Saturday morning, May 6th. In London a carriage containing the newly crowned King Charles the Third and his Queen makes its slow way back to Buckingham Palace from Westminster Abbey to the impressive accompaniment of the massed military bands, while in deepest Dorset two middle aged brothers are huddled under their bivvies, with the unrelenting rain tapping out a drumbeat so fast that even the most adroit drummer would struggle to replicate its time signature. The rapid onomatopoeic "splish-splash" noise of the rain on the bivvy roof is pierced by a shriller note as a bite alarm sounds and Tim, my younger brother, is on the rod and in the rain in seconds and playing his fourth carp of the session. I have yet to break my duck.
We had arrived the previous morning at Bugley Pools in Dorset, a sweet little fishery located on a working sheep farm in bright sunshine and as we only get to fish together once or twice a year had opted to share a swim so that the long periods between fish that characterise "session carping" could be punctuated by conversation and reminiscing. We set up our respective bivvies, made our first casts and soon there were four rods pointing machine gun nest style into the lake. Traps set, we waited and waited but by late afternoon still no fish had graced our rods. We were not unduly perturbed by this lack of early action, carp are not stupid fish and we figured that the disturbance of two anglers arriving, setting up camp, feeding a few spots and casting into the lake had caused them to back up to the far end of the lake but if we employed common sense and kept noise and vibrations to a minimum we were confident that they'd return.
Following an evening meal of burgers, sausages and bacon all sourced from a local butcher and provided for us by the fishery owner, we returned to our fishing base and settled in for the night. We hadn't long been ensconced in the warmth of our sleeping bags when the rain began, a "shower" of fierce intensity that lasted from before the fall of darkness right through until 2 oclock the following afternoon. As we had anticipated, the carp regained their confidence, and during the night we were disturbed on three occasions with Tim landing three nocturnal carp, the heaviest this mirror of just over 14 pounds.
First light came, the rain continued unabated and Tim landed another carp before my bite alarm finally sounded for the first time and I happily drew my first fish, a "scraper double", over the folds of the net.
From there on in, Coronation Day settled into a pattern. Casting was kept to a minimum, with baits positioned just inches off the far bank for Tim, and equally close to cover but in a small bay to the right for me. Rigs were fished with slack lines and back leads to avoid spooking the carp, and handfuls of hemp, tiger nuts, pellets and crushed boilies were scattered by hand around the positioned baits. Every couple of hours the silence (or more accurately "near silence"- as a busy woodpecker beat a staccato rhythm from time to time on a dead tree on the far bank) was broken by the sounding of an alarm and another beautifully scaled mirror carp, or more occasionally a common, would be reluctantly brought to the bank. The majority of these carp, it has to be admitted, falling to Tim's baits, rather than mine!
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By early afternoon the rain had relented, ceasing as suddenly as it had begun, almost as if somewhere a switch had been flicked by an unseen hand. Time passes slowly when carp fishing, but not in the same way as it does when engaged in some laborious and unwanted chore, but at a pleasant pace far more conducive to one's wellbeing than the frenetic one that typifies much of our modern lives. It was late afternoon when my bait was picked up by my fourth and final carp of the trip, which turned out to be my biggest fish and one that turned the dial on the scales to a pleasing 16 pounds and four ounces.
