds, you'll realise what a staggering achievement that was! On the down side, Franck told me that there was considerable aggravation from the authorities over night fishing and the need for boat licences. Camping on the lakeside was strictly forbidden, even putting a brolly up was construed as camping. And then there was the mud! If you've fished there, you'll know what I mean. If you haven't, well, lets put it this way, Franck said me that, no matter what I had previously experienced in the way of mud, nothing compare to Der when the level was down.
It sounded awful and though it was clearly the next big circuit water, full of thirties and forties. I think there has got to be a bit of beauty in a lake, and fishing a sea of mud, albeit for big fish, wasn't as tempting to me as you might imagine. For all that, it would be silly not to take a look at the water.
Just before he was due to leave, Gary rang. Someone had been tempting him too. and he was going to look at Chanty on the way down. I agreed that a look at the lake couldn't do any harm adding that we could always move on if it was not to our liking. I knew only one landmark on the lake, the church at Champaubert, so we arranged to meet up by the church. Cor had mentioned a reasonable camp site there, so we amended our plans.
I poured over the map, and eventually sorted out what I hoped would be the best route to the lake from Dieppe. We would be arriving in France at about ten in the morning on the Sunday. Five hours maximum to the lake, I thought. The allegedly terrifying Peripherique, the ring road around Paris, will be almost empty! Piece of cake...Oh, you think so do you?
The day before we were due to sail I packed the car and then dove up to collect Bill on the Saturday before we were due to sail. After squeezing his gear into the car we walked up to the pub for a few beers to ease the tension that always swamps me whenever I get anywhere near the M25. A message awaited us when we got back to Bill's house: Gary had rung to say that Chantecoq was an arse'ole of a place! Cancel Plan B: revert to Plan A! I wondered what was wrong with it. Bill's sister who had taken the message mentioned something about mud! I was secretly pleased that we'd be giving the lake a miss, to be honest.
Sunday, first light, saw us boarding the ferry at Newhaven. I was knackered having passed a sleepless night in excited anticipation. The crossing was the usual mix of beer and boredom, but at least the weather was kind to me. At Dieppe we drove straight off the boat and in minutes were deep in the heart of the Normandy countryside, heading for Rouen, and the motorway to Paris. By lunchtime the slender finger of the Eiffel Tower loomed ever larger as we approached the capital and its legendary ring road, the Peripherique.
In reply to Post #280
(I am reminded of an, allegedly true story. Keith the Tooth and a mate were en route for St Cassien, driving the tackle laden van, while the other members of the party belted south ahead of them in two cars. The Tooth had only the vaguest idea of the route but one thing he had been told was to always keep the Eiffel Tower on your left. Keith reminded his mate of this little piece of wisdom, telling him to keep his eyes open as they approached the city from the north, on the motorway in from Calais. “Fair enough,” said the mate. All seemed to be going well, except that they seemed to have been on the ring road for longer than Keith had expected. He began to get the nasty feeling that they might have missed their turning and were about to do a second circuit. His worst fears were confirmed when until the mate spoke: “This Eiffel Tower thing,” he asked warily. “What about it?” said Keith. “What does it look like?” asked the mate!)
Traffic seemed light on the way in from Dieppe but snarl-up that greeted us as we drove through the underpass at the southern end of the Bois de Boulogne and onto the Periphferique was horrendous. Now I knew why all the guide books, backed up with the advice of friends, said avoid this ring road at all costs! Why had I ignored them!
I knew the exit we wanted, it was called the Porte de Bercy. It looked quite jolly as we drove under it, still on the ring road. I couldn't have crossed over to the exit if my life had depended on it. There was so much traffic criss-crossing in front of me I was feeling dizzy. Luckily I managed to work my way across into the right-hand lane in time to make the next exit, the Porte de Charenton in the Bois de Vincennes, and somehow, by a mixture of good luck and lousy judgement, we managed to find our way onto the A4 Paris - Reims motorway, only to hit the wrong turn-off which took us onto the N4, a dreadful, single carriageway road that was choked with Sunday drivers.
Turning off towards Provins and Troyes eventually brought us back onto the south-bound motorway, the A5, and as we picked up speed at last, Bill told me that we were passing a big reservoir that I'd heard about from Cor earlier that year. “Shall we have a look at that one on the way down,” he asked. “Bugger that!” I replied. “I'm not stopping until we get to our original destination. There had been enough detours today already, thank-you.”
What a mistake that was! The reservoir we were rushing past with gay abandon was none other than the now very famous, the Lac de la Foret D'Orient. In less than a year's time, history would be made on its banks. Leon Hoojendjik was just twelve months away from a seventy pound common!
After a brief stop for a meal, we finally arrived at the lake where we had agreed to meet Gary at nine o'clock in the evening after an ten hour drive. It wasn't supposed to take that long, but you learn from your mistakes, and taking the Peripherique was just one of the many that I made that day. Too shattered to go looking for Gary in the gathering gloom, we drove on to the lakeside camp site, pitched the bivvies and went to find the nearest bar.
I slept like a log that night and awoke early on the Monday morning to find a beautiful sunrise just peeping over the tops of the heavily wooded hillside that loomed over the northern bank of the lake. It was quite chilly and very still, the air crisp and fresh. Below me the lake spread before me in a panorama that dominated the valley, its surface calm and undisturbed. It was beautiful! I sat on a rock, overlooking the full length of the five-hundred acre wilderness, and as the sun rose, huge and orange, it kissed the lake with a warmth and softness that only added to the poetry of the moment.
(I am reminded of an, allegedly true story. Keith the Tooth and a mate were en route for St Cassien, driving the tackle laden van, while the other members of the party belted south ahead of them in two cars. The Tooth had only the vaguest idea of the route but one thing he had been told was to always keep the Eiffel Tower on your left. Keith reminded his mate of this little piece of wisdom, telling him to keep his eyes open as they approached the city from the north, on the motorway in from Calais. “Fair enough,” said the mate. All seemed to be going well, except that they seemed to have been on the ring road for longer than Keith had expected. He began to get the nasty feeling that they might have missed their turning and were about to do a second circuit. His worst fears were confirmed when until the mate spoke: “This Eiffel Tower thing,” he asked warily. “What about it?” said Keith. “What does it look like?” asked the mate!)
Traffic seemed light on the way in from Dieppe but snarl-up that greeted us as we drove through the underpass at the southern end of the Bois de Boulogne and onto the Periphferique was horrendous. Now I knew why all the guide books, backed up with the advice of friends, said avoid this ring road at all costs! Why had I ignored them!
I knew the exit we wanted, it was called the Porte de Bercy. It looked quite jolly as we drove under it, still on the ring road. I couldn't have crossed over to the exit if my life had depended on it. There was so much traffic criss-crossing in front of me I was feeling dizzy. Luckily I managed to work my way across into the right-hand lane in time to make the next exit, the Porte de Charenton in the Bois de Vincennes, and somehow, by a mixture of good luck and lousy judgement, we managed to find our way onto the A4 Paris - Reims motorway, only to hit the wrong turn-off which took us onto the N4, a dreadful, single carriageway road that was choked with Sunday drivers.
Turning off towards Provins and Troyes eventually brought us back onto the south-bound motorway, the A5, and as we picked up speed at last, Bill told me that we were passing a big reservoir that I'd heard about from Cor earlier that year. “Shall we have a look at that one on the way down,” he asked. “Bugger that!” I replied. “I'm not stopping until we get to our original destination. There had been enough detours today already, thank-you.”
What a mistake that was! The reservoir we were rushing past with gay abandon was none other than the now very famous, the Lac de la Foret D'Orient. In less than a year's time, history would be made on its banks. Leon Hoojendjik was just twelve months away from a seventy pound common!
After a brief stop for a meal, we finally arrived at the lake where we had agreed to meet Gary at nine o'clock in the evening after an ten hour drive. It wasn't supposed to take that long, but you learn from your mistakes, and taking the Peripherique was just one of the many that I made that day. Too shattered to go looking for Gary in the gathering gloom, we drove on to the lakeside camp site, pitched the bivvies and went to find the nearest bar.
I slept like a log that night and awoke early on the Monday morning to find a beautiful sunrise just peeping over the tops of the heavily wooded hillside that loomed over the northern bank of the lake. It was quite chilly and very still, the air crisp and fresh. Below me the lake spread before me in a panorama that dominated the valley, its surface calm and undisturbed. It was beautiful! I sat on a rock, overlooking the full length of the five-hundred acre wilderness, and as the sun rose, huge and orange, it kissed the lake with a warmth and softness that only added to the poetry of the moment.
In reply to Post #281
We went down to the bar by the lakeside and ate an unfulfilling Continental breakfast, then set off to look for Gary. I had a rough idea where to look, but despite that, we still got lost several times, often taking what looked like promising side roads that should have led down to the lake, only to find ourselves in a farmyard or a field, Finally we got it right and broke through a stand of trees to find the lake stretched out in front of us, dominated by a point that Gary had been advised to fish by some German friends. Sure enough, there was Gary's bivvy.
I shouted and whistled across the quarter of a mile of calm lake water that separated us. Two small figures appeared from within one of the bivvies, waved, then took to a small dinghy and started rowing across to us. Squelching through the knee-deep mud that lined the margins, Gary and Alison waded ashore to greet us. We explained our late arrival and then asked him what was wrong with Chantecoq. What was the problem? This is what he told us...
“Problems? You name it, it's there. The bays near the church were completely stitched up. There were rods everywhere. We drove round to another likely area on the south-west bank and that was busy too. Finally we ended up opposite the church at the northern end of the lake, only to find loads of French and Dutch anglers there who seemed very upset at being spotted by an English angler. It appears that this area is the new hot stop and we heathens haven't yet discovered it. You've been rumbled! We drove back to the church and looked at the rather disappointing campsite we'd been told about. Very expensive and not too clean. And then there's the mud, acre upon acre of it. We said `sod this!` and got back into the car for the drive down here. That's about it really. The mud you see here is nothing compared to Chantecoq. It was an arse'ole of a place, as I said on the phone. Wouldn't fish it if it held carp of a hundred pounds.”
“So when did you get here?” I asked.
“Two days ago,” said Gary. “By pure chance we drove straight down the right road, arrived here and saw that the swim was free, so we loaded up the boat and went over right away."
“So, any good?” I asked.
“Had a bream.” said Gary.
“No carp?”
“Nothing!”
“Seen anything?”
“Nothing!”
“Heard anything?”
“Nothing!”
“Is there anyone else fishing here?”
“Yes. There's an English guy down there in the bay. He's fishing with a Dutch friend of his. They've had nothing. There's a party of four Dutch anglers on this bank about a mile down to the left.” He pointed. “There, see them? They've been here a week and they've had nothing. There are two French guys right down by the damn...”
“Not now there aren't,” I interrupted.
“Then they must have moved, or perhaps they've gone to another lake. Anyway, they've had nothing.”
“It's fishing well, then?” said Bill, laughing.
“Brilliantly!” said Gary, not laughing.
“****!” I exclaimed.
“Quite!” agreed Alison.
It was time for Bill and me to make a decision. I rummaged in the car for the motoring atlas. “Why don't we try this lake down the valley. The tackle dealer I spoke to on the phone told me that there were carp in there and Cor de Man has also tipped me the wink about it. We can't do any worse that you are doing here, so we'll give that place a try and if we start catching we'll come and tell you and we can team up. Same applies if you start bagging up"
“Good plan,” agreed Gary.
Leaving our bivvies and most of our gear on the camp site, we set of for the next lake on the list and about fifty minutes later we pulled up on the barrage. The lake was completely deserted.
We went down to the bar by the lakeside and ate an unfulfilling Continental breakfast, then set off to look for Gary. I had a rough idea where to look, but despite that, we still got lost several times, often taking what looked like promising side roads that should have led down to the lake, only to find ourselves in a farmyard or a field, Finally we got it right and broke through a stand of trees to find the lake stretched out in front of us, dominated by a point that Gary had been advised to fish by some German friends. Sure enough, there was Gary's bivvy.
I shouted and whistled across the quarter of a mile of calm lake water that separated us. Two small figures appeared from within one of the bivvies, waved, then took to a small dinghy and started rowing across to us. Squelching through the knee-deep mud that lined the margins, Gary and Alison waded ashore to greet us. We explained our late arrival and then asked him what was wrong with Chantecoq. What was the problem? This is what he told us...
“Problems? You name it, it's there. The bays near the church were completely stitched up. There were rods everywhere. We drove round to another likely area on the south-west bank and that was busy too. Finally we ended up opposite the church at the northern end of the lake, only to find loads of French and Dutch anglers there who seemed very upset at being spotted by an English angler. It appears that this area is the new hot stop and we heathens haven't yet discovered it. You've been rumbled! We drove back to the church and looked at the rather disappointing campsite we'd been told about. Very expensive and not too clean. And then there's the mud, acre upon acre of it. We said `sod this!` and got back into the car for the drive down here. That's about it really. The mud you see here is nothing compared to Chantecoq. It was an arse'ole of a place, as I said on the phone. Wouldn't fish it if it held carp of a hundred pounds.”
“So when did you get here?” I asked.
“Two days ago,” said Gary. “By pure chance we drove straight down the right road, arrived here and saw that the swim was free, so we loaded up the boat and went over right away."
“So, any good?” I asked.
“Had a bream.” said Gary.
“No carp?”
“Nothing!”
“Seen anything?”
“Nothing!”
“Heard anything?”
“Nothing!”
“Is there anyone else fishing here?”
“Yes. There's an English guy down there in the bay. He's fishing with a Dutch friend of his. They've had nothing. There's a party of four Dutch anglers on this bank about a mile down to the left.” He pointed. “There, see them? They've been here a week and they've had nothing. There are two French guys right down by the damn...”
“Not now there aren't,” I interrupted.
“Then they must have moved, or perhaps they've gone to another lake. Anyway, they've had nothing.”
“It's fishing well, then?” said Bill, laughing.
“Brilliantly!” said Gary, not laughing.
“****!” I exclaimed.
“Quite!” agreed Alison.
It was time for Bill and me to make a decision. I rummaged in the car for the motoring atlas. “Why don't we try this lake down the valley. The tackle dealer I spoke to on the phone told me that there were carp in there and Cor de Man has also tipped me the wink about it. We can't do any worse that you are doing here, so we'll give that place a try and if we start catching we'll come and tell you and we can team up. Same applies if you start bagging up"
“Good plan,” agreed Gary.
Leaving our bivvies and most of our gear on the camp site, we set of for the next lake on the list and about fifty minutes later we pulled up on the barrage. The lake was completely deserted.
In reply to Post #282
We set up the bivvies about a couple of hundred yards down the bank from the French guy's point. At water's edge the margins were slippery and very muddy, but about twenty yards back, fresh dry grass and ferns grew in profusion giving a flat, comfortable area on which to bivvy. It was early evening before we were both set up to our satisfaction. We'd put a bit of bait in sort of willy-nilly but spread over a large area using a throwing stick in my case and a caty in Bill's. He could not get the hang of a stick no matter how hard he tried; in fact the harder he tried the more frustrated he became and I'll tell you a funny story about that one day!
The weather had been kind to us from the minute we'd set foot in France, and it continued that way, sunny but not too hot, with a moderate southerly breeze that puffed towards us up the full length of the lake. The sun had long since dropped behind the trees behind us, but it still shone brightly on the sand-golden shore of the far bank where a few young kids were playing and swimming. On the point our new found friend sat crunched on an uncomfortable folding stool, gazing intently at the water and his rods in turn, as if willing one of them to burst into life. He was not using buzzers, his only indication of a take coming from a slice of potato, slit half way across and wedged onto the line. Shades of Dick Walker!
Bill looked up the bank at his motionless form. “He's a bit bloody keen, isn't he?”
“He's only a child, Bill,” I told him. “He'll learn. For the moment he has youth and patience on his side. One day, when he's older and more blasé, no doubt he'll loose some of that keenness, and become a plebe like us.”
We went into town to do some shopping and get the licences, stopping on the way back for fresh water from a tap in a village square. A small bar looked inviting and as both of us have the breaking strain of a Kit-Kat, we didn't take much persuading.
“Fancy a beer?”
“Need you ask!”
Later that evening, as the last of the suns rays slid away from the treetops on the far bank, we sat by the bivvies eating a dinner of Boeuf Bourguignon, new potatoes and carrots, all washed down with a couple of bottles of Bordeaux. We felt, at last, as if we were actually on holiday.
We were both fishing about seventy yards out, our baits lying on a silty lake bed in (we estimated) about twenty feet of water. We'd seen no sign of a fish so far, but we were hopeful. It seemed that on the bank we were fishing the lake bed sloped gradually and evenly away to a depth of about thirty feet before rising again as it neared the far bank. Here the contours were much more broken with a few bars, gullies and the big plateau that the guy on the point had mentioned. Unfortunately we couldn't fish these areas without incurring the possible wrath of the other `regulars`, despite the fact that, for the moment they were nowhere to be seen.
Dusk fell, then night came fast. The sky cleared and a profusion of stars sparkled overhead. The heat of the day had fled with the sun and a keen chill fell over the lake. The wind dropped away completely and in the still air the only sound we could hear was the hooting of an owl in the trees on the far bank. It was a perfect ending to a hectic day.
We set up the bivvies about a couple of hundred yards down the bank from the French guy's point. At water's edge the margins were slippery and very muddy, but about twenty yards back, fresh dry grass and ferns grew in profusion giving a flat, comfortable area on which to bivvy. It was early evening before we were both set up to our satisfaction. We'd put a bit of bait in sort of willy-nilly but spread over a large area using a throwing stick in my case and a caty in Bill's. He could not get the hang of a stick no matter how hard he tried; in fact the harder he tried the more frustrated he became and I'll tell you a funny story about that one day!
The weather had been kind to us from the minute we'd set foot in France, and it continued that way, sunny but not too hot, with a moderate southerly breeze that puffed towards us up the full length of the lake. The sun had long since dropped behind the trees behind us, but it still shone brightly on the sand-golden shore of the far bank where a few young kids were playing and swimming. On the point our new found friend sat crunched on an uncomfortable folding stool, gazing intently at the water and his rods in turn, as if willing one of them to burst into life. He was not using buzzers, his only indication of a take coming from a slice of potato, slit half way across and wedged onto the line. Shades of Dick Walker!
Bill looked up the bank at his motionless form. “He's a bit bloody keen, isn't he?”
“He's only a child, Bill,” I told him. “He'll learn. For the moment he has youth and patience on his side. One day, when he's older and more blasé, no doubt he'll loose some of that keenness, and become a plebe like us.”
We went into town to do some shopping and get the licences, stopping on the way back for fresh water from a tap in a village square. A small bar looked inviting and as both of us have the breaking strain of a Kit-Kat, we didn't take much persuading.
“Fancy a beer?”
“Need you ask!”
Later that evening, as the last of the suns rays slid away from the treetops on the far bank, we sat by the bivvies eating a dinner of Boeuf Bourguignon, new potatoes and carrots, all washed down with a couple of bottles of Bordeaux. We felt, at last, as if we were actually on holiday.
We were both fishing about seventy yards out, our baits lying on a silty lake bed in (we estimated) about twenty feet of water. We'd seen no sign of a fish so far, but we were hopeful. It seemed that on the bank we were fishing the lake bed sloped gradually and evenly away to a depth of about thirty feet before rising again as it neared the far bank. Here the contours were much more broken with a few bars, gullies and the big plateau that the guy on the point had mentioned. Unfortunately we couldn't fish these areas without incurring the possible wrath of the other `regulars`, despite the fact that, for the moment they were nowhere to be seen.
Dusk fell, then night came fast. The sky cleared and a profusion of stars sparkled overhead. The heat of the day had fled with the sun and a keen chill fell over the lake. The wind dropped away completely and in the still air the only sound we could hear was the hooting of an owl in the trees on the far bank. It was a perfect ending to a hectic day.