West Stow Country Park Carp Session

Fishing sessions often carry a strange sense of anticipation, as though every trip holds the possibility of something special—something unforgettable. This week’s trip was one of those rare occasions when the excitement had been building steadily for days. Not only was I heading back up to West Stow Country Park, a place that carries its own quiet charm and challenge, but I was also fishing alongside my oldest friend, Rob. We’ve shared countless hours bankside together over the years, and whenever we plan a session, it always seems to take on an extra layer of importance.

The Journey North

Monday morning started early—brutally early. I was up at 04:00, the kind of hour where the world outside is silent, and only the occasional fox or owl breaks the stillness. By 04:30 I had the car loaded, rods stacked neatly, and bait buckets wedged into the boot. The air was cool, fresh, and full of promise.

The roads were surprisingly clear. No roadworks on the M3, no speed restrictions, and even the dreaded M25—a road that can easily turn a good mood into frustration—was running without issue. I took this as a good omen. Heading north via the A414, the old Northern Orbital Road, then pushing on to the A1(M), I felt the tension ease out of me. By the time I merged onto the A14, the sun was climbing, lighting up the fields with a golden haze.

Of course, the A14 wouldn’t be the A14 without drama. I nearly witnessed a couple of accidents, careless drivers cutting across lanes, forcing others to take evasive action. Fortunately, the sensible heads among us kept it safe, and I pressed on, shaking my head at the madness.

At 07:10, I rolled into the West Stow Country Park car park, the familiar landscape unfolding around me. There’s always a strange mixture of calm and excitement on arrival. Part of me just wanted to rush to a swim, set up, and get lines in the water. Another part of me knew the importance of slowing down—taking the time to look, listen, and read the water.

Meeting Rob and the First Walk

Rob was already there, chatting with one of the other syndicate members. He looked relaxed, leaning on his rod holdall like a man who had nowhere else to be. We shook hands, shared a few quick jokes, and then carried on together for a slow walk around the lake.

The lake itself was in fine condition. The morning light dappled across the surface, breaking into ripples where the breeze drifted down the back bay. A couple of carp showed by one of the islands—just the sort of sign you want to see when you’re deciding on swims. Their broad backs broke the water briefly before sliding away, leaving widening rings on the surface.

After considering a few options, I decided on Peg 23—ironically, the same swim I’d fished on my last trip here. It wasn’t the most obvious peg, but it had form, and it offered me water where carp had clearly been showing. Rob picked a swim further along, leaving a respectful space between us. Between our pegs sat an old, overgrown swim that hardly ever gets fished these days, which gave us both plenty of room.

With no one else along the wooded bank, the choice felt right.

A Different Approach

Normally, I fall into the same rhythm: arrive, rush to set up, and spend the next few hours fumbling around after a long drive. But this time, I decided to change tactics completely. Instead of diving into the full setup straight away, I’d simply flick out three solid PVA bags onto showing fish, sit back, unwind, and ease myself into the session.

As luck would have it, I could drop two bags close to the carp I’d already seen. Once the rods were out, I brewed the first coffee of the day, pulled up the bedchair, and let myself relax properly. Around 14:00, I planned to bring the marker rod out, find some prime spots, and put in a bit of bait with the Spomb. For once, I wasn’t chasing the clock.

The First Take

At 09:43, just as I was sinking into that first wave of relaxation, the right-hand rod ripped off. The alarm screamed, and I was on it instantly.

The fish picked up some weed on its way in, the rod tip juddering under the load, but soon shook it free. It made a dart for the reedbed to my right, forcing me to apply heavy side strain. The carp kited back out into open water, surging across the swim, before crossing my middle rod. For a few tense seconds, things looked like they might go badly, but with steady pressure, I coaxed it closer, keeping the line tight.

The net slipped under a broad-shouldered mirror carp, and I breathed out hard.

23lb 10oz Mirror.

A superb start. After unhooking, weighing, and getting the photos sorted, I sat back with a grin that no amount of tiredness could erase. To open the session like that felt almost too good to be true.

Early Action and Early Frustrations

With all three rods reset, the middle one soon signalled another take. This time, the fish buried itself in weed. I gave it everything, side strain again pulling it clear, but just as I thought I was winning, the hook pulled.

Frustration flared briefly—it always does when you lose a fish—but that’s carp fishing. Sometimes you win, sometimes they slip the hook, and all you can do is reset.

By 12:30, I’d already tied up three new bags. I’d only managed one brew and still had no food. My stomach reminded me of my neglect, but I promised myself I’d eat once the swims were properly prepped at 14:00.

Nightfall on the Lake

The day slipped into evening quietly. The lake grew still, the air cooling, geese squabbling noisily across the water. By 06:00 the next morning, their fighting woke me. Ten feet from my rods,0 they went at each other, wings slapping, calls echoing across the water.

The night had been less productive than expected. A few single bleeps had broken the silence, and I’d heard carp activity through the darkness, but no takes. Still, given the flying start and compared to previous years’ results, I was already ahead.

A Hook Pull Heartbreaker

By midday, I decided it was time to refresh the rods. As I was wrapping up the third, the middle rod bleeped and bent round. I struck into a powerful fish that surged to the right, tangling with the line of the right-hand rod.

I ducked and weaved, trying to move one line under and over the other. The fish tore into open water, dragging line off both reels. I slackened the clutch on the second rod to stop the endless screaming alarm, then focused everything on regaining control.

For ten long minutes, it was a stalemate. Finally, I drew the fish within three rod lengths, the surface humping, the leader knot almost visible—and then, with a sickening ping, the hook pulled.

I just stood there, rod slack, staring at the water. The Airfield Lake curse of hook pulls had followed me to West Stow!

Tweaks and Margins

By 13:45, I’d got all three rods back in position. A scattering of mixed Nutrabaits boilies went in via Spomb. One rod, cast a little too far onto silt, I planned to recast later.

Still, the night passed quietly. No action, no takes, just the odd liner. By morning, I was restless. After talking with Rob the previous evening, I decided to gamble. My left-hand rod was repositioned under a willow tree to my left, just past the next swim. I’d lightly baited it with boilies overnight, and it looked like a proper carp-holding spot.

By 17:00, I made another tweak. The middle rod was reeled in, rebaited, and a fresh PVA bag clipped on. I flicked it across to the right-hand margin, almost into the water in front of the next swim, close to where a carp had shown. It was a risk—if someone turned up to fish there, I’d have to reel in—but I trusted my instincts.

The Last Night

Darkness fell. My confidence was ebbing slightly, but I knew I’d done all I could. Rods were on fresh hookbaits, margins were primed, and spots looked good. It was now out of my hands—over to the carp gods.

Through the night, I had liners—twitches on the bobbins, bleeps on the alarms. Positive signs, but still no pickups. As dawn broke, I brewed coffee, sat back, and watched the lake breathe into life.

By mid-morning, the session was effectively done. I’d planned to leave by noon, giving me a good run home and a 16:00 arrival. That gave me five hours to tempt one last carp.

Reflections

When I packed up, it wasn’t with disappointment. I’d landed one mirror at 23lb 10oz, lost two carp to hook pulls, and had a bonus tench. Four definite bites in a session here was a real step forward. Compared to previous years, it felt like progress.

Fishing isn’t always about numbers. Sometimes it’s about those small victories—the adjustments that bring extra chances, the knowledge that you’ve moved closer to unlocking a tricky water.

This trip reminded me why I love fishing with Rob, too. The quiet camaraderie, the shared coffee/tea breaks, the laughs when plans go wrong. There’s comfort in that, a steadying balance that makes even the tough sessions worthwhile.

This one wasn’t to be my big West Stow breakthrough, but it carried the feeling of being on the right path.

Until next time.

Richard

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