16 April, 2026 | Carp | Angler Blogs | Articles

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Andy Bradnock: The Ghost of Christmas Past– At Frimley Pits

There’s no stopping Andy Bradnock, yet another story of a huge history fish from the iconic Frimley complex.

We got back from France on the 18th October and after a week away, I wasn’t in any rush to fish again. I planned to do a couple of short sessions on the river but, cold high pressure cloudless days did nothing to encourage me onto the bank. My next trip out was to the Peacock Lake which my friends have rudely described as the stock pond as it is more heavily stocked than our usual choice of venue.

With this in mind, blanking here is much more significant than normal as it is also accompanied by an interesting variety of piss-taking. My trip in mid-November sadly resulted in some quite mean comments that revolved around me being inbred, bald and a reel handle folder as I spectacularly blanked, with not a fish seemingly coming within the boundaries of my swim.

I could clearly see feeding going on at the other end of the lake but with those areas busy with anglers I was confined to my fish-free desert. The fish in this lake do seem to move around a lot and usually each area on the lake will have some visitors during most sessions. Why it wasn’t the case this trip I have no idea, the weather wasn’t bad, neither cold or high pressure, and the sky was covered in lovely low cloud. It did knock my confidence a bit though, I really shouldn’t be blanking here so I firmly folded my tail between my legs and sulked for a few weeks.

I couldn’t get out again until the beginning of December, officially the start of meteorological winter. I was desperate to be fishing, this was not helped by the weather forecast that predicted, a minor storm front coming from the South-West, which was due to skirt our shores bringing low pressure, wind and rain.
The recent frosts would be replaced by a balmy 10⁰C overnight. This made me just about impossible to live with and my usually tolerant wife was glad to see the back of me when I drove off on the Sunday afternoon. I had spent the previous 24hrs pacing constantly looking out of the window and consulting my weather station as the air pressure, continued to fall and our ancient Ash trees were subjected to a battering from the strengthening SW wind.

The usual cross-country rush with the aim of getting to the 14.00 Frimley crossing was, as usual, a woe filled disaster. I had left with plenty of time but a few sets of road-works, then a road closure that required me to double back for a couple of miles, meant I only just made it to the gates in time.

At this time of year having to wait an extra hour to get onto the complex would have been a travesty, as light is at its premium, darkness seeming to fall by 16.30 now. In the last two weeks only three fish had graced the bank, but Mitch had managed one the night before I arrived. This isn’t a great bellwether though, as he is an exceptional angler and could catch from a drained puddle.
Nothing was obviously showing and rain was due just after dark, so I made swim choice based on past successes for Adam at this time of year. Dead Hedge is infrequently fished at the best of times, so is generally an under-pressured part of the lake. It is quite a tight enclosed swim with snaggy margins on both sides and plenty of lilies out front.

It also possess the nicest smooth silt channel and Adam has had early winter success exploiting this area. As an added bonus, the increasingly petulant SW wind was pushing nicely, straight into the swim. It was therefore here that I decided to set up my temporary abode. As maggots are only allowed on Frimley for December and January, they formed the basis of my attack and a few pints were spread over the silt channel with the aid of a spomb.

Interestingly this spot is the only area of the lake at the moment that on reeling in a plug of dead leaves isn’t brought in as well. To accompany the maggots a ground-bait mix of Swim Stim Margin Mix, CSL liquid feed, tiger-nut extract with corn and Fish Gutz, was spombed into the area to give plenty of attraction but no real food. This liquid combination seems to work better as the water temperatures drop compared with my normal fishy liquids.

The weather continued to be perfect for the spot, the pressure was at 985mb, a 40mph wind was blowing straight at me and the temperature was 9⁰C. At this time of year, I get a little obsessed with water temperature, the 7.1⁰C recorded isn’t the lowest I have caught in but, is getting into the range where the carp have difficulty digesting the food they eat.

Nothing happened overnight, and I awoke to perfectly aligned bobbins. The forecast rain was lashing down, so I was bivvy bound the entrance angled away from the incoming wind, which meant my view was limited. I was sat listening to the radio at 08.30 when the left rod suddenly lurched down to the captive back-lead, the bobbin crashed into the blank and I was jumping off my bed to the high-pitched protestations of a Delkim. The clutch was tight so no line was given in the few seconds it took me to become upright and take charge of the rod. With the narrow aspect of the swim the fight was a fraught and uncompromising affair, no line can really be given as the heavy thumping head shakes are transmitted straight into your elbow.

The fish didn’t have the weight to cause too many problems and before long the 24.13lb common was nestling in the net awaiting photography. It was pissing it down with rain, so I rigged up an umbrella to protect the Nikon and rapidly did some self takes.

Adam came down for tea and biscuits early afternoon and we spent an amusing couple of hours being entertained by Mark the lake owner during a slight break in the relentless rain.
I had managed to kick my bucket of maggots straight into the lake that morning, so Adam had brought me 2 pints to replace these. Both spots were freshened up with a few spombs of maggots and the remaining ground-bait mix.

I was all set, full of expectation for the coming night, as the weather seemed to get even wilder through the dark. Come morning, the low-pressure front had moved further up the country, leaving dry conditions allowing me to be perched on a bucket watching the lake.

Tom called on his way to work, and while on the phone I saw a couple of shows on the far bank. This was encouraging as they were the first fish I had seen show so far on this trip. He predicted I would catch the Big-Fully on my middle rod, as he said this, a decent sized common head-and-shouldered 20-30m to the right of where my baits lay, untouched.

As I needed to be away early; the car needed its MOT, I thought my chances of further action were remote. I had started to put a few things away at 09.00 and had just put the kettle on, for a final cup of tea, when the right hand Delkim yelled its warning. The rod tip pulled down and held in place while I switched off the stove and picked up the rod, yelling ‘beard on’ to no-one in particular.
The fight felt heavy from the outset, no head shakes just remorseless power with miserable jolts as its tail hit the line. Before too long, I had it in close but it refused to come up in the water, deep oily tail patterns erupted on the surface, which seemed a long way from where the line entered the water. The fish decided now was the time to fight dirty, it ploughed into the bottom, sending up huge clouds of bubbles and debris to the surface. It had felt nothing but huge all through the battle, and was just refusing to be drawn up through the water column. Twenty minutes had elapsed and I was at the dry mouth, swearing loudly stage every time the line pinged off its fins. I had the sickening lurch of loss for just a second, before contact was re-established. This is a miserable part of the battle, and I had played out my ‘just lost one ‘, speech in my head a couple of times already.

The hook-hold had been under a lot of pressure in this confined swim so, the longer the altercation went on for, the more I feared for its security. A train rumbled down the track just behind me blaring its horn which made me jump a little, so focused was I on the battle raging in front of me. I had cramp in my right hand, that was cold and uncomfortable and I hadn’t even seen the beast yet.

Finally, the leader emerged Excalibur-like out of the cloudy water followed by a substantial tail that was being waved and slapped onto the surface as the fish appeared to be doing a head stand. These dirty tactics contravene the Geneva Convention of carp-fights so if this thing ever went into the net, its next stop would be The Hague.

After what felt like an eternity this block of muscle waved the white flag and allowed me to unceremoniously drag it into the out-stretched net. Relief and elation washed through me like a Cumbrian waterfall; Tom’s predictions had been out on both fish and rod, but the 39.15lb common was a prize I would always happily accept.

Try as I might I couldn’t get the digital scale’s read out to stabilize over the magical 40lb mark, they emphatically read 39.15lb every time the read-out held. In our male dominated pastime we seem to be obsessed with numbers and targets; I am no different really but, does it really matter??? With photos all done I was packed down and across the train tracks, just about getting home in time to make the MOT appointment, luckily the old tank made it through.

The following week the weather forecast was for more of the same, with this in mind I made hasty arrangements which meant I could be there for another 48hr session. I didn’t even bother to do a circuit; the barrow was loaded and pushed straight back into Dead Hedge, where a lovely strong SW wind was pushing in.

The weather was biblical, with air pressure of 988mb, cloud, rain and overnight temperatures that weren’t dropping below 10⁰C. That magical period where day and night temperatures are about the same. The water temperature was up a bit as well at 7.5⁰C it wasn’t exactly a comfortable bath-temperature but great for this time of year.

The wind and rain made baiting up trickier than normal and the fast-disappearing daylight wasn’t helping either. Every time the spomb landed, the wind was trying to drag the thin braid into the marginal bushes. Spombing ground-bait is a filthy business and before long everything within a mile of me was caked in maggot juice and errant lumps of liquid-soaked ground-bait.

I was keeping everything exactly the same as the previous week, the silt spot I was fishing to had completely changed, having gone from smooth silt to very fine feeling, tappy gravel. This spot, which had been denuded of silt, stretched for a width of at least 10ft.

Eventually, all three rods were sorted so I could get out of the rain and gainfully employ the kettle in creating a warming brew. For a short period of the night, around 02.00, the wind dropped off and there was a half-hour window of flat calm which felt like a blanket of silence had been thrown over me, after the constant wind noise.

During this period of calm I heard a couple of fish wallow out in the darkness; heavy sloshing type rolls, that in the dark sounded enormous. The wind then picked back up again, dissipating the sound but I am sure I heard a couple more turn over in the black before I slipped back into a fitful sleep.

First light and the early morning period passed by uneventfully, but a fish did roll just behind the spot mid-morning, I didn’t see the fish just the disturbance it created. Half an hour later I had a liner on the left-hand rod that had me scrambling off my bedchair, as the bobbin dropped back to its familiar resting place.

I was so sure a run was imminent, that when I had what was, another liner on the right-hand rod, I had pulled into nothing before my brain engaged and told me to sit on my hands. It was just before midday by this point so I left this rod propped against the tempest and started to get myself sorted to re-do all the rods.

At this point, the bobbin on the middle rod crashed into the blank accompanied by a protesting Delkim’s squawk, the rod tip held down but the line was still in the clip. This time on picking up the rod, connection was made and a pulse of life was transmitted through the taut nylon.

The fight was fairly unremarkable but under the tip a belligerent resistance fooled me into thinking I was attached to a weighty opponent. Eventually, the fish popped up and was bundled into the net – at 19.07lbs the common proved yet again I am ruthlessly efficient at extracting doubles from a lake of giants.

That evening I was discussing this point with Adam; out of 120 captures from the lake he had caught two. I have had over 20 so we were deciding what could be causing the discrepancy in these statistics

Later that afternoon another bucket of ground-bait was produced and spodded over the two spots, I was much more accurate this time and the recasts shaved the paint off each side of the marker float.

I was happily sat reading as the light faded from the sky and the long winter darkness was stretched out in front of me. It was just coming up to 22.00 when the right-hand rod pulled down and the remote sitting behind my head shouted “get up” at me.

No line was taken, the tip just held down with no movement in it. I bent into the fish, and straight away I was gaining nylon, as she came towards me like a well behaved Labrador. Once within the confines of the bushes that flank the swim, there was a little toing and froing but no real sensation of weight or power – I was expecting another small fish to pop up in front of the net.

I could feel the angle of the line change, as the fish started to come up in the water, so I switched on my head torch and my eyes were greeted by a great big belly covered in common scales. Panic set in with the speed of a runaway locomotive as I realised I was attached to a giant.

Fortunately she capitulated soon after this first glimpse and, despite at the last minute picking up the line on the middle rod, which made the language being bandied around the swim a little fruity, she went into the net at the first time of asking.

I had hardly had time to raise prayers to the heavens for a successful outcome and start the full body sweats, before it was all over. I should have realised what I had caught at this point, as Charlie’s Mate is famed for her lack of pugilism.

After a short period to compose myself and let the fish get her breath back, I turned this amazing geriatric matriarch, into numbers on a digital screen – 51.10lb to be precise. I was in a bit of a daze when I called Adam, gibbering and squeaking down the phone at him, as the amazing friend he is he made the moment even more special, as he seemed more excited than me.
At the time I hadn’t really had a proper look at the fish and had assumed it was Gregory; the pec didn’t look right though. Charlie’s Mate had been dead then caught just 5 months previously at 44lbs, it didn’t even cross my mind it was her.

Adam had the number of Dan, who was fishing at the other end of the lake, he reeled in straight away and walked up to me to do the photos. It was only then that we realised this was definitely Charlie’s Mate. The euphoria is difficult to describe, she has had a tumultuous year, what with the whole dying and getting buried thing, after being missing for 12 months. Then miraculously getting caught 12lbs down in weight in August, I even photographed her then for Carl.

I have always wanted to catch her but I have wanted to catch every fish in the lake, they are all amazing so when she ‘died’ I was upset that I wouldn’t get to hold her but it wasn’t the main reason for being at Frimley.

However, seeing her back to her former self, plump and vibrant I realised I had been fooling myself. I had really – I mean really wanted this carp in my arms. Despite being probably around 50 years old the Queen of the Pond was back to looking her best an absolute joy to behold.

We did a few returner shots and then I got to watch her swim strongly away, to hopefully avoid capture for another six months at least.

I tried to sleep after this but it was impossible, I was still wide awake at 02.00 listening to fish roll in front of me. I was fully expecting another take but, come packing up time the next day not a single beep had troubled my ear drums.

That morning, Mark wandered round to see me and, as he is due to change the nets and mats in each swim this season, I asked if I could steal the ones I had just used, when he did the swap. I am quite the sentimental flower and I could have hugged him right there and then when, he just smiled at me, called me a soppy git and said just take them now. I truly loved him for that and out of respect may even stop breaking all his rules.

The phone hadn’t stopped beeping all morning as friends heard of my good fortune and I thank them all, there was however, one more thing I had to do before I left for home. All my kit was packed into the car and I went to find Dan to thank him for the wonderful job he had done with the pictures. I walked into his swim and was confronted by a sight that made me dry heave, his neatly arranged rods sat poised on his buzz bars with FOLDED HANDLES. I cannot believe that Mark even allows such atrocious behaviour to occur on his lake.

Then to compound the debacle he stepped out of his pristine bivvy wearing bloody CROCs. I told him he was dead to me, turned on my heels and without a backward glance strode manfully away. I called Adam to report on what I had found and he deleted Dan’s number from his phone before he had even hung up.

I doubt Dan would waste his time reading the drivel I write but I cannot thank you enough for the help that night the photos are excellent.