Woodchester memories
Posted: Tue Mar 19, 2013 5:31 pm
My favourite Leney fishery is owned by the Trust, although it wasn’t at the time that I used to fish there. Woodchester Park lies close to the Cotswold town of Nailsworth, where Donald Leney owned a second fish farm that he used to hold fish destined for transportation to the west of the country. Rumour has it that if any carp grew too large for these ponds, he would simply pop up to Woodchester with them and release them into the four lakes there. This may be true but the Surrey Trout Farm record books also hold a note of a formal order from The Nova Piscators Association in February 1962 for 100 seven inch carp, purchased through the auspices of a local farmer, Eddie Price. This is the same Eddie Price who caught the largest mirror carp in the country at the time at Forty pounds Eight ounces from the Stile Pitch at Redmire, in September 1959. This fish grew on to become the Bishop, Chris Yates’ Fifty One pound Eight ounce record.
When I first fished Woodchester, the old boathouse had a list of carp caught from the pools, their captors’ names, the date and their weights, written on one of the walls in pencil. Sadly, when the National Trust acquired the valley they restored the old boat house and white washed over this unique carp angling record, not realising its significance. Actually, to be fair, it was probably only of interest to a carp fishing anorak like me but it still seemed a shame.
I believe The Priory Angling Club has held the fishing rights at Woodchester ever since the Nova Piscators Association gave up the lakes. Under the stewardship of Brian Ponting, and the other excellent members of the Priory AC committee, the lakes are in the safe hands of anglers who really care about their future. When I was a member of the club, long before the Trust acquired the property, the valley was a magical place to be. The valley was private and closed to the public and when I unlocked the gate and walked through into the ancient woodland, I felt as if I’d entered another, secret world of wild woods, spirits and adventures. It was rare to see another angler and I often had the entire valley to myself.
The Woodchester valley is known as one of the most haunted sites in Britain and after dark it was alive (or rather
dead) with headless horsemen, highwaymen dangling from gibbets and moaning monks. It could be a creepy place and under the shelter of the oaks the nights were as black as pitch. I never saw a ghost but the badgers, deer and foxes were always around for company and the bats used to flicker over the water like a swarm of vampires. The valley holds four lakes stocked with carp, which step steeply down the valley floor, separated only by their dams. Each lake is very different from the others, with its own character and atmosphere and each is lovely in its own unique way. I used to walk up one side of all four lakes and return back along the other, stalking the carp as I went. The walk might take anything between one and five hours, depending on how active the carp were and how many chances I had on my way around. I always travelled light, with just a single rod and net and with all of my bait and
tackle carried in a light shoulder bag.
I often took my Golden Retriever, Cuilean, with me on these walks and he developed into a fantastic carp dog. Cuilean would trot along the path in front of me and drop to the ground quietly whenever he sensed the presence of a fish. His senses were far more acute than my own and his skill led to the capture of many a carp that I would have missed if I’d been on my own. When I hooked a fish, he would watch the fight with interest and then amble over and give the carp a gentle lick as I returned it, before trotting off to look for another one.
The three lakes at the lower end of the valley held the biggest carp, but my favourite water was always the imaginatively named “Lake 4” at the top of the chain. This lake was far more overgrown and mysterious than the others and because there were no pitches where you could really set up a bivvy, it was little fished. My favourite spot was up in the shallows, where an alder trunk swept out over a large bed of lilies. The alder was quite easy to climb and from a perch about twenty feet above the pads I could hook the carp on the surface and play them to a standstill before shinning back to the ground to use the net. Despite the acrobatics involved in fishing from the treetops, I only fell in once and I never lost a fish. After a couple of years of watching me catch carp in this way, Cuilean seemed to spend as much time scanning the treetops as he did the water because I think I’d convinced him that carp grew in trees...
Woodchester still holds some fantastic Leney’s. Some of the commons I have caught at Woodchester are amongst the most superbly proportioned carp I’ve ever seen; deep bodied, elegant carp that are scale perfect and glow with life. I remember one common in particular that I hooked near the dam on the boathouse lake whilst float fishing. It was only a mid-double but it fought longer and harder than many fish that I’ve caught which were twice as big, and I had to jump into the margins to land it when it made the sanctuary of the reeds and snagged my line. Somewhere I have a photograph of the fish, looking like a moulded ingot in the evening sunshine as it lay on the damp mesh of my landing net (this was before the days of unhooking mats). That carp was probably the most flawless beauty that has graced my net.
I also remember the wonderful linear mirrors that Woodchester held. These were long, lean carp that never seemed to grow particularly big (I regarded a double as a specimen) but they more than made up for their lack of size with their stunning looks and the quality of the fight they gave when hooked.
I fished Redmire recently and a friend of mine, Martin, caught a linear from there that looked just like one of the Woodchester mirrors, except that it had benefitted from Redmire’s rich environment and grown far larger as a result.
I caught my biggest Leney from Woodchester during a short stalking session back in the summer of 1998. I popped in for an hour or two on my way home from work and because I didn’t have much time available I made my way straight to an area on the boathouse lake where I had found signs of carp the day before. A young alder had come down in a gale and its trunk ran out into the lake, perpendicular to the bank and alongside one of the extensive lily beds. The day before I’d climbed out along the trunk and made a mental note of two spots just off the lilies where the carp had swept away the silt to reveal the golden clay beneath. Before I left I trickled just enough bait onto the nearest of these spots to hold the carp’s attention until I could get back with a rod.
I tucked myself behind the roots of the fallen alder and flicked a float-fished tiger nut out before settling back to await events. I didn’t see any carp but the float swayed and dipped a few times to indicate their presence. Time was marching on, however, and I knew I had to leave, so I stood slowly and peered over the grasses to see if there were any carp around. Nothing moved near the float but then a dark shadow appeared right under my feet and a big carp nosed down to feed, tight against the margin below me. Very, very slowly I drew my float back towards me and lowered the tiger nut slightly to the side of the rooting carp. I half expected the carp to bolt from such a blatant approach but instead it just paused, swivelled and sucked in the bait. I’m sure it thought a tasty morsel had just dropped into the lake from the branches of the fallen alder and I struck before it realised its mistake, and before the float had even cocked.
That carp fought like few others I’ve hooked and I never had time to think as the line first grated against the branches of the tree, then hissed through the open water and finally rubbed to a stop through the stems of the lilies, as the fish thrashed violently towards the sanctuary of the various snags. To end the spectacular fight I had to shin out over the pool along the trunk of the fallen alder, to free the carp from a dense clump of pads where it had finally gone to ground. All the time I could see the fish twisting and turning in the deep, clear water of the margins and I was sure I would lose her, right up to the point when another angler stopped to watch the entertainment and helped me with the net. That lovely long, Leney mirror carp of Twenty Four pounds Eight ounces is still one of the finest carp I’ve ever had the pleasure of catching.
When I first fished Woodchester, the old boathouse had a list of carp caught from the pools, their captors’ names, the date and their weights, written on one of the walls in pencil. Sadly, when the National Trust acquired the valley they restored the old boat house and white washed over this unique carp angling record, not realising its significance. Actually, to be fair, it was probably only of interest to a carp fishing anorak like me but it still seemed a shame.
I believe The Priory Angling Club has held the fishing rights at Woodchester ever since the Nova Piscators Association gave up the lakes. Under the stewardship of Brian Ponting, and the other excellent members of the Priory AC committee, the lakes are in the safe hands of anglers who really care about their future. When I was a member of the club, long before the Trust acquired the property, the valley was a magical place to be. The valley was private and closed to the public and when I unlocked the gate and walked through into the ancient woodland, I felt as if I’d entered another, secret world of wild woods, spirits and adventures. It was rare to see another angler and I often had the entire valley to myself.
The Woodchester valley is known as one of the most haunted sites in Britain and after dark it was alive (or rather
dead) with headless horsemen, highwaymen dangling from gibbets and moaning monks. It could be a creepy place and under the shelter of the oaks the nights were as black as pitch. I never saw a ghost but the badgers, deer and foxes were always around for company and the bats used to flicker over the water like a swarm of vampires. The valley holds four lakes stocked with carp, which step steeply down the valley floor, separated only by their dams. Each lake is very different from the others, with its own character and atmosphere and each is lovely in its own unique way. I used to walk up one side of all four lakes and return back along the other, stalking the carp as I went. The walk might take anything between one and five hours, depending on how active the carp were and how many chances I had on my way around. I always travelled light, with just a single rod and net and with all of my bait and
tackle carried in a light shoulder bag.
I often took my Golden Retriever, Cuilean, with me on these walks and he developed into a fantastic carp dog. Cuilean would trot along the path in front of me and drop to the ground quietly whenever he sensed the presence of a fish. His senses were far more acute than my own and his skill led to the capture of many a carp that I would have missed if I’d been on my own. When I hooked a fish, he would watch the fight with interest and then amble over and give the carp a gentle lick as I returned it, before trotting off to look for another one.
The three lakes at the lower end of the valley held the biggest carp, but my favourite water was always the imaginatively named “Lake 4” at the top of the chain. This lake was far more overgrown and mysterious than the others and because there were no pitches where you could really set up a bivvy, it was little fished. My favourite spot was up in the shallows, where an alder trunk swept out over a large bed of lilies. The alder was quite easy to climb and from a perch about twenty feet above the pads I could hook the carp on the surface and play them to a standstill before shinning back to the ground to use the net. Despite the acrobatics involved in fishing from the treetops, I only fell in once and I never lost a fish. After a couple of years of watching me catch carp in this way, Cuilean seemed to spend as much time scanning the treetops as he did the water because I think I’d convinced him that carp grew in trees...
Woodchester still holds some fantastic Leney’s. Some of the commons I have caught at Woodchester are amongst the most superbly proportioned carp I’ve ever seen; deep bodied, elegant carp that are scale perfect and glow with life. I remember one common in particular that I hooked near the dam on the boathouse lake whilst float fishing. It was only a mid-double but it fought longer and harder than many fish that I’ve caught which were twice as big, and I had to jump into the margins to land it when it made the sanctuary of the reeds and snagged my line. Somewhere I have a photograph of the fish, looking like a moulded ingot in the evening sunshine as it lay on the damp mesh of my landing net (this was before the days of unhooking mats). That carp was probably the most flawless beauty that has graced my net.
I also remember the wonderful linear mirrors that Woodchester held. These were long, lean carp that never seemed to grow particularly big (I regarded a double as a specimen) but they more than made up for their lack of size with their stunning looks and the quality of the fight they gave when hooked.
I fished Redmire recently and a friend of mine, Martin, caught a linear from there that looked just like one of the Woodchester mirrors, except that it had benefitted from Redmire’s rich environment and grown far larger as a result.
I caught my biggest Leney from Woodchester during a short stalking session back in the summer of 1998. I popped in for an hour or two on my way home from work and because I didn’t have much time available I made my way straight to an area on the boathouse lake where I had found signs of carp the day before. A young alder had come down in a gale and its trunk ran out into the lake, perpendicular to the bank and alongside one of the extensive lily beds. The day before I’d climbed out along the trunk and made a mental note of two spots just off the lilies where the carp had swept away the silt to reveal the golden clay beneath. Before I left I trickled just enough bait onto the nearest of these spots to hold the carp’s attention until I could get back with a rod.
I tucked myself behind the roots of the fallen alder and flicked a float-fished tiger nut out before settling back to await events. I didn’t see any carp but the float swayed and dipped a few times to indicate their presence. Time was marching on, however, and I knew I had to leave, so I stood slowly and peered over the grasses to see if there were any carp around. Nothing moved near the float but then a dark shadow appeared right under my feet and a big carp nosed down to feed, tight against the margin below me. Very, very slowly I drew my float back towards me and lowered the tiger nut slightly to the side of the rooting carp. I half expected the carp to bolt from such a blatant approach but instead it just paused, swivelled and sucked in the bait. I’m sure it thought a tasty morsel had just dropped into the lake from the branches of the fallen alder and I struck before it realised its mistake, and before the float had even cocked.
That carp fought like few others I’ve hooked and I never had time to think as the line first grated against the branches of the tree, then hissed through the open water and finally rubbed to a stop through the stems of the lilies, as the fish thrashed violently towards the sanctuary of the various snags. To end the spectacular fight I had to shin out over the pool along the trunk of the fallen alder, to free the carp from a dense clump of pads where it had finally gone to ground. All the time I could see the fish twisting and turning in the deep, clear water of the margins and I was sure I would lose her, right up to the point when another angler stopped to watch the entertainment and helped me with the net. That lovely long, Leney mirror carp of Twenty Four pounds Eight ounces is still one of the finest carp I’ve ever had the pleasure of catching.
,would love to have a dangle there.