With only enough time for a quick day session this week, I decided to make the most of it at the lake tucked away in the grounds of The Estate. There’s something nostalgic about the place, with the trees leaning over the water and the gentle ripple of the lake stretching out under the mid-morning gloom, as it was today. The lake always seems to hold onto a bit of magic.

I’d booked in for the day along with two other anglers who’d arrived a bit earlier than I did. Luckily, they’d set up camp on the far end, which is exactly what I’d been hoping for, giving me a good choice of swims. But without much action yet on the lake, choosing the right spot was trickier than usual. I didn’t want to spend the whole day casting into empty water. I scanned the pads, watching for any signs of movement. I spotted a couple of carp gliding around the edge of the lily pads, which seemed like a solid starting point. From there, I’d also have a good view of the rest of the lake, keeping an eye out for any telltale splashes or ripples that might betray a carp’s location.

After setting up, I settled in, scanning the water as best I could. A while later, I caught sight of some carp stirring up the water a bit further down, closer to the boundary of my swim. I thought about shifting over, but every time I got that itch to move, another fish would break the surface near my setup. As if reminding me to stay put. Carp were popping up here and there, almost as if they were playing with us, teasing but never quite committing. About an hour in, my right-hand rod gave a heavy line knock—a good sign. I reeled it in, suspecting I might have missed a bite, but when I pulled, there was nothing on the end but thin air.

After that, my left-hand rod gave a couple of short bleeps, the sort that makes you sit up and watch, trying not to hope too much. These little hints told me fish were moving around, even if they weren’t interested in my bait just yet. So, I resolved to stay where I was, patient but ready.

As the afternoon dragged on, things began to look less promising. I watched the fish cruising by, taunting me with their lazy, unhurried movements. It became clear that they were favouring a narrow channel between the lily pads, a bit further away. Perhaps if I’d been quicker on the draw and moved across the lake, I might have had a better chance. But that’s the way it goes, I guess. Some days the fish practically throw themselves onto the hook, and others, they play hard to get.

By the time the clock crept up to 1600 hours, it was clear this would be a blank for me. I hadn’t even had a nibble worth mentioning. I reeled in, feeling the slight tinge of disappointment that always comes with an empty net, but I reminded myself that fishing is as much about learning the water as it is about catching the fish. This lake has always had its quirks, and maybe with a bit more time, I’ll figure them out.

As I packed up my gear, I thought about the trip I had to make tomorrow—a family funeral in Grantham. Fishing here felt like a brief reprieve, a peaceful pause before the solemnity of the next few days. And though I didn’t catch a thing, I felt grateful for the time on the water, for the calmness it lent me as I prepared for what lay ahead.

With one last look at the lake, I slung my bag over my shoulder, already thinking about the next session, about learning this lake a bit better.

Until next time.

Richard

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