Three Nights, Two Carp, and a Lesson in Patience

After missing out on the lakes entirely last week—bar a few fleeting, frustrating hours by the river—I was itching for a proper session. The river had been enjoyable in its own way, but watching Chub ignore my hookbait for five hours tested my patience more than usual. You can catch up on all the drama from my last blog or video, but suffice to say, I was ready to return to somewhere with a proper bedchair, bivvy, and the solid thump of a big carp.

This week, I’d cleared the decks: three nights at my disposal. I’d planned to arrive at the lake around 2pm on day one, but the weather forecast looked atrocious. Every radar I checked showed a deluge sweeping across the South. So, I took the gamble—called off my gardening jobs and pointed the van towards Ringwood. Looking back now, I probably jumped the gun. The rain just didn’t show up near the lakes. Classic.

Still, I had time on my side. I did a full loop around Meadow Lake first, hoping for a decent choice of swims. No such luck. Most of the good ones were taken, and I just wasn’t feeling the energy with the rest. The place had that odd, stubborn silence it sometimes gets when it’s fishing poorly. Despite it being patchy for weeks, a lot of the regulars seemed glued to it—maybe out of routine or FOMO more than optimism.

So, I rolled the dice and headed over to Airfield Lake.

I wasn’t quite sure where to start. The weather had been shifting almost daily—barometric pressure yo-yoing, wind spinning directions like a compass with vertigo. The only real constant was a decent southwesterly pushing through, and the chance of overcast skies, which always gives me a little hope.

I normally fish the top lake here, but for once, I didn’t fancy it. Instead, I drove down towards the south end of the complex, somewhere I’d tried to access back in the spring, only to be met with a locked car park gate. But now, with the other lakes open and the river drawing a few anglers away, the place felt like a ghost town. Strangely peaceful.

I settled on the Bund swim, which sits tucked between the middle and bottom lakes. You can only fish the bottom lake from there, but carp were showing on both sides—rolling, fizzing, teasing me with that odd shoulder roll that makes your heart skip. I could only hope I’d picked the right water.

It’s a swim that’s served me well in the past. The wind was pushing in beautifully—not just a gentle breeze, but a solid push across the water. Unfortunately, the forecast said it might swing by morning, but I’ve long since stopped chasing forecasts.

I found two spots not too far out—no more than 30 yards—and baited up each with a wide spread of offerings: six big Spombs of boilies and four of mixed particles, crushed pellet, and hemp. The idea was to spread things out to avoid drawing in too many tench, and maybe keep the bream at bay as well. Hookbait-wise, I went with 24mm hardened bottom baits, each topped with a half 12mm pop-up for a bit of visual attraction.

I was all sorted by 12:30, just as the wife rang to check in. Not bad going, considering I’d arrived at 9am. I’d moved with intent for once, no faffing about.

Then, at 2:30pm, while I was mid-phone call with Ian, the right-hand rod absolutely tore off. No warning bleeps, just full-on chaos. I’d seen carp that morning but assumed they’d drifted off by now and wouldn’t be back till dusk. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The fish charged hard out into the bay, making a beeline for the far margin’s treeline snags—my nightmare scenario. I walked backwards and forwards up from the edge of the water up to the bivvy and back again, applying pressure at angles, gradually turning the fish. It started moving left, which was better, but not perfect—there’s a gnarly bar along that side. So I ducked under the other rod, guided it into the margin, and managed to swing it safely away from the danger zone.

Just when I thought I’d got the upper hand, the fish picked up the left-hand line. A mess of tight mono, slack braid, and now two leads in play. Predictably, the second rod screamed off—double take, courtesy of one very clever carp now dragging a rig it had no business with.

I kept calm—well, tried to—eased the carp into netting range, somehow avoiding disaster. Once netted, I was left with a knotted mess of line, leaders, and hooks. I cut it all free, re-rigged everything later after photos, and had to laugh.

The fish spun the dial round to 28lb 3oz. A right old chunk. All that drama, and totally worth it.

It took me 30 minutes to tidy up the carnage and get both rods back out.

The night that followed was strangely quiet. Not a bleep. After the recent spell of good night-time activity on the lake, I’d expected a late run. Nothing. Maybe it’s a daytime area, or maybe the fish just weren’t having it.

By 9am the next morning, I’d been watching the water for an hour, debating whether to bait up again. I decided to go for it—same mix, same approach—and recast both rods with fresh rigs and hookbaits. Sorted by 10am. The skies were brighter than forecast, but the breeze was still present, and the pressure seemed decent. I felt good about the day.

Steve popped in mid-morning for a chat before setting up on the bottom lake as well. We were about 100 yards apart as the crow flies, though the actual walk between our swims is a long one through the woods. Always nice to have a bit of company nearby.

At 5:51pm—just as the sun came back out after a grey spell—the right-hand rod was off again. A full 24 hours since the last take, and almost to the minute. The fish gave me the runaround, but this time I managed to keep it out of the left-hand line. As I played it in, the wife rang again, so I juggled the call with the fight, using my wireless headphones while the fish kited in the margin. It eventually slid into the net without drama.

20lb 8oz. A lovely, clean fish. Well happy with that.

I’d started to worry the swim had gone quiet. The bite lifted my confidence massively. Maybe I could squeeze one more out before pack-up.

But that night? Another blank. Not even a twitch of the bobbins. Meanwhile, Steve had two in the dark, including one just before first light. That gave me hope—something was feeding at night, just not down my end.

I was up early the next morning, spombing before 9am to avoid the threatened rain. There was cloud cover, a gentle wind, and the pressure was right. Everything screamed “bite time,” but by lunchtime, it still hadn’t happened.

Worse, the weather had been a bit of a letdown—no real rain, no storm, just muggy greyness. If tonight went the same way, I’d probably call it early in the morning and save myself the pack-down in pouring rain.

Still, I stayed hopeful. Sometimes, it’s the final night that delivers.

It wasn’t to be.

Morning came. The rods remained motionless, the buzzers silent. No liners, no nothing.

But I packed up with a smile. Two carp landed—one over 28 and the other just into the twenties. Both in daylight hours, both from a swim that hadn’t seen much pressure in weeks. I’d chosen to zig when others zagged, and it paid off. Plus, no blanks, no tench, and no bream—which is more than I can say for some other sessions this summer.

Lessons? A few. Don’t always trust the forecast. Don’t chase crowds. Stick to your gut. And sometimes, one good fish early on changes the whole energy of a trip.

Until next time.

Richard

Get 10% off Deeper with Code – RICHARD10