Far from the Madding Crowd

14 March, 2025 | Carp | Angler Blogs | Articles

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Trips to foreign fields mean different things to different people, but all tastes and choices are available. It could be that you are a ‘beard’, with an ear-ring that could accommodate a pick-axe handle, and find solace fishing a Dutch canal, doing your own pioneering usually in swims identifiable on other people’s Youtube videos. Maybe a week of socializing, drinking and lounging in the sun is what floats your boat, in that case complexes along the lines of Dream Lakes will suit you perfectly. In between these two ‘extremes’ sits ‘us’.

The thought of drawing for a swim leaves us cold, three pages of rules just brings out our competitive side – awards being given for the most transgressions, and we certainly don’t want a luxury villa with a bedroom and sauna.

So what do we look for? Firstly, our weeks away are really precious, we cannot afford more than one trip per year with time off, not getting paid and costs of probably around £1000 per trip when fuel, travel, tolls, food and bait are all factored in. We like to be left alone – having a lake owner watching over your shoulder all the time is unsettling. Having said that, we did fish Graviers one year and the owner Luke Moffat took surveillance and paranoia to uncharted levels. There were even rumours of CCTV being present, yet we still managed to survive the week there. We want big fish, but also with the chance of a few runs. We are happy to sit blanking for that one fish while at home, but these trips are a holiday so screaming delkims is definitely preferable. What we really love though is the space that Europe seems to provide – quiet, star-filled nights, hardly a human in sight and hopefully some amazing wildlife.

 

This tick list has developed over the many years we have fished together, experiencing some amazing highs but also some immensely frustrating trips away.

We fished a lake in Northern France a while ago now, where we went early in the year. It turned out, in retrospect, far too early as it was freezing with cat-ice in the margins every morning. The lake was universally deep which meant that they didn’t wake up for at least a month after we left. Fishing 20ft zigs on all rods in the middle of a 20 acre lake is not my idea of fun. However, it was on this trip that we discovered it was really difficult to tip over a porta-loo when the internal ballast consists of a fat Andy Mackie. Smoking him out was also more difficult than you would expect.

A trip to Red Hot Lakes was potentially a great holiday venue, apart from the ditch behind the swims being full of stinking, dead catfish. The owner came down each day in a taxi, as he had lost his licence for drink-driving and every day he was utterly hammered. He was a horrible drunk, and lurched around the lake being as offensive as possible to everyone. He carried a huge alarm clock with him which signalled when the taxi was returning. It was such a relief when those bells started to ring. Every day, we dreaded his visits and it made the trip miserable. Adam caught a shed-full, with the rest of us catching a few between us. The highlight of the trip, however, was a terrible incident for poor young Mackie. For some unfathomable reason, I think maybe because they got wet when we arrived, he had hung his jeans up in a tree. Being the considerate friend I am, I pooed in a bag and carefully hung it inside his jeans attached to a fly button. In my defence, the jeans were left un-supervised and it was quite a pleasant firm stool. He didn’t find the offending bag until the trip home – there had been a lot of dead rats about, and he mistakenly thought it was one of these in the bag. Imagine his shock when he gave the bag a cursory squeeze – handling another man’s poo has not been good for his psyche…. Sadly, I am not even remotely sorry.

The next trip on our list of disastrous weeks away should have been perfect. It was remote, no facilities and some big, great looking fish and we had two lakes all to ourselves. The wheels fell off when we initially arrived to the smell of dead fish and the occasional carp carcass littering the bank. The easier lake was shallow and clear, but seemingly devoid of carp. We saw the same three fish every couple of days. The main lake had some fish still present, but not in the numbers reported. We did catch around 60 fish between us, which sounds great we each caught three 40’s which turned out to be the same three fish doing the rounds between our swims – how many of the smaller fish were repeats is anyone’s guess.

 

The real kicker though was the rats. There was a plague of the things, I spilt a scoop of bait in the margins one night, into water a few inches deep. I woke to a warbling buzzer and was confronted by hundreds of rats in my swim, with one hanging from my rod tips, trying to get a full 10 points from the Spanish judge for artistic gymnastics. In the morning, every scrap of bait had been consumed and there was not a single millimetre of mud in front of my swim that didn’t have a rat foot-print in it. We still had a great time, but again it wasn’t the fishing that made the trip memorable. The main memory I took home from this trip was of Mackie stood on his bed-chair (he does seem to be coming off the worst in these stories. Maybe he does have some justification for levelling an accusation of bullying in our direction), squealing like Penelope Pitstop as he had caught a musk rat, a famously docile diving rodent. I had to unhook it for him and the line I will remember forever, as I released the beast was Andy saying, ‘careful it will charge’.

The other thing we always try to do now is have a lake-exclusive booking. There is nothing worse than having your week ruined by some other idiot on the lake who just revels in causing havoc. This has been ok on all but one trip, when we took a friend of a friend ‘he is a great fella just would love a trip to France’. It turns out he was a spitting; you all know what I am capable of bell-end. The fact that we had taken him with us seems to make it much worse.

All of these trips when they aren’t up to scratch are a significant investment in time, effort and money. Often as lakes in France are booked well in advance these disastrous trips have been eagerly anticipated for sometimes years. All this builds to my one piece of advice – if you find a lake you love, then keep re-booking it until you have had enough. It’s a bit like a comfy pair of pants you don’t throw them out until they have pretty well fallen to pieces.

 

We were lucky to find Moulin du Mee four years ago, and have been making our annual pilgrimage to its twinkling blue depths each Autumn. I utterly adore French trips from start to finish. The build-up usually begins with the anxious perusal of the BBC weather reports for the area. The two-week forecast is a roller-coaster of emotions, as the predicted weather seems to change from low-pressure storms to cloudless frosts, on an almost hourly basis – it’s like a game of meteorological musical-chairs. The hope is that you end up with cloud and wind the day you arrive.

As you hit the two weeks, to go point you start getting indications of what weather actually has in store for you. Every quiet moment at work sees me checking again to see if the predicted weather has changed. It’s around this point that the trash-talking starts, as we have a competition between the four of us, pair against pair. The category changes each year – this time it would be the largest five fish from each pair that takes the glory. To hear two middle-aged white professionals trying to talk all hard ‘n’ stuff about winning is hilarious, it usually ends up with some sort of your ‘mum’s fat’ and ‘you smell’ type jibe…

Getting our gear ready normally involves putting everything in the centre of the room and then cutting it all back by about a half, so that we can get two sets of kit in the car. This year everything changed as Adam had purchased 20 tickets for an on-line carpy raffle draw thing for the princely sum of £19.80, the main prize being a pimped-up VW transporter van. Well, he only went and won – meaning we could take the kitchen sink, it was heaven. The captain’s chair I would be sitting in for the trip down would not be out of place in a Bentley and for the first time ever we would be arriving at our destination in the same condition we left home in, rather that the hunched, bent-up arthritic messes we have become accustomed to. Adam was as happy as I have ever seen him, (and he has two kids) when we started to queue to embark on the ferry at Portsmouth. The endless procession of vans, filled with carpers, all casting him envious looks just because of his van. I hadn’t realised there was a van cult, long gone are the days when a van just ferried you and your tools to work – now they are status symbols akin to Ferraris and Lambo’s. I did start to worry about his sanity though when he started demonstrating to all and sundry that the internal lights change colours and can flash, all via a remote control. He even did an impromptu demonstration for one of the customs officials tasked with checking us for contraband. We were finally on the overnight ferry with the multitude of other carpers using this service, I think without overseas carping trips the ferries would go bust. After a pleasant night’s sleep, we landed in Caen and began to make our way through Northern France, we would be arriving at Moulin in about four hours. This year Adam had even tempered his usual grumble-mumble dirge music that he loves and made a play-list that contained Black Sabbath, Limp Bizkit and The Blue Oyster Cult. If I can just get him to squeeze in a little Led Zeppelin and Lynyrd Skynyrd, all will be well with the world.

Let’s throw some history in free of charge – I am here to help. We were heading just South of Tours, which in the Middle-Ages was a significant city in Frankish history. It is here that the shrine to St. Martin is situated. In 732ce the Umayyad caliphate led by Abd-al-Rahman enticed by the riches of St. Martins shrine invaded and tried to capture Tours. They were defeated by Charles Martel but the exact battlefield has never been identified. This was considered a tipping point victory, a loss at Tours could well have significantly changed all European history. Charles Martel’s grandson went on to become Charlemagne the Holy Roman Emperor creating the Carolingian dynasty.

 

After a pleasant trip down, with numerous coffee and cake stops, we arrived happy, relaxed and looking forward to our week. The peace and quiet of the valley is all-encompassing as soon as the engine is switched off. All you can hear is the water bubbling over the spillway and the plethora of bird sounds as they go about their daily business. In the flower beds this year we were greeted by a sighting of a Carpenter Bee, a huge black bee that nests in hardwood and bamboo hence the name – sadly the camera was buried under piles of fishing kit in the van. As we walked across the road into Jim’s house, a Common lizard poked its head out of an old air-brick, making it feel like the lake was happily welcoming us back. With the noise, stress and hassle associated with modern life, for us the change in pace, peace and natural beauty of this part of France is almost as important as the giant carp residing within the lake.

This year Adam and I had the Chateau bank, the silty, shallow margins necessitating a scramble into chesties to land fish. The week before we arrived it had rained heavily, and fairly constantly, so the lake was higher than we have ever seen it, the usual trickle of water over the spillway was more torrent-like. We were soon settled into our respective swims, baits out onto what we hoped would be productive spots, bivvies up, and thoughts of supper were soon at the front of our minds. This is another aspect of French trips I really enjoy, as we try to make an effort and cook some nice food, I cater for evening meals, and Adam does breakfast. That first night was quiet for all of us, the carp seemed absent – almost none of their usual aerial exuberance was on show. It was at 6.40am that I had the honour of first blood, when the dam rod leapt into action. The first bite is always a mixture of emotions – joy that a take has occurred, mixed with nerves, as losing the first and possibly only one is an anxious affair. The gods of the lake took a benevolent view on my endeavours, so within a reasonable period of time the 48.03lb mirror was declared mine. A fin-perfect beast without an ounce of fat, I thanked her for her mistake and turned her into pixels on a camera screen. The Men Mountains of Chris and the Doc racked up numerous takes through the day but they seemed to have baited the kindergarten with lollipops and Haribo, as every fish they caught was way below the size of fish we are used to catching at Moulin. Then just as Adam and I were tucking into a dinner of fish tacos, Chris managed a 45lb common the first significant fish for the House bank. It was around this time, for reasons only known to themselves, they started to refer to themselves as ‘the sex machines’. In this woke world of PC I think this is what is referred to as their ‘truth’, and we have to nod sagely and agree with them. Luckily, we are neither PC, nor pleasant, so pointed out that they are both disgusting and sent them photos of fat Manatees mating.

In the middle of the night I was providing assistance to Capt. Potato-head while he held up a 50lb mirror for the camera. This was the start of a little spree of success for us, as at 6.45am he added a 40.08lb mirror to our total. It was just before this second fish for Adam that I was spilling tea and stumbling into chesties to the backdrop of a screaming Delkim, signalling that another fishy mistake had been made. The result was another 48lb mirror, this time with a distinctive white border to its tail fin. While photographing this fish, Adam made a remark about success being judged by going to bed with wet elbows. With just two nights of our trip completed we felt that we had loads of time remaining, and had built up a comfortable lead over the Sex Machines (fat strippers), and in true Roger Smith tradition allowed ourselves mushrooms with breakfast. A 52lb mirror later that morning for Chris brought the five fish totals closer again, in the cut and thrust of our stupid competition as we all vied for top spot.

It was at this point in the week that the wheels fell off a little for our bank, I was subjected to a very frustrating day of angling. Despite landing some good fish between us, it felt like the lake was fishing quite hard. I think this stemmed from the lack of sightings and signs of fish activity; the lake surface was hardly troubled with a bubble. Even when the fish are proving difficult to tempt onto dry land there is usually plenty of evidence of feeding fish around the lake. The lack of signs made it feel dead, with no clues as to where to place baits. The bubbling is usually fairly evenly distributed around the lake, but again the pattern this year had changed slightly, with the small volume of feeding fish seen in just one area. This pod of fish then seemed to move onto the next area – this continued for the whole week, the trick being to make fishy hay when they were in front of you. Monday afternoon was definitely my chance, as a group of fish arrived in front of me and fed with gay abandon on what I assume was a natural harvest, as it was miles away from any bait. It was at this point that the runs started. There were loads of them, all the rods constantly erupting into flurries of beeping and belching, but not a single fish being landed. The relevant information at this point in the story is that at the end of the previous week, an angler had been bitten off by one of the ever-ravenous pike in the margins, resulted in a carp trailing tackle. It was this fish that was constantly going through my lines, wiping me out and I didn’t have a rod in the water for most of the day. This constant disturbance was very effective at dispersing the feeding fish in front of me. Eventually, one of the screaming takes resulted in something alive attached to my taut nylon – a slow, heavy weight was drawn back towards the bank. As with all the other false takes of the day, it was gone, only this time I reeled in the lead clip and heavy tungsten tubing that the fish had been dragging through my swim. This was the last time any of us had any indication from the trailer, so with the fish now just attached to line it would soon be rid of the rig. Sadly, this was the death-knell for the feeding activity that had been evident in front of me, not a bubble was now visible. The rest of Monday and Tuesday passed by uneventfully for our bank until 9.00pm when Adam managed to add a 38lb mirror to our tally. As Chris had managed to sneak out a great lump of a 56lb mirror, we were starting to worry about the tenuous grip we had on the trophy. The sex machines were already getting a little giddy, constantly chanting something about ‘it’s coming home’ – if they won, it would be a painful year for us, having to endure gloating and taunting.

 

Wednesday dawned with some good news for our bank, as the side bet of who would be first to have a terrible soiling-incident was concluded. To spare his blushes, (it was Chris) I shall not name the poor soul, he insisted it was the merest glancing of cloth rather than a faecal calamity, but after conferring with VAR, a decision of he had definitely shat himself was reached. As it was the middle of the week we took orders of crisps, (crinkle cut if possible) and cakes from the house bank, showered and headed to the local Super-U. The trip involved us driving past the field of camels that had almost ended in a marrying for Adam a couple of years ago – he does love a hooved animal. Whoever has the camel-fetish, has expanded their enterprise significantly, there were fields of Dromedaries everywhere. Adam didn’t know where to look, as the ungulates paraded themselves in front of him, in what he thought was a provocative manner; the minxes. The rest of the trip had me fielding questions of ‘do you think she was looking at me’ and ‘where will I get an engagement ring big enough to fit her’. I was lucky he didn’t have a card with him or he would have written some poetry to her about being a lovelorn, Cumbrian ex fish-farmer. We soon had a van full of crisps, and fine French food and made our way back to the familiar patch of blue that was our temporary home. The house bank was soon echoing to the snuffling sounds of crisps being consumed and we were informed of the halfway scores – ‘chateau lot 225.5lbs, Sex Machines 229.5lbs.’ The thought of losing was horrifying, our anxiety not helped when the doc seemed to be having run after run in a little golden spell through the afternoon. These all seemed to be in the 30-45lb category, absolutely glorious fish and some of the best lookers of the week, but not big enough to make the 5 fish totals. My swim had appeared lifeless through this period as had Adam’s, it appeared that the main pod of feeding fish were moving around the pond, and at this point were camped in front of the house bank. The spectre of no-buzzer action in my swim was finally banished at 4.00am on the Thursday morning, with a hard fighting fish who didn’t want its photo taken so fought like a tiger, stripping yards of line from a tight clutch. Eventually, after a couple of close calls the fish sat on the surface just long enough for me to thrust the net underneath, scooping it up to a relieved shout of ‘beard on’. The net was now the temporary home to 55 of the British pounds of scaly carp – sadly this was a re-capture, but as it is one of the finest looking fish in the lake, I wasn’t overly worried. The photos we achieved for night shots in the water I feel reflected the beauty of this carp. I was called to action again at 6.00am with a 34lb common that refused to sit still, so we ended up with pictures of an escaping fish. To the back-drop of some success for our bank, the Doc refused to give us a second’s respite and proceeded to catch 50’s for fun through the day.

Towards the end of Thursday the bulk of the fish seemed to move again and began a programme of excavations and swim works in front of Chris. We were all poised to drive baits into his swim, the moment his back was turned such was the activity seen. Surprisingly it wasn’t until 03.30 on the Friday morning he managed the take he had been praying, for and landed the magnificent Cut Tail Common weighing in at 63lbs. She looked really hollow and empty, which is a little worrying as a few years ago I caught her at just over 70lbs. Chris at this point admitted he hadn’t been that careful when he did the weighing and went for the lower end of the balance’s predictions. This would become more significant on the final morning of the trip.

Just before breakfast, Adam and I had to endure another more prolonged chanting ‘it’s coming home’ from the sex machines, we were getting really twitchy that we would be handing over the trophy. However we pointed out that Fergie time hadn’t even started yet.  I am not sure what this means but Adam assures me it is something to do with the soccerball and Manchester Rovers United, and their manager sneaking victory in added on time.

 

Through the night I had had a few beeps on both long rods, the lines had tightened a little, but at 150yds this was not unusual as there is a bit of undertow on the lake. However, that morning I had the joy of reeling in two 1lb catfish, both having been hooked at some time in the night rendering the rigs ineffective for a large chunk of the most consistent bite time. A lovely slimy mess to sort out before breakfast, and not even in a good way. Expectations soared mid-morning as bubbling started to occur on my middle rod and just as I was starting to get confident that a bite would soon be in the offing a cormorant decided that my swim was the perfect place for a spot of fishing. Spending the next few hours constantly criss-crossing over my baits. It looks like maybe the Frenzied Crab Extract will be good for roach fishing as well, drawing in prey fish for the cormorant. However, the carp took exception to the intrusion into their second breakfast and vacated the area. Not a sign was seen on our side of the lake for the rest of the day, and it looked like we were going to have to concede defeat. I was just about to start dinner re-heating a chilli my wife had made us before we left Blighty, when one of the dam rods pulled up tight, the tip bending down and I was attached to a slow moving, heavy weight. Knees trembling and mouth dry, I started to inch the fish slowly back towards Adam, who stood expectantly with net in hand. He even toned down the piss-taking a bit as the obviously weighty fish started to head towards the overhanging bush that grows on the end of the peninsula separating our two swims. This isn’t usually an issue but because there was a little more water in the lake than normal, it was possible for the fish to get stuck in the outer branches. Luckily, the long kiting trajectory the fish had been on was slow enough for me to gain enough line, so the arc, of nylon tripped down our side of the bush out of harm’s way. The relief as the net was raised around the sparsely scaled brute was enormous. The 51.04lb mirror was a sight to behold. We must of got a bit over-excited, as the doc came round thinking we had got a proper monster. This actually worked out brilliantly in hindsight, as before I had managed to get the mirror weighed the other rod on the dam spot began its delkimated warble. My right arm was already sore before I picked up the rod, so the next 20 minutes were going to be painful. The fish felt even bigger and slower than the first one, holding long and deep only begrudgingly relinquishing ground. As with the first fish, about halfway back it started a long, slow heavy kite leftwards heading for the bush. I couldn’t gain line quickly enough, and before long the fish found sanctuary in the outer branches. Having the Doc next to me at this stage meant that we got loads of photos as Adam; who had collected his net, strode manfully into the breach wading to the bush and with great aplomb transferred the substantial carp from the bush to the net. The 61lb fish had us giggling like children as we relived the heroics, the swim around us littered with rods, nets and mud. We spent the next few hours getting rods sorted, baits back out and dinner cooked. The sex machines did some speedy mental arithmetic and calculated that to secure victory we needed a fish of over 63lb. The next take at 8.00pm from the dam had another fish stuck in the peninsula bush. Adam yet again had to net it from within the snag, this time with the aid of a head-torch. Between the four of us, we have caught countless fish from this swim and not a single one has been stuck in this bush previously. The resulting 42lb common was beautiful but didn’t add to our five fish total – did I care, not a jot. It was great to be finally having bites, and catching lovely fish in the company of my best mate full of lovely chilli. The fish was scale perfect and a great example of the Moulin strain. We retired for the night soon after this, as the journey home would take a fair few hours so we needed sleep. My shut eye was curtailed at midnight when another take occurred. I was half asleep, so don’t really remember much about the fight so am assuming it was straight forward. Typical that these fish had been absent for much of the week, and now as we were leaving, they didn’t want to stay in the lake. This one weighed in at 35lb, and as I didn’t want to wake Adam, so quick mat shot was taken and she was slipped back, a lovely chocolaty mirror. With minimal fuss the bait was put back onto the successful spot and I was soon curled up, back in the land of nod. The final take of the week occurred at just before 2am when the same rod was away again. This one didn’t feel overly different to normal, slow steady power but nothing unexpected, I was in chesties and waded out to give myself a better chance of avoiding the peninsula bush. The night was overcast and heavy, very little was visible, the valley its usual silent self, the only noise was my heart beat hammering in my ears and the occasional Tawny Owl hooting across the lake. It felt quite intense with the close atmosphere, and as I began to hear sloshes and rolls from out in the dark my heart beat seemed to be getting louder and louder in my ears. I switched on my head-torch as the fish got close enough for netting, I was greeted by an enormous boulder-like head attached to a common. The giant slipped over the cord at the first time of asking and I was looking at a mind bending width of carp back. Waking Adam took a while eventually I had to shake him awake which made him jump, but he was soon on his feet eager to see what I thought was a fish called Crinkle-Tail that would be up around 70lb. The only other fish that you could mistake it for is Cut-Tail which Chris had caught the night before so it didn’t even cross my mind it could be that fish. Adam, with his more critical eye pointed out the fish in my net wasn’t big enough for Crinkle and we soon realised it was Cut-Tail again. We weighed her more carefully than Chris and she settled out at 64lbs on the nose.

 

 

 

That’s how Fergie time works – an almost assured victory for the House bank cruelly stolen as the fat lady was halfway through her aria. We felt bad (didn’t) but with this being the final take of the week it gave us victory by just over a single pound with a smidge over 281lbs. It’s coming home, my arse.

It had been a great week away again, and we were already planning on how we could do better next year before we had got onto the ferry. The French border, guard another person Adam subjected to the flashing lights inside the van, looked a little bemused. It is like he thinks it’s some sort of mind control device. I just hope that by next year the novelty has worn off a bit, but I doubt it. I bloody love everything about our French trips they are amazing, even when we are having disasters there is usually something to laugh about. The most important bit though, is the great friends you go with.

By Andy Bradnock