MONDAY MORNING FEELS SO BAD.

     I've wanted to attend a TFF meet for some time now. It's always good to meet folks with a similar outlook or, dare I say, obsession and this would be a good opportunity. When Jack (maggotdrowner) organised a visit to the historic Mapperley reservoir, I leapt at the chance. It's barely an hour of easy motorway driving away so I signed up for what would turn out to be, shall we say, an interesting day's fishing.

     I should just mention for those who might not be aware, that Albert Buckley caught the British rod caught record carp of 26 lbs here in July 1930. A fish that held sway for 21 years until Bob Richards beat it with a Redmire fish of 31 lbs 4oz. In my opinion, it was the last fish of a golden era. From the moment that Richard Walker pushed it up to 44lbs in 1952, that golden era began to lose its lustre as he set about making the gentle art into the pseudo-scientific matter of life and death it seems to be today. He introduced anglers to modern efficiency and results-driven notoriety in lieu of fishing's relaxing idleness and involvement in nature. His approach has turned a glorious, golden scaled thing of beauty into washed out grist to the mill. By the time Chris Yates caught his fifty pound fish on a cane fishing rod it was the last glimmer of a lost glory. Carp angling had turned from warm, lustrous gold to hard edged, contemporary steel.


     It was rather telling that today's adventure should echo that story. Mapperley is a beautiful water, and it would seem, full of fish. Apart from the single local, there were four of us, John Milford (who I already knew from the Lure angling society), Peter (barbelseeker), Jack (maggotdrowner) who organised things and myself. Within minutes those of us who fishing for silvers were catching lovely, quality roach and perch. John who was fishing for carp was getting knocks and twitches and all was well with the world.

 
     It stayed that way for an hour or so until a bailiff appeared and threw us all off. As we could clearly see the carp had started spawning, 300 yards away on the far side of the reservoir and apparently our 16 hooks and tiny baits were putting them in mortal danger. Never mind that this was a day ticket water or that we had each paid seven quid to park, the NCB angling club had put a clear notice up on a private facebook group that we couldn't have accessed if we'd even known about it, after we had arrived! Arseholes. We could however fish a nearby pool on a day ticket if we just drove hither and thither along random farm tracks to locked access gates for 45 minutes. A wild goose chase that we firmly believe we had been vindictively sent on because we had the temerity to politely point out that we had been unfairly treated. Despite all the wonderful people one meets when out angling, sooner or later, I suppose, a knobhead is bound to turn up.

     Fortunately John knew of a day ticket water 20 minutes away that might well save the day, which of course it did. Once set up among the reeds on the loveliest of pools, we all started catching. My first fish was a really nice tench of 2-13 but after that it was an unavoidable succession of carp. The sport was fast and furious, marred somewhat by the appalling state of the fishes mouths. One of around 2 lbs had lips so badly damaged, that after healing it was left with a quarter inch inflexible hole that it could barely suck tiny particles of food through. How it took my bait I will never know.

 
     In the space of a long morning, my fishing had taken me from the beautiful home of one of, if not the, earliest record carp to a beautiful pool full of overstocked carp, mutilated by greed and self interest. What a wonderful, modern world we live in. Despite all this I got to meet up with some fine anglers that it was a pleasure to fish with. Anglers with a shared interest in vintage tackle and the more laid back attitude to the kind of unpressured fishing that is getting harder to remember.