What A Way To Start!

“I joined the weekend bivvy brigade”

The camo cousin arrived promptly at my house and we got on with loading my stuff. On noticing my chair going in I heard, “gotta go home, left me chair there.” It was at this point I found out that this was his second attempt at picking me up, having been home once to pick something else up he had forgotten. Having picked up the chair we set about our way, Autoroute directions to hand, his version and mine both going different ways but ending at the same place. We chose the shortest, which would take us through Bedford.

We had not done four miles when, “gotta go home again, I’ve forgot the kettle and pans”. A quick about-turn and it was homeward bound yet again. Soon we were on a way again, not having reached our furthest point of the journey so far when the onboard computer sounded 50 miles fuel left in the tank, bearing in mind the back and forth journey so far the decision was made to top up.

Finally we were on our way, the milometer showing we’d travelled 15 miles, which would have put us nearly halfway there, but we hadn’t left the town yet. We were soon threading our way through Bedford’s one way system before heading out onto the open road, only to find the road we needed was closed for resurfacing work and no diversion signs had been posted. Ten minutes later and we were back on track, the Autoroute directions were now useless for we couldn’t work out where we were on them, so we just headed for Sandy.

We came across a sign at a roundabout for A1 North, presuming the junction going the opposite way was A1 South we took that. After seeing signs for Milton Keynes and the M1 we soon realised this was not the A1 South and headed back and picked up signs for Sandy again. Out into the sticks we travelled, but not being confident we were going the right way we stopped to try and work out the Autoroute directions. But they were no help, so I rang the fishery, leaving a message on their answerphone, and then we continued along the road.

Within minutes we came across a sign for the A1 South and were soon heading Southbound when the phone rang. It was Tracey from the fishery. “You’re lost then.” She stated. I had just informed her we were on the A1 when the camo cousin shouted, “found you,” as the fishery sign came into sight.

We received a warm and friendly welcome and the fees were paid. We chose on good advice to fish the opposite bank, strangely enough though everyone else was fishing the near bank. We drove down to the drop-off point and hastily unloaded the car when the camo cousin piped up, “we’re gonna have to carry everything to the swim as I’ve forgot the wheels to the trolley.”

Overloaded on my first trip and not knowing I was leaving a trail of money behind me, which if unnoticed by the camo cousin would have led to a profitable path for someone else. My third and final trip saw me carrying two boxes of food, and the camo cousin had just come into sight on his return to lock the car when the bottom box gave way spewing its contents over the bank.

How we managed to get the bivvy up, organised and the baits cast out before dark is beyond me, but we did and settling in for the night, and despite the hiccups we were fairly optimistic.

Saturday morning and we were awake by six following a quiet night. The carp were everywhere, single fish crashing all over the lake and cruising just under the surface, shoals of carp cruising about and one big shoal of between 20 and 40 fish still spawning. It seems to have been a crazy year on some waters for carp and their prolonged spells of spawning. At 9.15 the camo cousin banked the first carp, a mirror 10.12. Plenty of liners followed due to the bream. The next bit of good news came at 2pm, not in the shape of a fish, but a text message informing us Leeds had done Man U. Later that afternoon the camo cousin lifted into what he described as a very good fish only to have it snap his hooklength.

My frustration with the liners was wearing thin and the day long headache was not helping, over 24 hours of fishing had passed before I finally banked my first fish, a common of 12lbs and that basically was Saturday.

The fishery itself was a lovely place to fish as the ticket said. Peace and tranquillity in beautiful surroundings, discounting the A1 to our right, the East coast mainline left, a major flight path above, a working gravel site behind and in the evening the rabbit shooters. Also behind it was a place to fish.

Sunday was quiet apart from me hooking into what I can only describe as what would have been a PB, only having it weed me. I waded out in the hope the fish was still on but I was disappointed to find a bare hook buried in a root stem.

On the journey home we discarded the Autoroute guides and found an easier way home, with just one stop, it was at this stop the camo cousin found out he had left his filler cap at the petrol station on Friday.

We’re going back in four weeks for another weekender. Are we mad? I don’t think things can get any worse. Or can they.