EVERYTHING BUT THE CARP...
Lured by the outside chance of a monster, Dom Garnett has been overnighting on the towpath. But where on earth are the carp?
IT’S STARTING to feel like a long time since I put the net under a decent carp from the Exeter Ship Canal.
Admittedly, I love fishing this local water of mine, not just for the chance of something special, but for the peace and quiet it brings. But that’s just the thing – it’s been rather too peaceful lately.
I’m sat here waiting for the line to pull away and my heart to thump, but the bobbins are motionless. The last run I had was from a border collie that awoke me with quite a start. I almost wanted to thank the owner for a glorious three seconds of excitement.
With so many carp ponds here in Devon, you might easily ask why I bother with such a tricky water? It’s a question I often ponder as the gear is frantically arranged for another quick overnighter.
Strangely, it is the very difficulty that is addictive. Perhaps if the fishing was anywhere near consistent I would probably have lost all interest years ago. Perhaps the long gaps between bites only serve to make an angler’s daydreams grow bigger?
It takes a while to adjust to this slower pace of fishing, but when
you’ve accepted that it’s a long game, something strange happens – you feel completely relaxed.
Where the most likely outcome is a blank, there can be no hurry and you can fully enjoy all the details of just being there. It’s beautifully quiet too, once you’re away from the city. There’s time to watch the birds or dig into a book; time to brew a cup of tea and watch the sunset, or feed a shoal of little rudd under your feet with no intention of catching them. And slowly the penny drops that you hadn’t given a second thought to the day job or Brexit politics or any of that other claptrap.
With the moon rising and everything still, the only thing that could make my world slightly
more perfect would be the sudden chaos of a hooked 30lb carp. But, ironically, that could also be the fish to finally put an end to these gloriously lazy evenings of waiting and wondering on the canal.
Could tonight be the night? For a second or two, the fish that makes the indicator lift is the one in my mind: a silly-sized feral carp that could swallow your fist.
The dull kiting presence suggests otherwise. As I suspected, it’s a sluggish but nonetheless welcome bream. The mystery might just have to remain unsolved for another night. No bad thing, because it means I still have an excuse to return next week when, you never know, it might just be a different story.