A day from the past by William Wyatt

The House

There once was a lake I used to visit, and fish as a young man. It was in the grounds of derelict country manor house on the out skirts of London. Set in open rolling countryside, apart from the odd small wood or tree-lined hedge. Here's an account of an evening I spent there sometime in the early 90s.

To get to the lake you would drive past the old house, Copped Hall, burnt out and gutted at the turn of last century. But she still has an air of splendour and grace. A huge building the colour of grey thunderclouds with blackened squares where there once stood enormous leaded windows. Lead from both roof and windows long pillaged by passing gypsies, but the old building still had her dignity.

I would have to leave the car at the adjoining cottage, and make my way on foot, over a stile, then along a well beaten path that runs parallel to a farmer’s ploughed field, on my left and a beautiful untended wild hedge of blackberry to my right.

The smell of pollen and vintage water was becoming increasingly over powering. The sound of the crickets was so intense together with the beating down late afternoon sun. But shortly I would find myself in the cover of large oak tree, which signalled the start of the small tree lined lake. Once out of the sun, and with sparkle of what looked like liquid gold amongst the trees and hydrangeas, my heart would start to pound with anticipation for the evening ahead.

The Lake

As I approached the tea coloured water, and caught my breath, I knew decisions would have to be made. There were the usual haunts of course, places that would inevitably respond to and welcome leviathan for an evening of wits and good sport. But then there were the places not yet fished, with their air of mystery intact. Though the lake looked rather small, with its main expanse of open water the size of maybe a football pitch, it stretched out into many small nooks and crannies with vast over grown weed choked bays.

There is a spot by a small island that I had meant to fish many times but had always walked past, when the lure of the more text book swims had been too much to resist. But tonight I shall conquer the island margin and with any luck add it to my list of usual haunts.

You have to try and envisage that this was once someone’s garden pond, ok admittedly a little larger than your average garden pond, but a garden pond never the less. There would have been well-kept boarders and shrubs; aquatic plants kept neat, not the giant tangle of roots and out of control lily beds there are to day.

I place my rucksack on the grass, and as by necessity build my landing net first, then followed by my Avon rod and centrepin reel set up, my chosen weapon of choice for my evening duel with cyprinus carpio. The island margin is after all only an under arm flick away. There is a likely looking spot between two old twisted trees, with their ancient roots sprawling down into the water, having been exposed after years of weather erosion, they look reminiscent of a mangrove forest at low tide.

I open a plastic bucket with a fermenting mixture of hemp and sweet corn, three to four handfuls should be sufficient, there thrown within the shadows, a foot or so from the bank. There seems to be nice degree of depth, maybe two, two and half feet.

I set my goose quill float and AAA shot accordingly, some ten inches over depth, and bait my hook with large cube of liver sausage.

With a gentle flick my float and baited hook lands with precision over the bed of fermenting seeds I place the reels check on, and lay the rod on top of a spare jumper. The tip is facing the float. I settle back and take in this magical place before the evening events give me a kind of tunnel vision, with a large helping of tension adrenalin and extreme concentration. I bring my knees up to my chest and light up a Marlboro.

Tunnelvision...

Its around seven thirty the air is changing, and the wind has almost dropped. The lake looks like scene from English costume drama by the BBC, at any moment I half expect a couple dressed in Victorian clothes to punt across the lake and greet me with polite small talk.

Though rather masked by trees you can still make out the great house, at this distance you can’t see her scares and burnt insides so your imagination is free to roam.

A coot makes its way past my float. As I react by moving sharply forward, and adjusting the line, as not become tangled round his long clumsy legs, I must have disturbed a feeding fish that had settled undetected on my free offerings, for at that moment there was a mighty swirl and huge plume of bottom sediment. The carp went one way and the coot went the other, and there was I left in the middle, well in need of another smoke!

Before the water had a chance to resume from its almost drinking chocolate colour back to its original petty tea stain, three more handfuls of hemp and corn were duly thrown in to replace what had been unwittingly stolen from beneath my eyes. Hook rebaited and recast, the trap set.

The Fish

As the evening closes in, time speeds up, all sense of reality from the outside world is lost, for at my present location I cant even hear the far off drone of traffic, maybe the occasional 737 flying over head, but far to high to hear its engines, just its blinking red lights are visible.

I’m in a state of pure awareness, focused on the tip of my float and the few feet of surrounding water.

In stead of laid back, I’m hunched over the rod like an old heron, the float shakes and lifts slightly, almost trembles as a large wild carp up ends over the fermenting carpet of freebies. I pick up the rod, and take in a little slack line. Time is now going hyper fast, my eyes are constantly adjusting to the fading light. There’s one more fish joining in, slightly larger rounder, a common carp I think, maybe not an original wildy for they are far more streamlined and almost look chub like in profile.

There’s a violent twitch on the float, it rises and tips over. Time comes to almost abrupt standstill as I sweep the rod round, right hand thumb hard on spool, left hand ready to support the bottom of the reel, as to insure equal pressure on the spindle.

The line cuts the water like a knife, the Avon rods action takes up the immense strain of the fishes first bid for freedom, its almost elastic. The curve is from tip to butt, reducing the chance of a hook pull, and soaking up initial lunges. I steer the fish from tree roots, and from the sunken remains of an old ornamental bridge on my right hand side. He turns and I have his head above water now, with one last bid he turns that huge propeller and sends up an impressive wave of spray, but it’s futile the nets is gently slipped under, I place my rod on the bank, and with love and care unhook and return a butter yellow coloured English wild carp of maybe 4lbs.

Maybe time to call it a day

All of a sudden I’m back in reality, it’s dark, it’s scary and am on my own sitting next to lake in the grounds of one Southern England’s most reputed haunted houses. As I light up the flash from the lighter temporally blinds me, panic sets in, I grab my tackle and make my way back up the path, once out in the open the only thing haunting me is hunger, and the off chance of making last orders a the White Heart pub!