A Chill in the Wind – Two Nights on the Island Swim

There’s a certain freedom that comes with two nights on the bank — a kind of rare permission that makes every cast, every move, that much more purposeful. I’d been granted that freedom once again, thanks to the understanding of my wife and family, and I wasn’t about to waste it. After a couple of tricky sessions that ended in blanks, I was determined to get it right this time. If the carp were going to make me work for it, I was more than willing to put in the effort.

I pulled through the gate just after 9 am, taking my time as I unpacked. There was no mad rush — the fish hadn’t been on the feed lately, and I knew the conditions weren’t ideal. We were enjoying a slight temperature rise — the kind that gets you thinking spring might finally be here — but the wind was trying to convince me otherwise. That persistent Easterly was still biting, bringing a chill that cut through layers. Forecasts predicted gusts up to 30 mph, and I’d experienced enough blank nights recently to know I didn’t want to be sitting head-on into that wind again.

After a slow lap or two of the lake, scanning every margin, open water zone, and snag line, I was met with the same old sight: nothing. No shows, no fizzers, no head-and-shoulders — not even a swirl to go on. But that’s how it goes sometimes, especially early in the year when water temps are still reluctant to climb. I switched tactics — if I couldn’t find the fish, I’d let shelter and practicality dictate my swim. That’s when I chose the first island by the gate. It offered excellent cover from the wind and plenty of options in both directions. It felt right.

With no signs to fish to, I kept it simple — two PVA bags flicked out to likely zones after a little prodding around with the marker rod. I wasn’t after anything fancy, just a clean drop and a solid thump to give me some confidence. There’s something about a bag setup in tricky conditions that just feels safe — self-contained attraction, tangle-free, discreet.

By mid-afternoon, the wind had really started to build, curling around the lake and driving cold air through the trees. It was the kind of wind that messes with your head, makes you question your spots even when you know they’re solid. But then my mate turned up around 3:30 pm, bringing a welcome distraction.

He’d struggled to find the gate — no surprise really. This place is nicely tucked away, and if you didn’t already know where it was, you’d never guess. I gave him the usual tour, pointing out a few swim options and offering to help with the barrow. He settled on the far side of the island, just over the bridge, and I gave him a few bits of advice, mainly about the underwater boulders that have cost anglers gear and sanity alike. First impressions matter, and losing your lead on night one can dent your confidence more than most realise.

By the time I’d got him sorted and made my way back to my swim, it was just before 5 pm. I’d done a bit more exploring with the lead, keeping close in and looking for smooth silty spots within catapult range. With the crosswind worsening, spodding too far was going to be messy. I found two lovely areas just a couple of rod lengths off the island — classic feeding zones. It felt carpy.

I put both rods out with quiet precision: PVA mesh and solid bags filled with Nutrabaits pellets, combined with trimmed-down hookbaits to match. No alarms screaming, no flurry of bream or liners — just stillness. I watched the light drain from the water and settled into the rhythm of the night.

Sleep came easily, and it was uninterrupted. Not a single bleep all night, and honestly, I wasn’t surprised. I woke early and wandered over to check on my mate around 10 am, bringing him a brew and sharing a few thoughts. It’s always good to debrief with someone who’s in the same boat. We agreed: the lake was quiet, too quiet. The fish just didn’t seem to be moving.

Back at my swim by half past one, I decided to freshen things up. Both rods were repositioned to the near sides of the island, about two wraps off the bank in that soft, silty area I’d found the day before. This time, I ditched the bags. The crosswind was a real issue now, tugging at everything mid-air and making it impossible to land a bag neatly. Instead, I switched to spombing — just a modest hit of bait, split evenly between the two rods. Nutrabaits boilies, chopped and whole, went out with a few matching pellets. The rig end saw a change as well: one rod on a white Blank Saver pop-up, the other on a Plum 12mm. Both sat beautifully over that light silt.

And then… nothing. The hours passed slowly. We sat through another evening and into the night without so much as a twitch on the line. That’s carp fishing in early spring — hope mingled with doubt, anticipation soured by silence. But even with no signs, I was content. I’d done the groundwork, picked my spots, and fished them properly. If the fish weren’t feeding, there wasn’t much more I could do. I took comfort in the effort.

Sunday morning arrived with that familiar pale light spreading across the lake. I was up early again, scanning the water, but my alarms had remained silent. Still no shows, no bubbles, no subtle signs — not even the tease of a liner to stir the blood. At 5:20 am, I sat with a coffee in hand and a quiet mind. I’d given it everything. Sometimes, that’s enough.

But carp fishing has a funny way of testing your patience — right when you’re ready to give up, it throws you a lifeline.

Just after 6:40 am, as I began the slow process of packing away, the left-hand alarm let out a stutter. Then it tore off.

I froze for a split second, disbelieving. Then instinct kicked in. Rod in hand, I could feel the fish turning hard left, straight toward the overhanging trees. Heart in my throat, I gave it side strain, but it was having none of it. The line tightened awkwardly, snagged somewhere in the branches. My boots were already on — wrong feet, I realised too late — and I knew I had one option: wade.

Waders on, I stepped carefully into the lake, the cold hitting me like a wall. Waist-deep now, I could feel the tension in the line loosen. The fish was out of the snag and back in open water, but the battle wasn’t over. It tried again, kiting wide around the far corner, but I stayed calm, guiding it slowly back toward me. My heart pounded with every turn of the reel.

It wasn’t a long fight, but it felt loaded with meaning. A few minutes later, with the net stretched out in front of me, I drew it in — a clean sweep on the first go. Relief flooded through me. After several nights of blanks, a run right at the death was everything I could’ve asked for. Not a monster by any means — a solid, well-proportioned 12lber — but what it represented was far bigger. It was a payoff for persistence, a reward for adapting to the conditions and sticking it out. It was confirmation that the process works.

We often forget the build-up, the countless hours of prep, scanning, leading about, tweaking rigs and baiting plans. We forget the satisfaction of playing a fish perfectly, of beating snags and cold water and blank spells. But it’s all part of it. That’s what gives us the buzz. That moment when the buzzer screams and everything else fades away — that’s why we come back.

This session wasn’t about numbers or size. It was about solving a problem, reading a lake under pressure, and staying confident in my approach. Ending it with a fish in the net was just the cherry on top.

Until next time.

Richard

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