It seems our branch of angling is moving further from the main body of the sport as its popularity increases. Whereas once, anglers served an ‘apprenticeship’ catching tiddlers from the local canal and catapulting maggots at the 3 inches of waggler float sat proudly above the surface, it seems that now people are more and more becoming instant specialists. Whilst I’m loathe to pass judgment on anyone else’s angling credentials, I know that much of my attitude towards catching Carp stems from own ‘apprenticeship’, to such an extent that I can’t imagine getting to where I am today without it.

There was a time that I can remember from my childhood (no more than 10 years ago), when ‘specimen-hunters’ were a rare and mysterious breed - the term itself was always spoken in hushed and conspiratorial tones. I remember scouring the shelves of my local library and seeing mysterious hardback book dedicated to just a single species. Such advanced angling was not for me, a fishing mad-youngster with enough knowledge to get a few silver fish on the bank every now and again, and a thirst only for more fish, not bigger fish. It was a long time before I began to hanker after those bigger fish, and even the gentle pressure of my father wasn’t enough to persuade me that there was anything more exciting than filling a keep net, and watching that waggler bob beneath the surface.

I can quite clearly remember my first encounter with a ’specimen-hunter’. As I sat on my trusty bright blue Shakespeare box one evening, thrashing the water to a foam trying to cast my poorly shotted float further than was physically possible, a man in green camouflage clothes sat smoking a roll-up whilst chatting quietly with my father in the swim next door. Much to my embarrassment, as my float got tangled in the tree for the umpteenth time that night, a car backed up behind my swim, and the man began unloading endless matching luggage from the boot of his car.

“I’m just setting up here for the night mate. I’ve spoke to yer Dad, he said it’s alright. Don’t mind me, you just keep fishing till yer done lad.”

Happily I fished on, curious as to why this green-brown man wanted to fish this swim in particular, when there were a dozen others empty all around the lake. As the sun set, I began to worry that unless I packed up soon, the poor guy wouldn’t even get his float in the water before it got dark. A little concerned that the man would be angry with me, I packed up and moved out of the swim - choosing to watch my father fish for the last few casts before sunset. I can vividly recall, whilst sitting on a net-bag to protect me from the dewing grass on that warm summer’s evening, hearing a commotion and excited whispers filtering through the darkening air. Soon, a human shadow appeared on the water, and a different camouflaged man behind us breathlessly asked my Dad to reel in his rod as his mate had ‘a big’un on’. An intruiging mix of excitement and concern was written across his flushed and wind-washed face.

Promptly, I reeled in my Dad’s line, while he followed the man through the trees. I quickly set off to do the same, wondering why the man looked worried, as if he had let us in on some kind of secret. I was met by my returning Dad almost as soon as I had set out see what the fuss was about. Apparently, we shouldn’t watch a ’specimen-hunter’ while he’s playing a big fish. Of course this only served to heighten my curiosity as to what was actually going on in the swim next to where I had been fishing that evening, but respectful of their wishes, we packed our gear into the boot of the car. Each carrying as little as we could per trip, to slow the process down in the faint hope of sneaking a glimpse at whatever monster was waiting to be pulled from the depths, by these mysterious figures.

Eventually, our slow pace was rewarded, as a glowing, relieved face appeared out of the darkness and invited us down to see this ’specimen fish’. By this stage my heart was pounding, I had no idea what to expect. I knew little of what this huge gravel pit really contained, in truth, I knew little about what other species of fish existed other than the roach, perch and gudgeon I had caught up until now. What we saw after we had walked down the steep, winding path to the swim, would change my ideas about fishing, and provide the fodder for my idle thoughts for years to come.

Lying on a black unhooking mat was a golden shining lump, its true size concealed by the enveloping darkness. A look of panic crossed the captors face as we approached, and he quickly moved his baited rig from the unhooking mat and away from our prying eyes. Hushed in secrecy and feeling like we had walked in on a private moment, we watched silently from a distance as he held up the stunning fish for the camera and then gently slipped her back into the lake. As quickly as the moment had passed, we were ushered wordlessly from the swim and found ourselves walking back to the car, as whoops and celebratory laughter broke out behind us.

The next day, I ran to school to tell my friends about it, and remember the prick of defensive pride I felt when they were left unmoved by the size of this fabulous fish

“18lbs? That’s not very big; my dog weighs more than that!”

They seemed oblivious to the passionate tones in which I told the story of how these specimen hunter had spoken to us, and invited us to see their fish, a Carp. If only they understood.

These were Carp Anglers. Dark shadows of men who fished at night, and didn’t use floats. They had electronic bite alarms, and drank hot tea they had made at the lake on their stoves, not luke warm tea from thermos flasks. Of course, I swore my friends to secrecy, just as the men’s nervous glances and twitchy behaviour had done to me and my father the previous evening. We knew that we were privileged to have witnessed this golden monster from the deep, and wondered if we would ever see such a thing again. I even wondered if we would ever see those mysterious men again, with their cover blown to us two ‘noddies’ I imagined them laid low inside their camouflaged tents, rolling thin cigarettes and whispering their conspiracies through clouds of tea-steam.

It was many years before I began to think myself capable of catching such a fish, and many more until I did eventually put one on the bank. Whilst those years were frustrating, at times tantrum inducingly so, looking back I wouldn’t trade them for anything. In that time between the seed of a dream being sown, and the realisation of that dream, I progressed from being someone who likes fishing, to an angler, briefly to a match angler and finally, the biggest step of all, to a Carp Angler.

Every time I set foot on the banks of a new lake, I use the skills I learnt in that long, long apprenticeship. Every session, the lessons learned the hard way serve to point me in the right direction. Whilst the technical knowledge may no longer be relevant, what I will never stop reliving is the passion and magic of fishing that those early days captured.

For it is the time spent dreaming of what might be, which drives me through a tough session and presses me to recast after dropping a big fish at the net. All of this comes from within, and the fever burns as brightly now as it did that night after my first glimpse of a true specimen hunter.

Thinking of those youthful hours in my angling career when a single bite on my two white maggots was enough to make a whole day worthwhile, I know that whilst the species and the methods have changed, and my dreams are now of bigger, not more, I will always be an angler first, and a specimen hunter second, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

It seems our branch of angling is moving further from the main body of the sport as its popularity increases. Whereas once, anglers served an ‘apprenticeship’ catching tiddlers from the local canal and catapulting maggots at the 3 inches of waggler float sat proudly above the surface, it seems that now people are more and more becoming instant specialists. Whilst I’m loathe to pass judgment on anyone else’s angling credentials, I know that much of my attitude towards catching Carp stems from own ‘apprenticeship’, to such an extent that I can’t imagine getting to where I am today without it.

There was a time that I can remember from my childhood (no more than 10 years ago), when ‘specimen-hunters’ were a rare and mysterious breed - the term itself was always spoken in hushed and conspiratorial tones. I remember scouring the shelves of my local library and seeing mysterious hardback book dedicated to just a single species. Such advanced angling was not for me, a fishing mad-youngster with enough knowledge to get a few silver fish on the bank every now and again, and a thirst only for more fish, not bigger fish. It was a long time before I began to hanker after those bigger fish, and even the gentle pressure of my father wasn’t enough to persuade me that there was anything more exciting than filling a keep net, and watching that waggler bob beneath the surface.

I can quite clearly remember my first encounter with a ’specimen-hunter’. As I sat on my trusty bright blue Shakespeare box one evening, thrashing the water to a foam trying to cast my poorly shotted float further than was physically possible, a man in green camouflage clothes sat smoking a roll-up whilst chatting quietly with my father in the swim next door. Much to my embarrassment, as my float got tangled in the tree for the umpteenth time that night, a car backed up behind my swim, and the man began unloading endless matching luggage from the boot of his car.

“I’m just setting up here for the night mate. I’ve spoke to yer Dad, he said it’s alright. Don’t mind me, you just keep fishing till yer done lad.”

Happily I fished on, curious as to why this green-brown man wanted to fish this swim in particular, when there were a dozen others empty all around the lake. As the sun set, I began to worry that unless I packed up soon, the poor guy wouldn’t even get his float in the water before it got dark. A little concerned that the man would be angry with me, I packed up and moved out of the swim - choosing to watch my father fish for the last few casts before sunset. I can vividly recall, whilst sitting on a net-bag to protect me from the dewing grass on that warm summer’s evening, hearing a commotion and excited whispers filtering through the darkening air. Soon, a human shadow appeared on the water, and a different camouflaged man behind us breathlessly asked my Dad to reel in his rod as his mate had ‘a big’un on’. An intruiging mix of excitement and concern was written across his flushed and wind-washed face.

Promptly, I reeled in my Dad’s line, while he followed the man through the trees. I quickly set off to do the same, wondering why the man looked worried, as if he had let us in on some kind of secret. I was met by my returning Dad almost as soon as I had set out see what the fuss was about. Apparently, we shouldn’t watch a ’specimen-hunter’ while he’s playing a big fish. Of course this only served to heighten my curiosity as to what was actually going on in the swim next to where I had been fishing that evening, but respectful of their wishes, we packed our gear into the boot of the car. Each carrying as little as we could per trip, to slow the process down in the faint hope of sneaking a glimpse at whatever monster was waiting to be pulled from the depths, by these mysterious figures.

Eventually, our slow pace was rewarded, as a glowing, relieved face appeared out of the darkness and invited us down to see this ’specimen fish’. By this stage my heart was pounding, I had no idea what to expect. I knew little of what this huge gravel pit really contained, in truth, I knew little about what other species of fish existed other than the roach, perch and gudgeon I had caught up until now. What we saw after we had walked down the steep, winding path to the swim, would change my ideas about fishing, and provide the fodder for my idle thoughts for years to come.

Lying on a black unhooking mat was a golden shining lump, its true size concealed by the enveloping darkness. A look of panic crossed the captors face as we approached, and he quickly moved his baited rig from the unhooking mat and away from our prying eyes. Hushed in secrecy and feeling like we had walked in on a private moment, we watched silently from a distance as he held up the stunning fish for the camera and then gently slipped her back into the lake. As quickly as the moment had passed, we were ushered wordlessly from the swim and found ourselves walking back to the car, as whoops and celebratory laughter broke out behind us.

The next day, I ran to school to tell my friends about it, and remember the prick of defensive pride I felt when they were left unmoved by the size of this fabulous fish

“18lbs? That’s not very big; my dog weighs more than that!”

They seemed oblivious to the passionate tones in which I told the story of how these specimen hunter had spoken to us, and invited us to see their fish, a Carp. If only they understood.

These were Carp Anglers. Dark shadows of men who fished at night, and didn’t use floats. They had electronic bite alarms, and drank hot tea they had made at the lake on their stoves, not luke warm tea from thermos flasks. Of course, I swore my friends to secrecy, just as the men’s nervous glances and twitchy behaviour had done to me and my father the previous evening. We knew that we were privileged to have witnessed this golden monster from the deep, and wondered if we would ever see such a thing again. I even wondered if we would ever see those mysterious men again, with their cover blown to us two ‘noddies’ I imagined them laid low inside their camouflaged tents, rolling thin cigarettes and whispering their conspiracies through clouds of tea-steam.

It was many years before I began to think myself capable of catching such a fish, and many more until I did eventually put one on the bank. Whilst those years were frustrating, at times tantrum inducingly so, looking back I wouldn’t trade them for anything. In that time between the seed of a dream being sown, and the realisation of that dream, I progressed from being someone who likes fishing, to an angler, briefly to a match angler and finally, the biggest step of all, to a Carp Angler.

Every time I set foot on the banks of a new lake, I use the skills I learnt in that long, long apprenticeship. Every session, the lessons learned the hard way serve to point me in the right direction. Whilst the technical knowledge may no longer be relevant, what I will never stop reliving is the passion and magic of fishing that those early days captured.

For it is the time spent dreaming of what might be, which drives me through a tough session and presses me to recast after dropping a big fish at the net. All of this comes from within, and the fever burns as brightly now as it did that night after my first glimpse of a true specimen hunter.

Thinking of those youthful hours in my angling career when a single bite on my two white maggots was enough to make a whole day worthwhile, I know that whilst the species and the methods have changed, and my dreams are now of bigger, not more, I will always be an angler first, and a specimen hunter second, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Stumble it!