Southwesterly Dreams

I wasn’t planning to arrive at the lake on a Monday night—not originally. But sometimes the stars align, or in this case, a shift in the weather, an open diary, and a nagging sense of timing all came together. I’ve learnt over the years not to ignore that instinct.

A large southwesterly weather front was sweeping through, bringing cloud cover, warmth, and that rolling, humid air pressure that often gets the carp on the move. If that wind hadn’t started hacking into the Airfield Lake, I probably would’ve stuck to the club water. Meadow hadn’t been producing much lately, despite that recent capture of the 50lber that caused a frenzy of activity down there. But realistically, it was only the stockies that had been coming out, and I had my theories as to why.

Some thought they hadn’t spawned yet; I wasn’t convinced. To me, it was more likely the lake was suffering from a nutritional imbalance—namely, a tidal wave of tiger nuts. Don’t get me wrong, carp love them. Love them a bit too much. The trouble is, they’re addictive but hard to digest. It can take three, even four cycles through a carp’s gut before they actually break them down, and in the meantime, the lake becomes one big recycling bin of tiger nuts. They’re being eaten, crapped out, and eaten again until eventually digested—if not by the same fish, then by another. While this is happening, the carp can end up losing condition. So no, Meadow wasn’t for me right now.

I needed somewhere I could build on something – a spot, a pattern, a little piece of rhythm with the lake. August was nearly upon us, and over the years, it had been a kind month on the Airfield. It was time to prep a couple of areas, see how the fish were behaving, and maybe carve out a session or two that could set me up for the rest of the summer.

I arrived at the Airfield Lake just before 1900 hours. The drive in along the east bank offered early signs of promise: several carp topping mid-water, rolling just beneath the ripple. And to my relief, no one was in the southwest corner swim—the exact spot I had in mind.

With four nights ahead of me, I had options. If it didn’t pan out in 48 hours, I could up sticks and try elsewhere, but I felt quietly confident. Everything about the air, the lake, the light… it just had that feeling.

Tactics were split. One rod was going out long over a scattering of boilies, using a 24mm hardened hookbait snowman-style with a 12mm pop-up. The second rod would fish shorter, over a blend of boilie crumb, hempseed, a sprinkle of Himalayan rock salt and a few whole boilies for good measure. The hookbait would be either a 12mm Trigga Pineapple N-Butyric pop-up or a 12x15mm white “Blank Saver” barrel.

I didn’t expect action the first night—too much commotion in the swim and not enough prep time—but carp have a funny way of defying expectations.

0355 hours:
A take. Left-hand rod. The bite alarm chirped through the wind and rain, pulling me from a shallow sleep. My first thought was a tench. Ian had been plagued by them the week before. But no, it was a carp—and a welcome one at that.

A 15lb 5oz common. Not a monster, but a great start. A July carp.

The wind and rain picked up hard overnight, gusting to 40mph by midday. Great for the fishing—less so for baiting accurately at range. Trying to hit the clip on the long rod was like threading a needle in a hurricane. I might have to consider moving that spot in tighter.

I rebaited as best I could around noon, battling the crosswind, hopeful for an afternoon pickup. By early evening—around 1920—I’d seen a few more fish cruising into the area. A promising sign. What concerned me more was the silence in the small bay behind me, where you usually hear carp crashing late into the day. But it was early in the session, and I was patient. I was building something. Steadily.

0034 hours:
The right-hand rod tore off—hard, fast, urgent. A big-tailed Airfield common gave me a proper workout before slipping into the net.

16lb 4oz. Long, lean, and a little angry. Took longer than I’d hoped for the second bite, but the pressure was still dropping and the wind hadn’t let up. I sensed more was coming.

0140 hours:
While writing up the details of that capture—something I try to do while it’s fresh—the same rod screamed off again. This fish put in a serious account of itself.

19lb 10oz, another hard-fighting common. The kind of carp that makes your arms ache and your heart sing. As I zipped up the sleeping bag again, fish were still crashing out beyond the margins. Getting back to sleep was going to be a tall order.

Morning brought a frustrating discovery.

At around 2130 the night before, I’d had a few bleeps and a tap on the tip. I’d planned to redo the hookbait but never got around to it. Upon inspection, I found the bait was gone and the lead was pulled up the line. Classic missed opportunity. Gutting. Could’ve made it three in a night.

By 2014, the heat had finally ebbed and a cool breeze picked up again. Hope returned.

I slept well, but by morning, that hope had waned. The lake felt dead. Still. No fizzing. No liners. No crashing in the margins. Something had changed.

I checked the forecast: more cloud cover, potential rain, and—thankfully—the southwesterly due to return. I needed a lift, and fate provided one.

Steve dropped by after packing up, reporting two fish in the night. That alone gave me a mental nudge. Ian turned up just before lunch, less fortunate, but still with three nights to go and the weather improving.

Then, the lake spoke again.

1310 hours:
The right-hand rod exploded into life. The fish kited hard to the right, then buried deep. A slow give and take battle began, line stripped, gained, stripped again. I was gaining ground… and then it kited left. I turned it beautifully, coaxed it into the near margins. A few laps left and right, head shaking. Almost ready. I saw its back break the surface, rolled the net beneath—and the hook pinged out.

Gone.

We all agreed it was easily over 20lb. I sat down and just stared out. Crushed. But weirdly, more motivated than ever.

I regrouped. Rebaited both spots. Rechecked the rigs. Every hook was needle sharp. I needed redemption.

By 2100, the lake offered it.

Another powerful take on the right-hand rod. Same battle dynamics—strong in open water, but once it lost that fight, it came steadily into the margins. I prayed the hook would hold. This time, it did.

A gorgeous 20lb 1oz mirror, heavy with colour and big scales across one flank.

I barely had time to take a couple of shots when the left-hand rod bleeped. A soft take—nothing urgent. Probably a tench. I left the mirror in the sling and hit the rod. Something pulled back. Small, yes, but spirited.

Up on the surface appeared a 2lb mirror—undeniably wild-born. A baby of the lake. Beautiful. A glimpse of the lake’s future.

With both fish photographed, I slipped them back and finally exhaled. That was a magic hour.

The night was oddly quiet again. Not a single bleep. Not even a line twitch. Strange, considering the conditions.

At dawn, I brewed a coffee and stared at the water. Nothing moved. It was as though the carp had melted away under cover of darkness. Maybe they had. Maybe they were feeding on naturals deeper in the water column, or had simply moved up the lake with the wind shift.

It wasn’t the ending I’d hoped for—but that’s fishing. You never quite know how the last night will unfold.

As I packed down, I took a moment to stand still in the swim and let the session sink in. A few solid fish, a heartbreaker lost, a baby mirror, and a reminder that planning only takes you so far—reading the water and adapting makes all the difference.

The Airfield still has its mystery, its tempo, and its quiet rewards for those who observe closely and move at its pace.

Until next time.

Richard

Get 10% off Deeper with Code – RICHARD10