The further from home I drove, the more despondent I became. The lake had sounded ideal when it was described to me, not too small, not too large, a few Carp, and not expensive either - a good old fashioned club water. Setting out I had high hopes that my long search for a lake would finally have come to an end and I could get back to Carping again.

Unfortunately, the minutes and miles flew past and the lake seemed an age away by the time I turned onto the bumpy, potholed track. I’d already decided in my mind that I couldn’t justify driving this far to fish, and more importantly I wouldn’t be able to get here often enough to mount a serious ‘campaign’ - to say I was disappointed was an understatement. So it was only out of grim determination, and a stubborn sense of obligation that I hopped the gate and walked into the unknown. Little did I know what this little corner of England held in store, and the lasting effect it would have on me.

It was mid summer, and the tail end of a long hot day as I walked down the long path from the locked front gate to the water itself. I first came to a bridge, to the right of which lay a stunning weir pool, boiling angrily and swirling overhanging branches in that perpetual, water-led dance. ‘Encouraging’ I though, as I pressed on through the flat, lush green landscape, trusting that the footpath would lead me to the lake I’d come to visit. Before reaching the lake I crossed another river, filled with gin clear water and chock full of silver fish slowly drifting into from the deep-water lilies to the faster, gravel bottomed runs where they darted amongst bright green streamer weed. My heart rate couldn’t help but quicken, this place was clearly full of fish and better still, devoid of anglers…

Across the bridge I was presented my first glance of the lake itself. Nestling at the base of rolling hills, the wind was pushing hard across the water’s surface, yet large areas remained unflustered: weed, and lots of it. I walked closer through long, unkempt grass following a blissfully lightly trodden path, and as more of the lake’s larger, more open end revealed itself I could see that this was the real thing: clear water, reed fringed margins and huge weed beds dominating the water’s surface.

As someone recently saddened to discover the loss of an old favourite water, sold away to profits and pillaged of it’s true English, Carping soul, I could feel again the stirring of something distinctly ‘right’ in the world of fishing. Here I was walking round a deserted gravel pit, in the heart of the English countryside, walking into every swim and taking in the view - each one only marginally different from the last, but equally enthralling. I knew that the lake contained Carp, hidden amongst the weeds and the waves that battered and soothed the water’s surface in turn, but, wonderfully I had no idea how many, or how big.

As the lake tapered, the river I had crossed earlier came into view on my right hand side. Well hidden amongst tall, wild grass I peered through lilies into clear, flowing water filled with monstrous looking lilies and water ‘cabbage’. Deeper here, than at the bridge the dark depths screamed ‘Carp’, and although utterly unfishable I couldn’t help but wonder just what might have swum between lake and river, and vice versa.

Arriving at the last swim towards the narrow end of the lake, I stopped and looked out on a view I was to come to know well over the next few months. This swim instantly piqued my Carping instinct. Sheltered from the sweeping winds, and only a short 30 yards across, clear gaps in the weed presented themselves in the soft summer evening light. Tucked in amongst thick reeds I looked out, mentally placing my rods; ‘One in the margin there, and one in that channel between the weed beds’. Opposite was a tall overhanging tree that looked eminently climbable, surely that would be too good to be true?

In no time at all, I was clambering, amongst the branches of the sturdy tree with my heart not far from pounding, and my earlier scepticism well and truly banished. I don’t know what I expected to see exactly as I fought to get the clearest view of the lake, I knew the lake was lightly stocked and difficult to fish, but somehow, Carp Fever had clouded my rational judgement - if only I could get to that branch there…

After a good 30 minutes maneuvering, climbing up, down and from branch to branch I had failed to get that perfect view of the area I could fish from the swim opposite. What I had seen however, was that the water was deep, and even weedier that I had predicted. To my left, away from the open and windswept portion of the lake lay choked, shallow water that eventually turned into a reed-filled marsh, but to my right, there lay some mercifully less weedy water.

The rest of the walk seemed like a walk home, I already knew I was joining the club and I knew where I was fishing. Nevertheless, it was a delight to see each swim, each presenting more opportunities and questions than I had time to answer, yet each served to cement the belief that if ever I was going to find a water to launch a campaign on, it was this one. Here was a lake where I could truly re-live the memory of my dearly departed Buckinghamshire gravel pit’s Carping apprenticeship.

This time though, it was to be on my own terms: no relying on parents for lifts, pocket money and tackle, I was free to fish how I wanted. I might even get a Carp on the bank, although I never assumed anything - I knew that to even get a single fish from the water would be a remarkable success and something I would have to work hard to achieve.

It was exactly that challenge that had turned a demoralising wasted drive, into the awakening of a dream and my Carping spirit. I was lucky enough to have a second chance at Carp fishing, and this time I wanted to do it better - I wanted my catches to reflect the work it took to achieve them, I wanted to sit peacefully, never knowingly looking at my indicators thinking and wishing that the next beep could result in a fish of a lifetime on the mat.

The further from home I drove, the more despondent I became. The lake had sounded ideal when it was described to me, not too small, not too large, a few Carp, and not expensive either - a good old fashioned club water. Setting out I had high hopes that my long search for a lake would finally have come to an end and I could get back to Carping again.

Unfortunately, the minutes and miles flew past and the lake seemed an age away by the time I turned onto the bumpy, potholed track. I’d already decided in my mind that I couldn’t justify driving this far to fish, and more importantly I wouldn’t be able to get here often enough to mount a serious ‘campaign’ - to say I was disappointed was an understatement. So it was only out of grim determination, and a stubborn sense of obligation that I hopped the gate and walked into the unknown. Little did I know what this little corner of England held in store, and the lasting effect it would have on me.

It was mid summer, and the tail end of a long hot day as I walked down the long path from the locked front gate to the water itself. I first came to a bridge, to the right of which lay a stunning weir pool, boiling angrily and swirling overhanging branches in that perpetual, water-led dance. ‘Encouraging’ I though, as I pressed on through the flat, lush green landscape, trusting that the footpath would lead me to the lake I’d come to visit. Before reaching the lake I crossed another river, filled with gin clear water and chock full of silver fish slowly drifting into from the deep-water lilies to the faster, gravel bottomed runs where they darted amongst bright green streamer weed. My heart rate couldn’t help but quicken, this place was clearly full of fish and better still, devoid of anglers…

Across the bridge I was presented my first glance of the lake itself. Nestling at the base of rolling hills, the wind was pushing hard across the water’s surface, yet large areas remained unflustered: weed, and lots of it. I walked closer through long, unkempt grass following a blissfully lightly trodden path, and as more of the lake’s larger, more open end revealed itself I could see that this was the real thing: clear water, reed fringed margins and huge weed beds dominating the water’s surface.

As someone recently saddened to discover the loss of an old favourite water, sold away to profits and pillaged of it’s true English, Carping soul, I could feel again the stirring of something distinctly ‘right’ in the world of fishing. Here I was walking round a deserted gravel pit, in the heart of the English countryside, walking into every swim and taking in the view - each one only marginally different from the last, but equally enthralling. I knew that the lake contained Carp, hidden amongst the weeds and the waves that battered and soothed the water’s surface in turn, but, wonderfully I had no idea how many, or how big.

As the lake tapered, the river I had crossed earlier came into view on my right hand side. Well hidden amongst tall, wild grass I peered through lilies into clear, flowing water filled with monstrous looking lilies and water ‘cabbage’. Deeper here, than at the bridge the dark depths screamed ‘Carp’, and although utterly unfishable I couldn’t help but wonder just what might have swum between lake and river, and vice versa.

Arriving at the last swim towards the narrow end of the lake, I stopped and looked out on a view I was to come to know well over the next few months. This swim instantly piqued my Carping instinct. Sheltered from the sweeping winds, and only a short 30 yards across, clear gaps in the weed presented themselves in the soft summer evening light. Tucked in amongst thick reeds I looked out, mentally placing my rods; ‘One in the margin there, and one in that channel between the weed beds’. Opposite was a tall overhanging tree that looked eminently climbable, surely that would be too good to be true?

In no time at all, I was clambering, amongst the branches of the sturdy tree with my heart not far from pounding, and my earlier scepticism well and truly banished. I don’t know what I expected to see exactly as I fought to get the clearest view of the lake, I knew the lake was lightly stocked and difficult to fish, but somehow, Carp Fever had clouded my rational judgement - if only I could get to that branch there…

After a good 30 minutes maneuvering, climbing up, down and from branch to branch I had failed to get that perfect view of the area I could fish from the swim opposite. What I had seen however, was that the water was deep, and even weedier that I had predicted. To my left, away from the open and windswept portion of the lake lay choked, shallow water that eventually turned into a reed-filled marsh, but to my right, there lay some mercifully less weedy water.

The rest of the walk seemed like a walk home, I already knew I was joining the club and I knew where I was fishing. Nevertheless, it was a delight to see each swim, each presenting more opportunities and questions than I had time to answer, yet each served to cement the belief that if ever I was going to find a water to launch a campaign on, it was this one. Here was a lake where I could truly re-live the memory of my dearly departed Buckinghamshire gravel pit’s Carping apprenticeship.

This time though, it was to be on my own terms: no relying on parents for lifts, pocket money and tackle, I was free to fish how I wanted. I might even get a Carp on the bank, although I never assumed anything - I knew that to even get a single fish from the water would be a remarkable success and something I would have to work hard to achieve.

It was exactly that challenge that had turned a demoralising wasted drive, into the awakening of a dream and my Carping spirit. I was lucky enough to have a second chance at Carp fishing, and this time I wanted to do it better - I wanted my catches to reflect the work it took to achieve them, I wanted to sit peacefully, never knowingly looking at my indicators thinking and wishing that the next beep could result in a fish of a lifetime on the mat.

Stumble it!