7 July, 2025 | Carp | Angler Blogs | Articles

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Adam Whittington: Madchester Part 1

Following a tremendously successful campaign at Frimley where he caught the majority of his target fish, Adam Whittington has now turned his attention to a near 40-acre wild pit where the carp stocks are relatively unknown. Below is Part 1 of his latest article – ‘Madchester’, which details the start of his campaign on the water, which – with sunken buoys, dense weed beds and frequent swimmers, makes fishing ridiculously difficult! In classic Adam fashion however, it didn’t take him long to winkle out a bite or two…

Adam  Whittington says…

This article has nothing to do with the music scene of the late 80’s and early 90’s, despite the title but relates to my recent highs and lows, a smattering of inappropriate behaviour, and a certain carp named ‘Chester.’

I’ve been on Frimley for three seasons now, and it’s time to move on – there’s a few I’d love to have had in my album, but when recaptures become frequent you know it’s time.

The owner, Mark seems to appreciate anglers who go before they’ve outstayed their welcome, and it leaves the door open for a potential winter ticket in the future, so I may complete the set one day.

Those Frimley carp are buggers at times, which is not surprising considering it’s a pit of just under ten acres that’s had sustained carping pressure for 40-odd years and most of the fish are ancient, having witnessed every rig that could be thrown at them.

It’s a tough place to blank, as you know that, despite a dry net, you were never far from carp and whilst it can shut up shop for weeks at a time, there’s normally someone who gets lucky and has one.

Great if you’re him, but it feels like defeat if it’s not.

I once fished a lake for two years without a single bite – in fact there was only one carp landed during that time between the handful of keenies that tried, yet I loved every unproductive minute! There was zero pressure, blanking was expected, and if you did land one they’d write songs about you, maybe even put up a statue.

Having had a brilliant Spring on Frimley, I was chomping at the bit to get on my new water, where blanking is most definitely the norm but it’s therefore more relaxing, you feel less target-driven and more able to soak up the journey along the way.

To give you an overview of the new water, it’s just under 40-acres, crystal clear and weedy as hell.

I fished it for one season, many years ago when it was a wakeboarding and waterskiing centre. It was hard work in those days, with constantly coloured water and you had to plan putting baits out from a dinghy with military precision, or you could easily be swamped by the wake of the omnipresent speedboats.

And it was low stock – maybe 50 or so carp, but nobody could be sure, as many were never caught. Moving forward to the present day, the powered craft have gone, the water has become tap-clear and the weed has flourished as a result.

There’s been some stocking over the years, but also some losses, with larger fish being taken by otters and big pike inevitably enjoying the smaller stockies.

Total number could be as high as 100, or as low as 60, depending on who you chat to. What I love is that many, in fact most, of these carp are rare visitors to the bank. One or two are friendly enough to show up once or twice every season, but many are once every five year carp. This means they can grow undisturbed in the rich, spring-fed waters and surprises happen every season, with “new” fish being seen or landed.

No lake is without issues that conspire to stop you catching carp.

There’s a large head of ravenous crayfish, it gets busy with paddle-boarders and open-water swimmers, so sometimes you’ve got to sit on your hands and wait until a shoal of inevitably massive, neoprene-clad women splash past you, before thinking of putting a bait out. I tend to give a verbal commentary as they pass, with remarks along the lines of “that’s a goodun” to “bloody hell, where’s my harpoon?”.

The carp themselves seem to be more flighty, more riggy, and generally harder to catch, possibly because they were so used to constant speedboats and coloured water, their defences were down – if you found them, even in the wake of a passing speedboat, they were quite catchable. The angler’s boats, with electric outboards seem to be more alarming to the carp in these quieter times.

My Frimley ticket ended on the last day of May, so I planned a June start on the big pit.

I sneaked a couple of exploratory nights, very early in the Spring, but saw no clues and noted there were now more, and much keener anglers on there.

Most days would see someone baiting up or wandering round the numerous bays, camo-clad and looking at life through polaroids. Fair play to them, that prep work and effort is all part of the big picture.

Carp etiquette was in good shape on the big pit, with anglers respecting prepared areas and a lively WhatsApp group to keep folks informed.

My first proper session was June 3^rd, which was a potential three-nighter after finishing a set of 12 hour shifts at work.

Despite occasional accusations that I’m a full-time bivvy tramp, I work a 48-hour week and cherish the days I can get out. I’m luckier than many, in that my boys are now all grown up and fiercely independent, giving me free rein to throw myself at the pastime I love.

I’d got an area in mind, roughly in the middle of the pit over slightly shallower ground after having an in-depth chat with Andy, who fished the lake a bit in those crazy Covid days, and had nicked a couple of bites from there. I’m not proud, I’ll take clues from anyone.

There’s a convenient boat storage area in the main car park, so it’s a case of load the dinghy with a precarious amount of kit, don the lifejacket and sail off into the sunset.

The lake has flourished since the motor boats have gone – the enormous amount of bankside erosion now replaced with lush vegetation and huge swathes of Norfolk reed.

The swim itself was within a peninsular and I liked the fact that Andy said his bites had come from short spots of eight to ten wraps.

Over the interim years things had probably changed, so I set about mapping the swim with a baitboat and echo sounder – it’s been a few years since I used a baitboat in the UK, but had the words of Lewis Read ringing in my ears that the carp on here are scared of dinghy’s but don’t seem to mind the baitboats.

Three spots were duly found at ranges between twenty and eighty yards, on some of the scarce clear areas amongst a sea of weed.

Bait-wise, I had to change what has done me proud for the last three seasons – Complex-T is an incredible boilie, with the ingredients themselves doing the talking, rather than cheap stuff that’s awash with artificial flavours, but it’s also fishmeal based, and the hordes of crayfish didn’t need an excuse to scupper my plans.

Therefore, Monster Tiger Nut 20millers were the way forward, over Frenzied Hemp and Dynamite’s fabulous tigers.

Matching hookbaits were heavy, hardened with a small artificial tiger mounted on top. The artificial bait was only there to contain an extra long boilie stop, making life harder still for my crayfish friends.

There is a big head of tench in the pit, outnumbering the carp by hundreds to one, so I lengthened the hairs, which along with big baits, should help avoid the green menaces.

I had heard the carp on the big pit had spawned early, having a really good go in mid-May, which is odd considering it’s not only big, but relatively deep, with most areas 10 foot or more.

Once the sexual gymnastics are over, I like to feed the carp plenty, so started with a kilo and a half per rod, which seemed plenty considering the low stock.

Job done, rods out and cold beer in hand. Now I was fishing and loving the sheer scale of the place and the expansive views.

The first night was uneventful, without a single beep from the buzzers, nor any sightings – actually that’s not quite correct, I had a single beep when a mayfly that must have weighed a pound landed on one of the bobbins!

I wound in the rods after 24 hours, mainly due to me wanting to check for signs of crayfish damage – they can be a pain here, but are also very localized, preferring firm ground, shallows and any features, whereas siltier areas away from the bank were relatively safe.

Two baits were pristine, without so much as a claw mark, but the third was elaborately tangled, with clear crayfish damage. I’d put a small pop-up on top of the hardened 20-miller and this seemed to be the issue. Lesson learnt, the pop-up was replaced with another small artificial tiger and all rods were now identical as they sailed back out to the spots with another kilo on each.

Moving on another 24 hours and I’d learnt just two things – firstly a couple of carp crashed out at least a hundred yards away and secondly, it’s impossible to pee after pulling down your chesties without leaving a dribble of shame down the front. Whilst never winning any actual awards, I’d like to think I’m fairly competent after more than half a century of weeing, yet every time the chesties are lowered for a tinkle, there will be three perfect stripes down the middle – like some sort of piss-sergeant. I can’t be the only one…

Whilst still musing over this phenomenon, I repositioned all rods to long spots, roughly where I’d seen the fish. With one night remaining, it seemed daft not to try something new.

Midnight brought a couple of beeps to one of the newly placed long rods – a tench bite by the look of it, but reeling in produced a seemingly untouched rig and nowt on the end.

I was low on bait by now, so instead of going long again, I repositioned it on one of the short spots, my rationale being that the spot had two days of baiting previously, so it had to be worth a try.

A single PVA bag of crushed boilies with just 6 freebies was all I could really spare for this recast.

My decision paid off just two hours later when this rod melted off, spinning an already tight clutch on the Obsidian at frightening speed.

Ten minutes of plodding about in open water followed by a major problem, as all became stuck fast some 60 yards out…

Lifejacket chucked on, I jumped in the boat and headed out to see what I could salvage. A certain amount of fannying around later and I was above the unseen snag, the odd thump telling me a carp was still present.

Peering over the side with the headtorch showed me what had gone wrong – a buoy was present, glowing like an underwater moon about two feet under the surface, with my braid clearly wrapped round it. I laid the rod in the boat and pulled the lot up by hand, only to find my hook neatly embedded in the ancient rope.

How on earth do they do that? It’s on my list of baffling mysteries, alongside computers and women.

Disappointment aside, this was a carp bite, so by dawn, all three rods had been returned to their original shorter spots, lack of bait meaning each one was baited with no more than half a dozen freebies.

All the while, a fabulous South Easterly got stronger, pushing my way and feeling very right.

At the civilized time of nine am, I heard a single beep followed by a screeching clutch – my rods were tips all the way down on the bottom, keeping everything safely out of the way. What I hadn’t thought through was that the severe angle of the 4lb test curve rods, 40lb braid and a tight clutch a savage take will lift the rod up sharply, rendering the buzzer pointless!

No harm done, I lifted into a fish that almost pulled me off my feet, taking a good fifty yards of line before slowing down.

When it did slow down, it was clearly just to have a little breather as another biblical run followed. The power was ridiculous and it was a good ten minutes of pilates and swearing before I felt the battle might eventually go my way.

I waded out as far as I dared with the fish kiting towards a bay a hundred yards to my right – as it ventured further round the corner the Norfolk reeds started bending as the braid pulled them over.

This was the time to clamp down and rely on my strong tackle to try and get back in the game. Slowly, and with great reluctance, I gained a bit more line and when the fish was only 50 yards away it kited obligingly into the safer, open water in front of me.

‘I’m going to bloody win this’ was my thought for the first time since I hooked the fish.

And so it proved to be, as a huge set of shoulders popped up in the waves and into my outstretched net.

I said some rude stuff rather loudly and punched the air.

I’ve had my share of big commons lately and a glance down told me this was a really special fish – potentially one of two that can do upper 40’s.

One is a reasonably friendly fish called ‘Paula’, last held by Lewis in the Autumn, the other being a much rarer beast named ‘Chester’, due to it’s huge chest and unconventional shape.

I rolled the great fish over in the net and confirmed it was indeed old ‘Chester’, two toned and built like a brick you-know-what.

I let him sit for a moment whilst composing myself and making the necessary calls to syndicate members who were all to willing to come down and do the ceremonial pics  – thanks guys, you’re bloody legends.

For the record, he weighed 47lb 10oz and is usually a once every three seasons carp – definitely one you want to get under your belt.

With syndicate members Ray and Ben chatting in my swim over the next hour or so and sipping cold beers, the unthinkable happened and the same rod tore off again!

I tried not to say too much during the fight, because this thing was also completely unhinged, tearing off line for fun and then wallowing about feeling heavy in between runs.

Good job I didn’t proclaim it was a giant, as eventually a mirror carp surfaced that was of such an incredible colour, we all swore in perfect synchrony, yet it was half the weight of the previous carp! The detail on this thing was remarkable – I’ll let the pics do the talking.

In my mind, I’d thought three carp for the season wouldn’t be a bad start to the campaign, yet here I was with two in a session and maybe needing a readjustment!

The older I get, the more I enjoy a rant.

Anything will do, I’m very open minded about what’s currently boiling my blood. I’ve dipped my toe into the murky world of social media lately with my #sealionadam Instagram account – it’s still relatively new to me but an incredibly rich source of things that make me rant.

Every time I see another self-promoting video of someone badly acting an act of kindness to a pensioner, or grubby orphan, I’m off at the races, shouting at my phone whist Tom Odell warbles sorrowfully in the background.

And “rescue” dogs. I’m sick of larger ladies, with purple hair and a dolphin tattoo telling me their precious pooch is a “rescue”. Unless it was up a tree, or perhaps in a burning building, it’s not a rescue dog – it’s a free dog. Having spent £700 on a whippet I’m particularly bitter.

Thank you for hearing me out, I may start to include a new rant in every article, as I now feel cleansed.

Things get a little crazy at the big pit next time…