Quarry Bank Fishery - Part 12
Fennel concludes his 12-part series about fishing at the fabulous Quarry Bank Fishery in France, with a big finale.
The King of Carp
Back in 1989, when I was fifteen years old and just discovering carp fishing, I dreamed of finding a remote lake filled with mysteries and huge fish. It sustained the energy in my legs as I cycled mile after mile in my pursuit of ‘lost’ carp lakes. As the miles passed by, and time moved on, my definition of ‘lost’ and ‘huge’ began to change. What began as an overgrown pond containing a ten-pound wild carp became a majestic lake containing a fifty-pounder. I became aware of places such as Redmire Pool that had contained legitimate monsters that broke records and forged the dreams of those who would seek to capture such outstanding carp. Alas, fish of that size and quality were rare and very much beyond the means of a fifteen-year-old schoolboy and his homemade bamboo fishing rod. Still, in amongst my quest for wildies, I would occasionally find myself wondering whether the lake I’d just discovered held a king of fish.
I referred to these huge fish as ‘king carp’, not because it’s the correct description for the strain but because of a chapter in BB’s Confessions of a Carp Fisher entitled ‘The King of Carp’. In it, he quotes from a book about carp fishing at Lake Balaton in Hungary, telling the story of a huge carp, four-and-a-half feet long that bore a white crown-like scar on its shoulders from having survived being harpooned. Alas, it was hooked and lost. “One of the old philosophers,” he said, “once remarked that fortune favoured everybody at least once in a lifetime, but that most people failed to recognize the right moment: he who ignored the fickle goddess would never be allowed to grasp the chance again.” But he acknowledged that good fortune does not necessarily result in the capture of a fish. Quoting from the book about Lake Balaton, he said: “Don’t we anglers forever wait for the monster fish, the king of fish, to take our bait? It is he we dream of when we watch our float for hours on end, whether from the shore or from the boat. And when, finally, he does take our bait, he laughs at our dreams, gives an almighty tug and breaks us.”
There’s something in this inevitability of fate that causes us to seek our rewards while knowing that when the chance comes, we will probably fail to realise the dream. But it doesn’t stop us trying, or dreaming of catching ‘the biggest fish of all’.
So, then, a thirty-year dream to catch ‘the king of carp’; with the known probability that such a fish existed overseas and would break my line should I hook it. I just needed to ‘recognize the right moment’ and act upon good fortune. Well, good fortune had led me to the banks of Quarry Bank Fishery in France. I’d hooked and lost big carp, and managed to land two of their smaller brethren, but had yet to recognise the right moment for my king of carp. Time was ticking, but opportunity was growing.
Back to the fishing
Quarry Bank Fishery had been very good to Shaun, Tim and I, with three carp on the bank for a total of seventy-seven pounds. We’d hooked and lost a great deal more, and with conditions becoming overcast and the carp beginning to show, we were hopeful of a big fish before we left for England. Our trip to the ‘all you can eat’ restaurant had also been successful, with an equal weight of food consumed.
Returning to the lake, we knew we needed to get fishing again, but were slowed considerably by our tummies that were bulging with all manner of stir-fried goodies. Tim remarked that he was probably in the third trimester of pregnancy, Shaun claimed to be carrying twins, and I felt a ‘little uncomfortable’ at being furthest from the toilet. Labour, I predicted, would be swift after three plates of Noodle Squid.
My centrepin reels were soon fishing again at Quarry Bank Fishery.
Ping!
After perhaps an hour of lying on my bedchair with my knees up, holding my stomach and wondering why I thought I had room for two bowls of tapioca rice pudding after so much fried seafood, I heard a scurry on the gravel path behind me and then brisk footsteps on the decking of my swim. Tim appeared in the doorway of my bivvy. He looked flustered and out of breath. “Fennel,” he said, “you won’t believe it. I’ve gone and lost another one.”
“Another carp?” I replied.
“Yeah, yeah, carp,” said Tim, “and a really good one, too. It tore off savagely and I was on the rod really quickly; kept it on a tight line and was lifting it, then felt it surge down deep behind the roadway; ruddy thing nearly flattened my rod. I felt it on for a while longer, then ping! the line went. Cut me off on the rocks again. I just can’t believe it. It was a really, really good fish.”
“Aw, mate,” I said, as I did my best to sit up, “that really is the story of your week. You just haven’t had any luck, have you? How many is that now?”
“Four,” replied Tim. “Four bloomin’ great carp that properly did me in. Each and every one of them. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Hey, Fella,” I replied, “don’t let your head dip. It’s only fishing. Some you win, some you lose; it’s all part of the game. Shaun and I had our money on you getting a big one, and a big one you will catch.”
“You’re not helping,” replied Tim. “I just hooked a really big one, so a really big one just smashed me up.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” I said. “Maybe on this trip, or maybe the next one; there’s a big carp in here with your name on it. That’s a promise.”
“Cheers, Fennel,” said Tim, “you’ve got a way of seeing the best in things.”
“I try,” I replied, “though I’m nothing compared to your hero.”
“Who, Shackleton?” replied Tim.
“Yeah, the great man,” I said. “Remember what he said: Men are not made from easy victories but based on great defeats…The quality I look for most is optimism: especially optimism in the face of reverses and apparent defeat. Optimism is true moral courage.”
“You got it,” said Tim, “Through endurance we conquer.”
“Exactly,” I replied.
“Noble endeavours,” said Tim. “Better to try and fail than succeed at not trying.”
The last night
Tim returned to his swim and, with little activity showing in my swim, I decided to go and sit with Shaun to savour our final night at the lake. I reeled in and took a gentle stroll over to Shaun’s swim. He was sitting in front of his bivvy when I arrived, enjoying the warmth of the early evening sun.
“Fancy a drink?” said Shaun. “Nothing too strong, more of an aperitif really.” He then produced a bottle of premixed ‘Pastis’.
“What’s that?” I enquired, having never seen or tried the drink before. “It looks like weak tea.”
“Try some,” said Shaun. “It might be just what you need after such a big meal. Though, it does have a little kick”.
Shaun poured a small glass of the drink and handed it to me. It smelled like mild liquorice and tasted like aniseed.
“Weird stuff,” I exclaimed, “like having milk laced with Pernod. But, I like it!”
I sat down next to Shaun and informed him that Tim had just lost another carp.
“It’s not about the catching,” said Shaun. “We’re here, fishing, that’s the important thing. Six years of thinking about a trip and several months of planning it, and we’re here. Together.”
“You’re right,” I replied.
“Remember our goals for the trip,” said Shaun, “all three of us needed a holiday, a trip with plenty of rest and reflection time, to enjoy great times with mates, and a proper boys’ adventure. We’ve had all that, indeed we’ve had an epic week.”
“A classic week,” I replied.
“And with your pen,” said Shaun, “I’m sure it will be a week we’ll be able to relive again and again.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “Though if there’s a book in this, it will have written itself. Adventures like this are very special.”
“Quality times,” replied Shaun.
“And, yes, the holiday has delivered,” I said. “We’re here at Quarry Bank, on our last night of the trip, feeling renewed, inspired, happy and rewarded by the fish and the great friendships we’ve forged. We now have somewhere to go – in our minds or in reality – whenever we need to reboot and reconnect.”
“Like in your ‘Stop, Unplug’ motto,” said Shaun, “Quarry Bank really helps us to 'Escape and Enjoy'.”
“And if anyone thinks that we’ve not caught something, then they’ve missed the point,” I said. “We’ve caught up with each other, caught the mood and vibe of the lake, caught the magic of carp fishing, and caught a sense of ‘the other life’ that’s often only glimpsed through the car window of our fast-paced lives; but we’ve slowed down and savoured it all here. This is a great venue, savoured in great company and with absolutely superb hosts, and this quiet countryside is the most tranquil setting we could possibly imagine.”
“It is that,” replied Shaun, “and we really began to ‘mine’ its potential."
"Rather appropriate for an old quarry, eh?" I said. "I know that most anglers will have expectations of what they want to experience when they come fishing, especially in France, and venues need to cater for that; but there’s something so unique about this place, with its origins as a quarry and with Neil’s background in construction, that there's a big opportunity here to emphasise the mining and quarry theme.”
I continued to tell Shaun about the conversation I’d had with Neil about the potential for quarrymen’s sheds around the lake instead of bivvies, with miner’s lanterns, pick axes and old shovels on display outside the lodge, and old photos and drawings of the quarry inside it. “Such things might be trifling for many," I said, "but for me a place is defined as much by its history as what it represents today. There’s value inherited from the past, a deeper appreciation and ‘revealing’ of one’s place in the natural order and progression of things – the flow of time – that we are only ever custodians of those things that will outlive us. We dig into our past to find the foundations upon which we build our futures.”
“And there’s mysteries and unknowns in both,” replied Shaun. “That’s the thing that appeals to anglers. There are so many mysteries down there in the depths, especially the fish seen and unseen, just waiting to be caught.”
“True,” I replied. “There’s a strong sense of pioneering spirit in fishing at Quarry Bank that will appeal to anglers who like to be first in achieving something.”
“To make their mark and take their place in the lake’s history,” said Shaun. “Just think how amazing it would feel to be the first person to catch that 50lb grass carp, or a 4lb roach, or one of the double-figure asp.”
“Or perhaps,” I said, “to be the person to catch the lake’s first 60lb carp or 100lb catfish?”
“It’s here for the doing,” said Shaun. “Quarry Bank is one of those waters where people can fish and pave the way for those who follow. So while you can come here and enjoy great facilities, a warm welcome and a relaxing nature-filled holiday, there’s some serious fishing available to those who know what they’re doing.”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “It’s a proper fishery where the effort can be rewarded with outstanding results. It's not one of those easy 'runs waters' where one is guaranteed more action than a newbie at a nymphomaniacs' speed dating party; it's a proper water where one has to work for one's fish. To me, Quarry Bank represents the right balance of relaxation and challenge. It’s a puzzle that takes some piecing together, which is exactly the appeal of carp fishing for me. You can keep coming back time and time again to continue working it out, to get ‘in tune’ with the water and its fish. It’s one of those waters that gets under your skin with thoughts of ‘I know they’re in there; I know what I saw and learned; now how do I unlock its secrets?'”
“A fifty pound carp with your name on it, then?” asked Shaun.
“Maybe not me,” I replied, “though of course I’d love to catch such a fish. But I think there must be someone, or a team of anglers out there who would relish a water like this – for the pure challenge it presents – to prove to themselves and each other that they can crack the code and really get in amongst the fish.”
“To become the Puzzle Masters,” replied Shaun. "Now that's a challenge to rise to."
The view from Shaun's swim, with the sun illuminating the cliffs on the far side of the lake.
The final morning
I left Shaun with his bottle of Pastis and returned to my swim, where I recast and settled down onto my bed to watch the light fade from the landscape. Knowing that the following day would involve lots of travelling, I laid my head down quickly for a good night’s sleep.
I woke at about 6am, but thought it was much earlier. There was no glow on the horizon, so it was still very dark. I got up and walked out onto the decking of my swim, to sit on my chair and observe the goings-on at the lake.
Not much could be heard other than the sound of the aerator which had been working all night. I noticed how the surface of the water was coated in a film of dust, perhaps created by the diffusers or having blown in from nearby fields. There was no bubbling to be seen, or fish rolling or crashing, so I concluded that the lake’s inhabitants were still sleeping – they being the sort of civilised fish one dreams about that know the appeal of a lie-in and a late breakfast. So I returned to my bivvy, turned on my red-light torch and started writing up my notes from the trip.
Tim arrived in my swim at 7am, carrying his coffee-making kit. So I lit the kettle and as we waited for it to boil, Tim ground some beans and we discussed plans for the day. This was our last morning at the lake and we had flights to catch that afternoon. Tim’s flight was at lunchtime, so we knew that we had to be away from the lake at 10.30am latest if we were to make it to the airport in time for Tim to check in and neck a swift pint before boarding the plane. That meant being packed up by 9.30am, loading the car at 10am, saying our farewells to Neil and Lin and then doing our best not to be late.
“Fennel,” said Tim, “you’re known for seeking to escape the clock, but I’m very grateful that you agreed to wear a watch on this trip. Just, please, remember to look at it. We can’t afford to be late.”
Leaving the lake would be a real drag. Tim and I acknowledged that three-and-a-half hours wasn’t long to go from drinking a pre-dawn cup of coffee to the chaos of loading a car and the clock-watching nervousness of returning to a world where deadlines matter and you get carried along by the movements of others. But Tim is used to an early morning commute into London, rising early to catch the commuter train into the city. So once he’d finished his coffee, he returned to his swim and began packing up; whereas I just sat there, looking out across the lake and thinking of the eight sausages in the fridge that would make a fine pre-journey breakfast. “There’s always time for a quick sausage,” I said out loud, and then felt glad that I was on my own when I said it. Some things, I've learned, are best done discretely, on one’s own, with a block of lard, two slices of bread, and a hot frying pan.
Final morning at Quarry Bank Fishery, France.
Recognising the moment
As the darkness began to ease, I noticed a gentle fizzing appearing over the channel in front of the swim, where I’d baited for my third rod earlier in the week. The bubbles were slightly further out than where I was currently fishing this rod, so I got up from my seat and gently reeled in the line. The bait was still good, so I recast it about fifteen feet from the bank. I had to Wallis cast to get the drum of the centrepin spinning, as it kept turning quickly until the bait reached the bottom. Now, for the first time in the week, I knew this rod was fishing directly amongst some feeding carp.
I’d noticed earlier in the week how the carp bubbles at Quarry Bank appeared quite violently on the surface. These bubbles were different, just a gentle ‘tickling fizz’ like that from an aquarium aerator. But they were moving. From the clusters appearing on the surface, I estimated that three fish had found my bait and were slowly truffling along the bottom of the deep channel, no doubt through a layer of silt that had settled in the hollow. My line would twitch every thirty seconds or so, sometimes enough to jerk the bobbin and sound the alarm, but mostly only enough to tremble or flick the line as though tiny fish were brushing the line. Roach perhaps? Maybe, but the patches of bubbles were too wide and steady to be small fish. I felt sure that these were carp and, as I saw the trembling on the line becoming more frequent, I was confident of getting a take.
I imagined all the clouds of debris being disturbed at the bottom, reducing any light that might have been present so deep down in the lake, and the fish were having to feed entirely by smell. They were feeding over pellet that was a couple of days old, no doubt turned to a mush on the bottom, and boilies that had probably had most of their flavour leached from them during the week. So the food signal would have been generic over the whole area. The fish were gently and slowly sifting over the bottom in search of what they could find for breakfast. My hookbait was in there, waiting for them to snaffle it.
The take would come soon, surely?
The bubbles appearing just to the right of my rods. The fish were so close in, yet in 30ft of water were so far away.
Over the next hour and a quarter, I watched the bubbles become bigger and stronger as the carp rooted deeper into the silt. The line continued to twitch, sometimes knocking the rod tip and jerking the bobbin up an inch or two. But nothing I could hit.
The bobbin on my right-hand rod registering a short drop-back.
The fish were so close to my bait, and so tantalisingly close to me being able to connect with one of them. With my heart pounding, I felt sure that a take would come, but I was also mindful of the passing time and need to start packing up to leave. So, keeping my ears open for the bite alarm and my eyes on the rod at every available chance, I quietly withdrew from the front of the swim to begin packing up my kit and clobber in the bivvy.
With all my bags packed and stacked neatly outside the bivvy, I returned to the chair next to my rods. The right-hand rod was still knocking and twitching, and the clusters of bubbles in the swim were now more than six feet wide. It was such a broad patch of bubbles, and rising continuously, that I wondered whether a catfish was scratching its back on the bottom? But every now and then the bubbles would disperse and form into three different clusters that moved independently. So, I concluded that three carp were competing with each other for food that had held their attention for over an hour.
As I sat on my hands in disbelief that the take was so slow in coming, and that this was the first chance this rod had of catching a fish in a week, I was reminded of the famous quote by Scott of the Antarctic: “I can imagine few things more trying to the patience than the long wasted days of waiting.” I’d not wasted any days, but these fish were trying my patience. Every second waited was a second that should have been spent carrying my gear up to the car.
“Oh, c’mon already,” I said to the carp as I checked my watch and saw that the time was 9am. “Thirty minutes, carp, that’s all you’ve got before I must reel in and be gone. Thirty minutes, to avoid being hooked. Though, of course, I’d much prefer you to take my bait now and be in my net quickly. I really have to be off, and can’t bear the thought of having to hand the rod to Neil to continue playing you as I make a dash for the airport.”
The carp apparently heard my plea, as the line jerked, the rod tip knocked, the alarm sounded and the bobbin shot up two inches before dropping down a further four. I picked up the rod, reeled down, and pulled steadily against the line.
Thump! Thump! Thoooooooomp!
In a split second of terror and disbelief at the power of what I’d just hooked, I remembered something Chris Yates had said to me back in 1996. He and I were fishing together at Jade Lake and had come to appreciate the size of the carp it contained. As I’d arrived in Chris’ swim I was surprised to see him fishing with three rods. “Not stalking, Chris?” I’d asked. Chris, for the first time since I’d met him two years earlier, had a serious and competitive look in his eyes – what carp anglers refer to as ‘having their carp head on’. He said, “Barbel have held my attention for so many years; I was inspired by Richard Walker’s words that ‘for the first few seconds of hooking them, you don’t know whether they’re a three or a thirteen pounder’. But with carp fishing, I now realise, in those first few seconds you don’t know if it’s a three or a thirty pounder!”
Thuuuump, thoooomp, thuuump!
In those first few seconds, I knew that this was no three or thirty pounder. It was much, much bigger: what I refer to as a ‘Jeeezoosfookinchreeeest!” fish. The sort of thing that makes a God-fearing man start blaspheming and praying for good fortune and forgiveness the second he hooks it, that with every heart-pounding, muscle trembling, breath-taking second of connection makes him think – in equal measures – that he desperately wants to land it, but wishes he’d never hooked it.
The only time I’d hooked anything near the power of this fish was in 1998 at Fishabil in France when I’d hooked one of the lake’s famously huge catfish. But that fish was like playing a dead and immovable weight on the bottom that would swim off every time I released pressure on it. This fish was angry. Really angry. No doubt some bison-sized carp swimming vertically in an attempt to bang and shake its head against the snags on the bottom of the lake. Each of its phenomenally strong, pounding lunges doubled me over as though I were being kicked in the stomach.
Thoooomp. Thooooomp. Thoooooooomp.
The fish swam slowly, ever so slowly towards me and to my right. How slow? About one foot every five seconds. It was most definitely in control, and I doubted whether it knew it was hooked.
Sensing my pathetic inability to exert any control over the fish, I felt guilty for mocking Tim for playing his fish too hard. If anything, I felt admiration that he’d managed to get his carp up on the surface and away from the rocks. This fish was still hard on the bottom, sending up masses of bubbles and, no doubt, scraping its pectoral fins on the bottom like a bull readying to charge.
I steadied my footing, held tightly onto the rod, and shouted: “F- F- Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiishhhhhhh Onnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!!!” I saw Shaun look up from his swim and start applauding, then saw Neil and Lin – who had been enjoying breakfast in the pagoda – rise from their seats and walk quickly towards me.
Thooomp. Thoooomp. Thoooomp.
The fish continued chugging along, but turned direction slightly, seeking to swim to my right. I applied side strain, but knew that at such great depth the angle of line would not be sufficient to turn it. I moved quickly to the far left corner of the staging, seeking to increase the side strain, but the fish continued to pound the rod and lunge forward a foot at a time. I was cupping the centrepin as tightly as I could with my left hand, yet the fish was still pulling line from my grasp. The burning sensation in my palm reminded me of a time when, as a boy, I tried to stop my go-kart by grabbing hold of its wheel. I’d been zooming down the steepest road in our village and, going too fast for comfort, grabbed the tyre to stay in control.
Stay in control? Ha! This fish was calling all the shots, but it wasn’t going fast. Not at all. It was swimming painfully slowly. But I was in an equal state of panic as I’d been at the age of eight when my wooden vehicle had started to rattle apart as the world around me span into a terrifying blur.
With cramped stomach muscles, trembling legs, a burning left hand, and a heightened sense of alertness from the adrenaline that was flooding my veins, I did my best not to think that a ‘good idea’ was rapidly falling apart. Like that time on the go-kart, I’d have been much wiser – and safer – building up to 'the big one' with a few more practice runs. But this battle was in mid-flight and not looking like ending any time soon. All I could do was hold on and do my best to try and lift the fish up off the bottom.
The pressure I was applying on the fish – with a fully doubled-over 2.75lb test curve rod and 25lb line – was as much as I could physically exert. Yet my efforts were barely having an effect on the fish. My arms were shaking from the pressure and, after only three or four minutes of playing the beast, I was nearing exhaustion. Sensing that my hands would soon give way, I wished that Shaun had prescribed three months in the gym before allowing me to visit the lake or that Neil had provided a seat and harness like that used by big game fishermen. Suddenly, the reality of what I’d been dreaming about for my thirty years as a carp angler was bearing down on me with the weight and uncertain footing of a landslide on a beautiful mountain. While we might like the thought of hooking and playing a phenomenally big fish, I was now appreciating that it is quite a terrifying ordeal. I felt like someone who had queued for thirty years for a seat on the world’s ultimate rollercoaster, only to find himself keeping his eyes closed as tight as possible while doing his best to hang on until the ride ended.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I heard footsteps on the gravel path behind me, and guessed that Neil and Lin were nearly here to give me emotional support.
The rod kicked, and kicked, and kicked; it pounded, lunged, surged, thumped and ‘ooomphed’ against the power of fish. Each thud forced the air from my lungs and made me shake my head in disbelief. The rhythmic shocks pulsing through the water must have made the quarry think that the old stone crusher was back in operation.
Bumph, bumph, bump, boooomph.
The pounding continued, yet the fish had moved no more than ten feet from where it was hooked. I’d not made any line on it at all, just doing my best to lift it in the water.
The rocks, the overhanging cliffs, the jagged walls of stone. The channel in which the fish swam was surrounded by the most fearsome snags. How could I possibly keep the fish away from them?
I felt the fish begin to lift, and then lift some more. The pounding on the line suddenly felt more like a swirling, circling sensation. I lowered the rod and began to pump the fish, reeling quickly to make the most of this first opportunity to gain control. I got perhaps ten feet of line onto the reel, then the fish began to kite to my right. I felt the centrepin begin to turn ever so slowly as line inched from the reel, then – as though someone had clicked their fingers and released me from a trance – I felt everything fall slack. In super-slow motion I saw the line drop and hang lifeless beneath the rod. I closed my eyes tightly, gritted my teeth, then fell to my knees. I sensed the collapsing of all hope; as though the walls of the quarry were tumbling into the pool, the trees were toppling and crashing all around me, the sky had plunged down into its reflections in the water, and ferocious gales were whipping everything into a whirlwind of disbelief. But believe it I must. The fish was gone.
Eventually the cursing in my head eased and I could hear someone next to me saying, “I thought you had one on?” It was Neil, who was surprised at seeing me holding a straight rod when he arrived in the swim.
“It’s gone,” I said. “It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. The fish. Everything. It’s gone. It...it’s gone.”
“What’s happened?” asked Lin.
“I finally hooked a huge fish,” I said, as I opened my eyes. “After a week of fishing, and thirty years of dreaming, I hooked a really, really huge fish. It was soooo powerful, so heavy, so absolutely in control. I just couldn’t do anything with it. The power, it was unbelievable. I’ve never, ever, hooked anything like it.”
Told you they were in here,” said Neil, “but don’t beat yourself up too much. You look beat up enough already. But, hey, these things happen.”
I reeled in the line, which was cut cleanly. There’d been no warning, no grating or pinging on anything, just a clean cut as though a knife had sliced straight through the line.
“That’s the second cut-off I've had this week,” I said. “There must be an underwater cliff or something down there where the fish can get under or behind it, cutting the line on sharp rocks.”
“These fish take no prisoners,” said Neil, “especially the big ones.”
“Tough going,” I said. “Playing the fish was hard enough, let alone the quarry as well. But, by gawd, for all the pain, it makes me want to do it all over again.”
“Well, not this time,” said Neil. “You need to get a move on and up to the car. Tim’s waiting for you, though Shaun’s still packing up. He's had a carp roll in his swim, so he’s taking his time.”
I looked across the lake to see Shaun standing with his hands on his hips and staring towards me. “What’s going on?” he shouted.
“Lost it,” I replied. “Really big one, too.”
“Aw, that’s gutting,” said Shaun, “catching that fish would have been the perfect finale to the week. Though I take it you didn’t lose everything?”
“What d’ya mean?” I asked.
“Scary fight, was it?” he said.
“Utterly terrifying, couldn’t control it at all.” I replied.
“Well,” said Shaun, “you might have lost the fish, but you kept control of yesterday’s squid. From what I could see, it looked like you were about to…”
“I get the picture,” I replied. “And yes, the fish nearly scared something from me. But, seriously, it was the most powerful yet sullen thing I’ve ever, ever, hooked.”
I turned away from Shaun and looked at Neil and Lin. They could see that I was trembling and struggling to catch my breath.
“Lake’s still got its mysteries,” said Neil.
“Sure has,” I replied. “And a new Legend of the Lake. That’s the fish that everyone will hope to catch. It’s here, swimming about, a bit more wiser and a lot more confident, waiting to be challenged again. It’s the fish that ‘laughs at our dreams’ of catching it. Though someone, somewhere, will have the skill and persistence to catch it.”
“There’s always a next time,” said Neil, “and next time the fish will be even bigger. So come prepared…”
The exact moment I lost the biggest fish I'd ever hooked. The Legend had beaten me, and the mystery of Quarry Bank remained intact.
The list of the lost
Neil and Lin helped me to collect my belongings together and carry them up to the car. We said very little on the walk there. I was still in shock and milling over everything that had just happened. I wondered whether I’d hooked a really big catfish, or perhaps foul-hooked a huge carp; but whatever excuse I tried to concoct for losing it, the truth remained that I wasn’t experienced enough to play such an enormous fish in such a tight and snaggy area. I was used to fishing estate lakes where I could let the fish run and tire themselves before playing them back to the net. But at Quarry Bank, the fight was brutal. Exciting, yes, but unforgivingly brutal.
Of all the big fish I’ve lost, including a forty pounder that slipped the hook at the net back in 2007, I’d never, ever, played anything so staggeringly powerful or haunting as the Legend of Quarry Bank. It was a fish to permanently top the ‘list of the lost’, a monster of the deeps that may never be landed but which would always be on people’s minds when they fish the water. Quarry Bank had a legitimate, arm wrenching and muscle pummelling leviathan that would taunt, tempt and torment anglers until they caught it. An ultimate challenge, then, of fish and location, that weaved a taut, steely thread through an otherwise relaxing water.
Now I appreciated why Tim had been so focused during the trip. As Edmund Hillary said, “When you go to the mountains, you see them and you admire them. In a sense, they give you a challenge, and you try to express that challenge by climbing them.” Not attempting to climb them is to be intimidated by the challenge. I’d lost that monster fish, but all I wanted to do was to get back, to climb again and conquer that which had beaten me. But my time was up. Other anglers would have to attempt the challenge, to see if they could succeed where I had failed. It would be one of those challenges that answer the question we anglers often ask of ourselves: “How good am I, really? If I were knowingly fishing a water that contained stupendously large fish, how successful would I be? What, with all my skills, experience, hopes, tricks, effort and commitment, might I catch? Might I, with good fortune on my side, catch the biggest fish in the lake?”
The only way to find out how good you are is to fish somewhere like Quarry Bank, doing what you need to do, and ideally doing it before someone else beats you to it. Perhaps, like Shaun, Tim and I, you could go there with friends, fishing as a team and to a game plan that might accelerate your results? That could work. Just don’t put off doing it. As Mark Twain said, “Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than those you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the wind in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
Page from my diary, left in my swim as a gift for Neil to discover.
The home run
Shaun, Tim and I had enjoyed a week at Quarry Bank that had been filled with exploration, dreams and discoveries. But now it was time to return home. With the car loaded, we walked with Neil to a spot overlooking the lake, where Lin took a photo of us together. “The Quarrymen,” we said, knowing that this would be the photo that defined our week of friendship.
The Quarrymen pose beside the lake, each wondering how long it would be before they would be back together again.
We thanked Neil and Lin for their hospitality and fine company, then said a sad and lingering farewell. We clambered into the car and began our reluctant drive to the airport.
Waving to Neil and Lin through the car window, I felt torn to be leaving them and their magical lake. Our hosts had been so kind and generous, and the lake so 'challengingly rewarding', that it would have been easy to turn the car around and stay for another week. But our flights were booked and we had family and friends to see upon our return.
As I drove through the La Carrière gates, I felt tears forming in my eyes and my throat began to choke up. I took a deep breath, gripped the steering wheel and smiled, hoping that neither Shaun nor Tim would notice my state. But our silence as we drove away hinted that they too were feeling the pull on their heartstrings. It just didn’t feel right to be leaving.
As I looked ahead at the road, through blurry tear-filled eyes, I couldn’t help but sense the cruelty of how the words ‘tear’ (to pull apart) and ‘tear’ (to cry) have the same spelling. As I thought of other words that described my emotions, and reflected on how we'd really 'got' what Quarry Bank was about, I realised that one word summed up the reason for our joy in being there: that to get her we needed to be together. We’d each begun to understand more and more about the quarry pool every day, about each other, and about the important things in life. Collectively we’d uncovered more than if we’d been there alone. And, of course, each of us wanted to return.
The famous gates of La Carrière closed behind us, marking the end of a fabulous week.
A promise: to return
“We will have to come back,” said Tim as he sat in the back seat of the car, covered in luggage. “There is no one quick step on the windy road to success.”
Shaun looked at me, and I looked at Shaun, then Shaun whispered, “Did Tim say ‘windy’ or ‘windy’?”
“What d’ya mean?” I mouthed.
“Y’know, ‘windy’ as in a wiggly road, or ‘windy’ as in breezy?”
“I dunno,” I said. “One weaves up a mountain, the other fills the sails of a ship. He said ‘step’ and ‘road’, so I guess we’re climbing, seeking the ever-improved view.”
“The view of afar,” said Shaun, “is vast, but everything is small. Better to study things up close, where you can appreciate all the detail. You need to be there.”
“Good point,” I said. “I’ll check with Tim.”
I looked into the rear view mirror, to see Tim prodding a slightly inflated bag of dirty laundry.
“Hey, Tim,” I said, “this road of yours, it’s a definitely a road, right? Not an ocean?”
“Of course it’s a road,” replied Tim. “and we’re bobbing about on it. You drive and I’ll raise the anchor.”
“Eh?” I said.
“What I’m trying to say,” said Tim, “is that our week here was only a trial run, a taste of cornucopia. We’ve yet to experience our high tide where we will start our Famous Voyage.”
“So we are on an ocean, then?” said Shaun.
“Road, sea, whatever,” said Tim. “In Shackleton terms, we’re only just loading the boat. The ship awaits; the real adventure has yet to begin.”
Tim was right. Our adventure was not ending, only beginning. Our travels would inevitably lead us back to Quarry Bank, to continue the quest and add to the experiences that would shape us. As Samuel Butler said, “Life is a quarry, out of which we are to mold and chisel and complete a character.”
Dream, hope, live
I trust that these words have served to do justice to the character of a lake and the friendships that blossomed there. I implore you to fish at Quarry Bank, to fill your net and your dreams with the mightiest of fish and the magic that prevails when hope and happiness converge.
It was Tim who best summed up our adventure, saying: “For as long as there’s a dream, there is hope, and as long as there is hope, there is joy in living.”
Take joy in living, live life to the full. And if you can, do it at a truly wonderful place called Quarry Bank Fishery.
The best of memories and friendships, forged at Quarry Bank Fishery, France.
Seeing Tim smiling and embracing the crazy adventure was worth the trip alone.
Shaun caught his breath and collected his thoughts during the week. 'Getting away' was a big part of the experience.
The adventure to Quarry Bank Fishery was about more than the fishing, it was about connecting with the place. Picking and eating fresh peaches each day was a genuine treat.
There was only one way for Shaun and I to celebrate when we returned to England: with a 'Very British' curry. Our toast was to Neil and Lin for enabling us to have such a perfect time.
This blog concludes the twelve-part series, though Fennel is working on a short film of the trip. He's also working on a book version of the series, for publication later in the year.
Quarry Bank Fishery is a 5-acre water in southwest France, about a two-hour drive from Limoges airport. It is set within 14 acres of private grounds, which are sensitively managed for their wildlife interest. This makes it a haven for both anglers and fish. The fishery is available for exclusive bookings only, for up to five anglers.