It was a quiet evening when I returned home after my last trip, thoughts swirling over a recent loss. I’d spent countless hours chasing fish at Airfield Lake, hoping to land that elusive, heavy, nearly mythical “lump.” I’d had a close call on the last outing—close enough to feel the weight on the line before it escaped me. So, as I unpacked and began to reset my gear, the sense of disappointment lingered. The task gave me focus, though, as I prepped for my next chance: a four-day stint that would run right up to the lake’s seasonal closing on the final day of October. This time, I was determined to get it right.

Early the next morning, I reached the lake’s gate around 8:30 a.m., taking in the empty, still surroundings. It was the last weekend, and despite the bittersweet sense of an ending, I relished the quiet, familiar space. My fishing mate, Ian, was scheduled to arrive around mid-morning, and I knew we’d probably find the prized double gravel swim already taken, as it was prime real estate. We’d planned on spreading out a bit this time. As much as I enjoy a social session, this trip was different; the unknown “lump” was out there, somewhere in that lake, and this might be my last chance of the year to hook it.

I parked, glanced around, and did my usual stroll by the lake to take in the atmosphere and scope out where the day anglers had set up. The Gravel Swim was indeed occupied, and a fisherman on the Point Swim was casting toward the main lake, likely a short stay before moving on. I lingered, eyeing the other anglers and their results, which were disappointingly slim. The clear skies and calm water weren’t ideal conditions. Still, the lake felt alive as I scouted other possibilities, trying to pinpoint where to settle in.

After a bit of debating, I chose an old favourite of mine: the Tower Point Swim which opens to the main lake. I hadn’t fished it in years, and while it had its challenges—particularly the urge to cast into the narrow gap where fish tend to break free—it felt like the right choice. So when the angler on the Point Swim moved on, I wasted no time moving in.

Setting up my kit, I carefully prepared two fishing spots. The marker float helped me identify a beautiful gravelly section that faded into a smooth silt bed, a perfect area where carp might graze. I spread a 3-kilo bucket of bait between these spots, adding some to an area about three-quarters of the way across, near the island, which I planned to investigate with my Deeper once the southwest wind picked up. With my rods placed and the camp set, I felt optimistic about the setup, hopeful that this time I’d have a chance to outsmart the mysterious giant.

The first night passed without a single event. Although I heard the telltale splash of carp nearby, the rods remained still, adding to my restless anticipation. By dawn, I was analyzing my setup, wondering if I’d miscalculated. As I watched the water, the left-hand rod suddenly sprang to life. I grabbed it, feeling a powerful surge as the carp bolted toward a cluster of trees. After a tense struggle, I managed to turn it and was bringing it closer when, with a sickening lurch, the hook pulled free. My heart sank. That was two lost fish in a row. My confidence was wavering, and so was my patience.

Around mid-afternoon, Ian arrived, sharing a bit of good news—he’d caught two 18-pounders. Though he’d had better luck, neither of us was having the results we’d hoped for. I decided to top up my baited area with a few more spombs and prepared for another long wait. The rain set in, softening the sounds around me, and I took the chance to make an early tea. Ian was convinced a hatch that morning had disrupted the carp’s feeding; seagulls had been diving for insects, which could explain the unusual quiet. Still, the anticipation lingered, and I went into the second night with cautious optimism, hoping conditions would improve.

At first light, I was up again, searching the lake’s surface for any signs of activity. The weather had shifted, and the southwesterly wind that usually stirred up feeding patterns had turned northeast. I knew my setup was right, but something felt off. I decided to make a few adjustments, positioning my rods more strategically around the lake’s snags and pockets.

Hours later, frustration was creeping back in. I shifted my right rod onto a single bank stick with a baited bag, then did the same with my left rod near an overhanging tree. Still, nothing. By midday, I felt it was time to move again, resetting the rods at slightly different distances and baiting the area with another six large spombs. It wasn’t just me struggling; neither Ian nor the angler in the Gravel Swim had any luck either, and even the Estate Manager noted that the lake was uncharacteristically quiet for late October. Despite my doubts, I held onto hope that the changes might turn things around.

Then, at 3:48 a.m., after days of patient, quiet waiting, the unmistakable scream of the alarm tore through the silence. My heart raced as I grabbed the rod, feeling the powerful resistance of a large fish on the line. The fight was intense, and at one point, the fish lodged itself in a snag, forcing me to leave the rod in the pod, hoping it would free itself. After an agonizing twenty minutes, the line started moving, and with careful manoeuvring, I finally brought it in. My prize was a solid 20-pound, 12-ounce common carp. Relieved and ecstatic, I knew the fight had been worth it. I’d risked it all for that one catch, and the result felt hard-earned.

I decided not to cast the rod back to that spot for the night. Despite my success, the spot was too risky, and I didn’t want to chance to lose another fish in the dark. Instead, I planned to reposition in the morning, satisfied for now, with the carp in the net and a little time to relax before daylight.

By sunrise, I was back in contemplation mode, watching the lake and considering my next move. The carp had been quiet for most of us on the lake, but around 9:30 a.m., I received a package from Liquirigs containing their new Dragon Fly bait. Curious, I spent a few hours testing it, exploring different rigs, and then, seeing a few fish stirring behind me in the middle lake, inspiration struck. I decided to shift everything to a nearby swim, where the fish seemed more active.

The move was seamless; within minutes, my gear was set, my rods cast, and a few handfuls of boilies catapulted over the area. Ian joined me, and we swapped stories, reliving memorable catches over cups of tea and a couple of pints of Guinness. The sun broke through, warming the autumn chill, and it was one of those rare moments where I felt truly at peace, grateful for the camaraderie and the chance to share these fleeting days on the lake.

Just as the evening settled in, my patience paid off once more—a solid, spirited 13-pound common. It wasn’t the legendary “lump,” but it was a rewarding catch. With only a night left, I knew my time was nearly up. I packed away most of the gear, but kept my lines in the water, hoping for one last chance.

As dawn broke on my final morning, I sat quietly by the lake, watching for any last signs of movement. With a bittersweet sigh, I reeled in my rods, feeling the familiar pang of saying goodbye to the lake for another season. This final session hadn’t yielded my long-sought “lump,” but it had brought moments of hard-won joy, camaraderie, and a few solid catches. Until next March, I’d hold onto the memories and lessons, ready to try again.

With one last look at the calm water, I shouldered my gear, already dreaming of the day I’d return.

Richard

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