The Old Man and the Sand Eel

by Will Millard

  With a bit more managed neglect of my carp rod, a slightly bigger hook and the careful chumming of the water with broken lobworm, I soon found I could even winkle out the odd larger perch in the shoal. Okay, they weren’t that big, perhaps only a pound or so, but I was at least aware that these were indeed the striped ‘monsters’ of my childhood memories and so venerated them sufficiently.

  The following year I made my first concerted effort to target even bigger perch. I did some research, modified my tackle, and shipped in 200 live lobworms that I established in a garden shed bucket and fattened up on vegetable scraps. Within the year I had my first 2lb fish: a stunning, bristling specimen that scrapped all the way to my net in a heart-stopping account of itself. As I held it in my hands I felt a sort of electrical pulse of excitement that I hadn’t experienced since I was a boy. Just why had I wasted the last twenty years fishing almost exclusively for one species of fish? I slipped her back, the dorsal slicing the water like a serrated knife through an apple, and would meet the sand eel on my very next trip out.

  In the past twenty years of fishing almost exclusively in stocked carp lakes I had inadvertently stumbled across a very modern phenomenon. With commercial carp waters sprouting up all over Britain, big perch have found a habitat where they can absolutely thrive. In these lakes there are generally no pike present to cull their numbers or compete for the baitfish, and barely any angling pressure from the hordes of Cyclopean fishermen targeting only carp. As a result the perch in these ponds have been allowed to grow to prodigious proportions. Out of the biggest fifty perch caught in Britain nearly half have come from commercially stocked lakes in the last decade; a staggering result that is hardly matched in any other fish species mentioned in this book.

  Year on year the established perch records are being pressed and even the 3lb Wilson mega-specimen has seemingly become a happy resident in almost every carp pond you care to mention. You shouldn’t be foolish enough to think that means they are easy to catch; big perch will always continue to play their cards very close to their chest, and only the best of anglers will regularly snare the largest specimens. It took me two winters’ worth of outings before I had my first decent one, and another year before I had a brush with my very own perch-of-a-lifetime, right here, at the very venue whose gates I was swinging into.

  White Springs is pretty much your blueprint for any commercial pond complex you care to pick in the country. It’s got a variety of manmade lakes offering everything from pleasure fishing for carp over double figures, right up to a specimen lake with carp over 45lb stirring up the waters. So far, so similar; however, what really set my pulse racing were the reports of the resident perch in one of the ponds: they sounded mega, even by the high standards of this golden age of perch fishing.

  I read an article where the author details snaring not one, but three, perch over 3lb in a single session here, which he then topped off with a truly ridiculous fish of over 4lb. Surely, I thought, this had to be one of the greatest big-perch hauls in history, but a few clicks of the mouse proved these ponds had even more to give. A fish of over 5lb is resident here. I’ve seen its picture. It’s a brooding, menacing predator with huge flanks and an appetite to match.

  Three-pounders, four-pounders, and even a five: if you were to place that against carp, it would be the equivalent of having a lake holding a fish over 55lb with a head of fish over 40lb as a back-up. It would be among the most celebrated fishing lakes in the country, yet as I roll down the tarmac road and into the complex it becomes apparent that I am going to be fishing the perch ponds almost completely on my own.

  I settle right back into the swim where I lost the big one the previous season. It’s on a lake known as the Big Pit, an area of water where the White Springs management have fused two lakes together, removing the earthen bank between one lake, which resembled a small canal and held some of the big perch, and another, larger, rounder pond that housed some of the bigger carp.

  I have to avoid those carp at all costs now. My perch tackle is light, so a hook-up with one of the lake’s golden mud pigs will necessitate a long and laborious fight which I’m most likely to lose, plus it will certainly scare off any of the big perch that I’m hoping to persuade to my hook.

  This cold front will do me a real favour in that respect – carp really don’t like the colder months; but there’s still a chance I might snare one that’s ignoring the forecast, so to boost my chances further I’m avoiding all the baits I would commonly use to target carp (pellets, corn and boilies), and I’m also steering well clear of any parts of the pond where the carp might still be active: the warmer, shallower areas which get more of the limited sunlight, and those fishing platforms which have seen a lot of regular angling activity and feeding. This still might not be enough, though, so I’ll also be ready to cut right back on my loose feed of red maggots and broken worms if it looks like I’m attracting the unwanted attention of the Cyprinus carpio. Make no mistake, this is a seriously challenging prospect given the intensity of my addiction to that species – a bit like offering a free cigarette to a recently reformed chain smoker – but if I’m going to take this challenge seriously I have to focus my mind solely on the perch.

  This corner of the pond absolutely screams ‘perch’. It’s the area with the thickest banks of marginal reeds, the largest overhanging bushes and, if my depth plummet isn’t lying to me, the deepest, darkest holes around.

  I can almost feel that big perch’s presence; pressed up, somewhere in the darkness, tight against the sunken tree roots and reeds, perfectly camouflaged, waiting to strike me down with those wild black eyes.

  I begin by scooping a dozen red maggots into my catapult. I’m aiming to keep these going in every minute or so. Hopefully the ‘little but often’ feeding routine will bring into the swim the shoals of little baitfish that the bigger perch like to feed on. If that fails, I’ve got the crutch of these broken lobworms to rest back on. Chopping them up into pieces will release a slick of worm’s blood into the swim: catnip for the big perch. The scent will draw them in, then they’ll find all the baitfish, then ‘bang’: they’ll inhale my irresistible bait.

  I hook a juicy lobworm through the tail and give it an underhand flick right into the dark shadows at the foot of the reeds. I’ll have to be vigilant: any signs of scattering baitfish or big swirls could well be the perch’s dinner bell sounding. I may only get one chance to snare a really large one.

  Gently, I tighten the line between my hook, the weight and my rod tip, till I can register a bite simply by watching for any minute movement at the end of my rod. Satisfied, I settle back into my chair; and immediately hook into a massive carp.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  The rod arches down to breaking point and the reel screams in deference as the fish ploughs directly between two small islands. I tighten everything down as much as I dare, and apply side pressure. My rod forms an almost perfect parabola.

  Hold it, Will; just hold it. If it gets behind the islands it’s game over.

  The line whines in the wind, I’m dancing on the very edge of catastrophe here, but finally I feel the great fish start to turn. Weakness: it’s hammer time. I reel down hard and gradually gain ground, steering the carp successfully back through the island maze towards me.

  This is a nightmare. The worst possible start. I daren’t even begin to think about the damage this carp has already done to my chances with the perch. I prepare my net but the fish is still nowhere near ready; with one giant thump of the tail it cuts its passage straight up the pond, ploughing away from the islands, and my corner, and out into the open water.

  That I don’t mind at all; it’s well away from my traps and there are no obstacles out there. Keep sustaining the pressure and let the rod do all the work. It’ll soon start to tire. I’m back in control now. It’s just a matter of time.

  Actually, this might not be that bad after all. If the grand culture of fishing superstition is to be believed then all that is happen
ing here is that history is repeating itself. This happened last year too. First cast: giant carp. Second cast: giant perch.

  The fish reveals itself: it is a stunning ghost carp with golden-white scales and a dark-grey skull pattern framing its head. It’s a bit smaller than last year’s carp, but for some reason the ghost carp always seem to punch above their weight. I slip it into my landing net first time and walk the fish safely down the pond; as far as possible from my perch spot, and to a place where hopefully it can warn all its carpy mates not to come bothering me up in my corner.

  Resettling after such chaos takes time. Lines and bait boxes are strewn everywhere. It’s important after any big fish that you don’t just cast straight back in. Heart rates and water need time to settle back into a rhythm and hurried casts can result in lost fish and tackle.

  After that carp I feel like I’m chasing my shadow, ghosting right back into my mis-steps and mistakes from last year. I remember clearly my next act a year ago: I flung the worm straight back out before I was properly ready and not thirty seconds later the rod tip thumped down hard. I lifted, but I didn’t initially feel that familiar perchy fight: I felt a sustained pressure without quite the reel-stripping runs of a truly large carp.

  ‘A small carp,’ I supposed then, and bullied it back towards me.

  It wasn’t till it was almost under the rod that I had the first obvious clue that this was in fact a truly massive perch. The rod suddenly buckled down as the fish dived hard for the wooden posts by my feet. I remember leaving my seat at that point, falling dramatically to one knee and leaning right across the water with my rod outstretched in my hand. The line grated up hard and horrible against the posts and I was convinced I was about to lose it, but, much to my surprise, the perch erupted on the surface right before me.

  Time stood still; and, unfortunately, so did I.

  I came to my senses at precisely the same time as the giant perch and made a hurried grab for my net just as the perch turned its giant head. It was so large you could have fitted a tangerine in its mouth, and with a single pump of its tail it brought my rod tip back down with tremendous force.

  The next scenes unfolded in a bit of a blur. I realized, with sheer horror, that the line had somehow tangled intractably around the arm of the reel. I tried desperately to free it but big fish rarely give second chances and, in that split-second window of weakness, the giant perch freed itself from the hook and was gone. For ever.

  It sounds ridiculous, but I bet if I had never seen that perch reveal itself on the surface I would have landed it. The realization that I had my dream fish within touching distance caused me to lose all reason and form. I changed from the confident bully into the horrified victim in an instant. It still makes me shudder at the thought.

  ‘Anyway. You can’t let that happen again now, Will,’ I tell myself for what feels the millionth time.

  I catapult out another pouch of maggots and flick the worm back into the danger zone. Ice cool. I refocus.

  Very sadly, history shows no interest in repeating itself. Several hours later, by the time I finally decide to give up and go home, the mercury has plummeted to such an extreme extent that my landing net has frozen solid to the grass. On the drive back, as my fingers come screaming back to life in front of the van’s heaters, I swear blind that this will be my last trip to White Springs this winter.

  After last year’s disaster I have spent a week of my life traipsing up and down the M4 on a hundred-mile round trip, desperately hoping to snare that giant perch again. It has been as torturous as it was futile. I haven’t caught a single decent fish.

  That all has to stop now. If I am to catch a record, I want it at least to have been fun. Not just me sat static at the most boring end of fishing, freezing cold and achieving absolutely nothing.

  It would be all too easy now to simply blame my venue choice for my own shortcomings as an angler. There is nothing actually wrong with White Springs, and those spectacular perch certainly haven’t gone anywhere, but it is every inch the commercial fishery. From its sculpted islands to its trimmed shrubs and manicured fishing platforms, it is precisely the sort of place I was supposed to be weaning myself off during this challenge. If I’m going to keep coming to places like this, then I may as well just chuck the Wilson Encyclopedia in the lake and carry on catching carp.

  I can hear what you are thinking: I bet if you had landed that big perch you wouldn’t feel that way. Of course I wouldn’t. But I didn’t, did I?

  As the frost settled into something of a rhythm and temperatures stabilized once more, the memory of the various White Springs debacles began to fade. I took up a permit with my local angling club and filled my boots on big perch from a remote farmland pond, finally cracking the 2lb barrier, and snaring more than a dozen fish over 1lb 8oz in one quite remarkable evening. My confidence was restored. I hardly lost a fish that month, and felt far more comfortable with the haphazard rhythm of the big perch’s fight. In fact, I can quite honestly say I only broke sweat on a couple of occasions: once, when I accidentally locked the van behind the lake gates, and then lost the key, and then experienced my first serious breakdown; and next, while leaving the lake on another occasion, when I blundered directly into the path of a massive boar badger and almost shit my socks.

  I wasn’t closing in on that Wilson mega-specimen, though, and knew in my heart of hearts it was probably time to take a long hard look at Grandad’s traditional techniques.

  Really, as undoubtedly effective as worms clearly still were, I hadn’t done anything to update my approach in over twenty-five years; I’d just picked up from where Grandad had left me, rolling his worms into the giant chest freezer.

  I began a trawl for new methods and was very surprised to discover that perch fishing was practically everywhere: multiple blogs, on the covers of magazines, all over the internet forums, and in many, many, viral videos. Catching perch seemed suddenly very ‘in’, and, dare I say, actually, a little bit ‘cool’.

  Without a doubt, the single greatest piece of public relations to come out of the sport has been the impact of light-rock fishing (LRF) from Japan. In the past, lure-fishing meant shapely chunks of metal, spinners or spoons, and wooden ‘plugs’, moulded to resemble the features of a wounded baitfish and pulled through the water in a manner designed to fool predatory fish into a take. The trick of LRF is to take these basics and radically lighten the approach. In this way new, infinitesimally small spinners appeared on the market alongside thousands of micro-lures, -jigs and -jerkbaits made of ultra-lightweight rubber and malleable plastics in a bewildering array of colours, shapes and designs.

  The masterstroke of LRF is that it has even made fishing for smaller predatory fish really exciting. For fishermen armed with short rods, matched with lightweight reels and hypersensitive braided lines, even the little wasp-like perch are a tantalizing target once again, their attacks registering on the subtle line with an extraordinary jarring force, every run, lunge and headshake transmitted down the rod with surgical precision.

  LRF isn’t just for small fish though; most of our recent record-breaking perch have been caught using these tactics and, believe me, when you actually do hook into something substantial the feeling of that first heart-stopping run never leaves you.

  Thanks to LRF, urban fishing is back with a bang, and it was on those previously overlooked waterways that I decided to focus my gaze now.

  Armed with a packet of inch-long, rubber, snow-white lures known as ‘grass minnows’, I scanned through a long list of options for a big-city stripy. The obvious choice would be somewhere on the Thames. The perch-fishing pedigree of this river placed it somewhere among the very best perch rivers in the country, and, according to the perch record list, a 6lb 4oz unclaimed record was landed there just a couple of years ago by a man listed only as ‘Bill’. How cool is that? According to reports he had to be forced into declaring any element of his catch at all. I desperately wanted to meet this ‘Bill’; a perch-fishing Jedi mas
ter to my young Skywalker; but most of all I wanted to meet his perch.

  Of course, only a fool would target a river as long as the Thames for just one fish, but Bill’s perch was far from the only big one. There’s barely a week that passes without a Wilson mega-specimen popping up somewhere on that river, either in the press or online, and the overwhelming majority of them are falling to the new LRF techniques.

  I had only fished the Thames once before, from a town park in the leafy Berkshire town of Pangbourne, but even then I conspired to lose a very big perch that had engulfed a small roach just as I was about to get it into the net.

  That was a ‘free-to-fish’ spot, and with a little research I soon found there were actually many more miles of free fishing along other parts of this iconic river. Perfect. It felt too good to be true. I bought a new, ridiculously small rod, coupled with an even smaller reel, and spooled up with braided line. Then I got very over-excited, very prematurely.

  Within twenty-four hours Storm Barney had ripped through the nation, bringing gale-force winds and heavy rains in its wake. That rain didn’t let up for a week and soon nearly every river in Britain had swelled to bursting point.

  I didn’t even need to leave the house to know for sure that the Thames would have gone into a serious state of spate; a sort of turbulent chocolate milkshake condition that would need at least another week to settle back down.

  The free fishing was irrelevant and my lightweight gear was useless. I chewed my fingers down to stubs.

  That’s not to say you can’t fish flooded rivers – some of the best catches I have ever made have been in the calm areas and eddies where fish are forced to take refuge from the chaos of the main flow during a spate; but LRF fishing in heavy water isn’t much fun at all. Even if you do manage to find clean runs away from all the storm detritus, getting the fish to see the lure in heavily coloured water is extremely hard, and getting your light gear to behave in a natural way is nigh on impossible.