The Waiting Game – A Margin Mission Before the Spawning

After a false start on Wednesday, which saw me heading home just a couple of hours after I arrived, I found myself once again back at the lake. Somehow, I’d gravitated back to the same swim—tucked under the trees, shaded from the harsh sunlight, and blessed with a cool breeze that occasionally drifted across my face like nature’s own sigh of relief. It felt familiar. Safe. A natural corner that always seemed to hold potential.

The Fox Voyager tarp giving me shade

But this session was already different.

The carp were twitchy, moody—on the verge of spawning. You could feel it in the air. That thick, humid pressure before a storm. The kind of atmosphere that makes you sweat without moving and question every decision. I was praying that the forecasted weather change due on Friday or Saturday might delay the inevitable. It had originally been predicted for Thursday, but like everything in carp fishing, it had drifted—just like the carp, always unpredictable.

I’ve always believed they know what’s coming before we do. Some sixth sense about them. The kind that makes them vanish into snags or appear out of nowhere when you’re least expecting them.

I wasn’t entirely sure how to approach this trip. With the temperature rising fast, I knew I had a narrow window before the day turned into a furnace. I flicked both rods out to obvious spots just to get something fishing while I set up camp, cracked open a drink, and let the place talk to me.

Last week’s blank was still gnawing at me—especially because it came from just a few yards away from where I now sat. I’d fished deeper water then and couldn’t put my finger on why it hadn’t worked. The carp had been there, I’d seen them. Maybe I’d misread the depth, or maybe they just weren’t interested. Either way, it left an itch that needed scratching.

As the sun climbed, I sat back and started watching the water, waiting for a sign. A swirl, a shadow, a tail pattern flicking the surface. Anything.

Eventually, I grabbed the marker rod and had a gentle feel around. The Fish Deeper app had given me an idea, but there’s no substitute for a rod in hand. I found what I was looking for—two close-in spots with just the right texture and depth. The marker float popped up nicely over both, and I knew they’d do.

I baited one area with four spombs of Co-De and the other with BFM. It felt right to fish contrasting mixes. One rod would go ultra-close with a large PVA bag packed tight—Nutrabaits pellets, bound with crushed boilie and dusted with krill powder. That rig was paired with a Trigga Pineapple & N-Butyric Acid 12mm pop-up. The other, a bit further out, carried a smaller mesh bag and a 15mm Co-De corky wafter with a sliced-up white Blank Saver pop-up for visual appeal. A sort of hybrid bait signal—taste and colour.

The weather was a melting pot of chaos. The wind wouldn’t settle—shifting across the lake like it couldn’t make its mind up. Daytime highs were pushing 27°C, while night temperatures hovered around 10°C. The chance of rain was there too, adding to the unpredictability. Ideal spawning conditions were brewing.

At 17:00 on Thursday, my left-hand rod—fishing the big bag—twitched into life with a small Tench. Not what I was after, but at least something was feeding. It was quickly returned, and another bag was sent straight back out. Efficiency is key when things start to stir.

Then, at 18:10, that same rod gave a more interesting signal. A couple of bleeps, the bobbin held up against the buzzer, and a twitch in the rod tip. I picked it up calmly, expecting another Tench, but quickly realised I was connected to something far more solid.

The initial few seconds of the fight gave little away—just a plodding resistance. But as I brought the fish closer, the real power kicked in. Under the rod tip, it turned into a proper battle. I tried to ease it up, but it hugged the bottom like it was welded there. My forearms burned as I gradually applied more pressure. The fish wasn’t having any of it. It repeatedly kited towards the snags to both sides of the swim, forcing me to give line and regain control over and over again.

What felt like ten minutes of trench warfare dragged on, my mind fully locked in now. I slowed things down, adjusted my stance, and kept the pressure on. Eventually, I saw it—wallowing just below the surface like a submerged log. Big. Broad. Chestnut flanks flashing gold as it turned. A proper carp.

A couple more lunges and then, finally, it rolled over the cord. I looked down and couldn’t quite believe it.

29lb 7oz Common.

So close to the thirty mark, but it didn’t matter. The fight alone was worth it.

As the adrenaline subsided, I topped the spot up with three more spombs and tied a fresh bag, just in case.

The night brought its own drama. At 01:14 Friday morning, I had a strange take—just a tight pull on the bobbin with no follow-through. When I reeled in, the lead had ejected but nothing was on the end. Possibly a liner, or maybe a missed pick-up.

Then at 03:21, that same rod screamed off. No mistaking it this time. The fish tore out into the middle of the lake. Thankfully, I’d kept my waders by the bivvy, so I was in and moving instantly. The carp kited right hard, but I sunk the tip and steered it back. Under the other rod, into safer water, and then a controlled fight near the margins.

24lb 6oz Common.

Another perfect-looking fish. I fired out my second-last bag, now running dangerously low on pellets. I was hoping there was a spare tub in the car.

By 05:37, I was deep in some dream when the left-hand rod ripped off again. Disoriented at first, I stumbled out, heart thumping, but everything clicked once I engaged with the fish.

15lb 4oz Common.

A smaller one, but just as beautiful. The morning air was fresh now, and I brewed a coffee while tying up three more bags using the last of the small pellet. A lucky find of bigger pellets in the barrow might just save the session.

By midday, I topped the spots up again. The right-hand rod was still quiet, but I wasn’t ready to give up on it just yet. It had produced before, and sometimes a spot needs to mature over time.

At 01:28 on Saturday morning, the bag rod came good again.

21lb 2oz Common.

A powerful fish that didn’t do much until I got it near the net, then gave one last charge that nearly had me in trouble. But I held firm, and it was soon resting in the mesh.

The pressure was dropping—now around 1012mb. The northerly wind had picked up, pushing away from my corner of the lake. Temperatures were dipping too, with frost on the cards for the start of next week. Spawning felt close—too close.

By sunrise, the signs were undeniable. Carp splashing, pairing off, chasing. It had begun.

Still, at 17:12 Saturday evening, after some gentle encouragement from Ian—and maybe a bottle of red—I decided to stay one more night. The spawning activity had calmed again, and I had a feeling the window might just reopen. I adjusted the right-hand rod further out into the pond, finding a lovely smooth silty spot with the marker. Ten Nash Dot Spombs of bait later, and I was fishing a white Blank Saver over the top.

The other rod remained on its original spot, refreshed with a few spombs.

At 05:35 on Sunday morning, a cuckoo above the bivvy woke me. Lying in my bag, I felt that nagging sense of doubt. Had I pushed my luck? Was the new spot too ambitious?

Then the repositioned rod tore off.

It fought differently. Spirited but predictable. Strong, but manageable. After ten minutes of steady pressure, the carp gave in.

23lb 6 oz Common.

I grinned to myself. One of those moments where persistence actually pays off.

I set about tidying the swim, planning to be off in a couple of hours to spend the day with the family—hopefully down the beach or out in the kayak if the wind didn’t blow us off course.

Then, at 08:15, mid-pack-down, the close-in rod erupted. The carp broke the surface instantly, throwing up spray as it picked up the other line in the chaos. I managed to untangle the mess mid-fight while keeping tension on the fish.

The carp bolted under the trees to my right, but I kept it on a tight line, steering it clear. It crossed the swim and I gained line slowly, carefully. Three times it came toward the net, each time looking done, only to twist and surge away again. On one of those runs, it sprayed a full wellie of water into my boot.

I could’ve cursed. I nearly did. But I just breathed, steadied myself, and tried again.

17lb 10 oz Common.

When it finally went over the cord, I sat back and laughed. What a way to end a session. I’d been ready to call it quits. Shows you never really know.

I packed the last bits away with a full heart and tired arms. Seven takes, six landed, and a couple of absolute bangers in the net. I’d dodged the spawning chaos—just. There’s something satisfying about threading the needle like that.

Until next time.

—Richard

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