Elvington lake, York, circa 1980. Towards the end of an autumn day, after losing several decent carp in a bed of lilies, it occurred that a strike
towardthe pads might encourage a fish to bolt in the opposite direction into open water. It worked a treat, but this next fish was in a different league entirely - it felt like I'd hooked a full bathtub. I was hopelessly outgunned - a Boron Mach 2 float rod, 2lb Maxima main line to 1.1lb Bayer and an 18 hook - and the beast just wallowed a few yards out while I hung on, making no headway whatsoever. After an arm-aching 20 minutes I wasn't even sure that the fish knew it was hooked, despite its initial alarm. I'd read somewhere about a famous angler in the same situation who'd plopped some bait to left, then right of the fish, noting that it moved over the bait each time, apparently unaware that it was tethered. So that's what I did, with small handfuls of hemp, and sure enough, the thing responded in exactly the same manner. So, with dusk fast approaching, I piled on as much pressure as the gear would take and it moved out, finally giving me a chance to make it use up some energy. Another 20 minutes, with my grip giving out, and the fish rolled just out of netting range, impossibly big compared to anything I'd hooked before, and as it dived, the leading edge of the dorsal caught the line and pinged the hook straight out. I sat in the mud, close to tears, as the colours faded from the day.
I can still feel the disappointment, some 35 years on. Some you win, eh?