Relocating to another country is a huge step to take, but having done it before, I naïvely figured that moving again would be a walk in the park. My time in Denmark hadn’t always been easy, but it seems the hardships of the initial move had been filtered from my memory, leaving only rose-tinted recollections of my student years.

When I left Scotland for a second time however – this time for the Netherlands – it seemed like there were unending barriers confronting me. First off, I didn’t have any work lined up. The original plan had been to sort this out before moving, but the pandemic had scuppered my chances of being hired from abroad. I’d be winging this part instead, hoping to pick up something in as short a timeframe as possible. Second, the looming Brexit deadline meant I had only months to apply for Dutch residency, ‘Right to Remain’ and work round all the other bureaucratic pitfalls of starting a new life abroad. I certainly had my work cut out, but it was made far easier by the unwavering support of my girlfriend, Suzanne – for that, I’m very grateful.

For the first few months, I felt I was just trying to keep my head above water. My residence permit was stuck in a back-log of last-minute applications, my savings were dwindling, and the work situation had gone from bad to dire. In fact, in the space of a few weeks I went from attending promising final-round interviews for PhDs to accepting evening shifts picking groceries in a refrigerated warehouse. On top of that, the Dutch government was doubling down on corona rules by the day and the prospect of even meeting people in my new hometown seemed to be postponed until further notice. Not only were the pubs closing, but I couldn’t even attend a language class until spring.

Angling has always been my breakout from these kinds of day-to-day pressures, but that was temporarily on hold too. You see, with the extra restrictions and time constraints, I was forced to move in a single trip, bringing only the essentials. Ryanair’s luggage policies leave no room for carp rods, so I’d left them in the custody of my cousin who was due to drive over in October for a week’s fishing. My first taste of Dutch angling would therefore have to wait, but I didn’t mind so much if I’m honest. I’d had a good result back in June, followed by two testing months on a rock-hard loch in western Scotland. With so little time to get in tune with the place, it had been a lost cause from the start and I had little to show for my efforts. It had somewhat drained my enthusiasm for fishing, so an enforced break seemed more than welcome to me. Besides, I’d moved country to be with Suzanne; not to go fishing. Having done several years long-distance, plus complete separation during the first lockdown, we were keen to just spend the time with each other.

Having said that, I made sure to explore all my new local waters during that first month. I’d done no prior research on the area and didn’t know any anglers, so I was going to find out everything on the ground. In an age where so much about carp fishing is known by everyone, I found myself holding a unique opportunity to get adventurous and just look for myself. Everything was completely unknown to me, so I’d fish where I wanted to, for what excited me most, and without the external influence of knowing what everyone else was after. Of course, I met anglers along the way who happily offered snippets of local information, but as the new guy in town speaking only broken Dutch, some of them refused to extend any insight at all. That was fine by me though!

Relocating to another country is a huge step to take, but having done it before, I naïvely figured that moving again would be a walk in the park. My time in Denmark hadn’t always been easy, but it seems the hardships of the initial move had been filtered from my memory, leaving only rose-tinted recollections of my student years.

When I left Scotland for a second time however – this time for the Netherlands – it seemed like there were unending barriers confronting me. First off, I didn’t have any work lined up. The original plan had been to sort this out before moving, but the pandemic had scuppered my chances of being hired from abroad. I’d be winging this part instead, hoping to pick up something in as short a timeframe as possible. Second, the looming Brexit deadline meant I had only months to apply for Dutch residency, ‘Right to Remain’ and work round all the other bureaucratic pitfalls of starting a new life abroad. I certainly had my work cut out, but it was made far easier by the unwavering support of my girlfriend, Suzanne – for that, I’m very grateful.

For the first few months, I felt I was just trying to keep my head above water. My residence permit was stuck in a back-log of last-minute applications, my savings were dwindling, and the work situation had gone from bad to dire. In fact, in the space of a few weeks I went from attending promising final-round interviews for PhDs to accepting evening shifts picking groceries in a refrigerated warehouse. On top of that, the Dutch government was doubling down on corona rules by the day and the prospect of even meeting people in my new hometown seemed to be postponed until further notice. Not only were the pubs closing, but I couldn’t even attend a language class until spring.

Angling has always been my breakout from these kinds of day-to-day pressures, but that was temporarily on hold too. You see, with the extra restrictions and time constraints, I was forced to move in a single trip, bringing only the essentials. Ryanair’s luggage policies leave no room for carp rods, so I’d left them in the custody of my cousin who was due to drive over in October for a week’s fishing. My first taste of Dutch angling would therefore have to wait, but I didn’t mind so much if I’m honest. I’d had a good result back in June, followed by two testing months on a rock-hard loch in western Scotland. With so little time to get in tune with the place, it had been a lost cause from the start and I had little to show for my efforts. It had somewhat drained my enthusiasm for fishing, so an enforced break seemed more than welcome to me. Besides, I’d moved country to be with Suzanne; not to go fishing. Having done several years long-distance, plus complete separation during the first lockdown, we were keen to just spend the time with each other.

Having said that, I made sure to explore all my new local waters during that first month. I’d done no prior research on the area and didn’t know any anglers, so I was going to find out everything on the ground. In an age where so much about carp fishing is known by everyone, I found myself holding a unique opportunity to get adventurous and just look for myself. Everything was completely unknown to me, so I’d fish where I wanted to, for what excited me most, and without the external influence of knowing what everyone else was after. Of course, I met anglers along the way who happily offered snippets of local information, but as the new guy in town speaking only broken Dutch, some of them refused to extend any insight at all. That was fine by me though!

Being a Scotsman, I’ve never been blessed with an abundance of venues filled with big fish. Carp are few and far between on the lochs and a twenty pounder is still enormous in my eyes. Surreally though, I now found myself in an environment where every bit of blue on the map held carp to that size, and of course, far bigger! I distinctly remember ferreting around a local lake during the September heatwave, and from the heights of a bankside willow, seeing a carp of well over fifty pounds waddle in beneath me. It was closely followed by two others – both colossal and likely mid-forties. Had I still been in Scotland, any of those fish would have been a record-breaker, and I almost felt unworthy of fishing for them. Bizarrely though, this was the new normal and something I just had to get used to. As I write, I’m yet to wet a line for these giants, but they’ve earned a place on my ever-lengthening list of future escapades.

The waters themselves were also worlds away from what I was used to. Across the Netherlands, vast rivers interconnect with industrial shipping canals to form a web of endless waterways. There’s barely a lock or sluice to restrict the carp’s movements, so the stock in any particular stretch is forever changing. Besides the waterways, thousands of sand pits and low-lying fens ensure that there’s scope for the adventures to last a lifetime. Most of them are public, so without the barriers of overpriced tickets and dead-man’s-shoes waiting lists, I could fish it all for the price of a VIS-pas.

That wasn’t helping me out much, as I had no idea where to begin! I could have jumped straight in after that mid-fifty I mentioned earlier, but that didn’t feel right to me. Remembering my Scottish roots where a thirty pounder had been a fish of a lifetime, I wanted to build on that, gradually working my way up towards those true Dutch leviathans. I’m here to stay after all, so there’s no rush.

Early on in my reconnaissance, a lake within cycling distance of my new home piqued my interest. It was an old sand pit of around ten acres; semi-urban yet picturesque, deep, and clear as an aquarium. I figured that it held a very low stock of carp (perhaps one per acre) but every fish I saw was unique in some way. After finding them on several occasions, I quickly learned to distinguish the individual characters amongst them – there were commons, long scaly linears, high-backed scaleless ones, you name it. I estimated the average size to be low thirties, with a few over thirty-five and one definite forty – a deep-bodied, leathery old mirror with a huge head and a kink in her tail.

There were only two main swims on the lake; both confined to the southwest corner which was easily accessed via a gravel track. Two-thirds of the banks were out-of-bounds, but the north-eastern corner was also open for angling. Up there, the margins were so dense with overhanging bushes that it was nigh-on impossible to squeeze a rod out. It caught the sun for most of the day and unsurprisingly, it was there that I regularly found the carp. The corner’s main feature was an old brick pump house, from which an extraction pipe reached out just beyond the marginal snags. A railway sleeper was fixed alongside it to form a narrow jetty and it seemed possible to angle (albeit uncomfortably!) from its end. I could tell other people were using the pipe as a viewing point, but there was barely room to swing a rod back and I was confident that nobody was actually fishing from there. That alone was enough appeal for me.

I regularly found the big mirror under the snags to the left of the pipe, where no doubt she felt safe from angling pressure. She certainly wasn’t hesitant about feeding there as every time I deposited boilies nearby, she’d calmly waddle over to clear them up. In fact, over the weeks she cratered out a spot at the edge of the bush which glowed like a new penny. I don’t remember ever seeing a carp so obliging as her before, but frustratingly it would be another month until I’d be in possession of my kit again. All I could do was feed and observe, and as is often the case, once armed with a rod I never found her under that snag, or in that same greedy mood again.

"the thought of that huge, leathery mirror troughing boilies by the pipe was consuming me, so as soon as our week’s holiday was up, I went looking for her again."

"the thought of that huge, leathery mirror troughing boilies by the pipe was consuming me, so as soon as our week’s holiday was up, I went looking for her again."

The first months flew by and before I knew it, I was greeting my cousin from the apartment window as he pulled up outside in a van full of moving boxes and fishing tackle. We spent the next week at a holiday venue in the north of the country, landing a few lovely fish between us. As pleasurable as this sort of fishing is, it’s not something we do often, but it offered us the guarantee of getting the rods out somewhere while I figured out the best public spots for his next visit. All the while, the thought of that huge leathery mirror troughing boilies by the pipe was consuming me, so as soon as our week’s holiday was up, I went looking for her again.

By this time the seasons had changed dramatically. Once idyllic and sun-kissed, the pit had now taken on a new tone; tight-fisted and unforgiving. The cold, clear waters appeared lifeless and the sound of birdsong was replaced by the creaking of the ancient oaks, flexing with every breath of the strengthening storm. It looked like the big girl had vacated her snag, swapping the discomforts of the cooling margins for the more tepid climes of the open water.

I crouched on the end of the pipe, hood up, longing for even the smallest of signs that might give away the carp’s presence. My stay could only be brief as I had work in an hour, but moments before heading off I spotted something about twenty yards out. It was little more than an irregularity amongst the waves, but it was all I needed to see, and I planned to be back the following morning.

I returned under the cover of darkness as yesterday’s storm blew its final gusts across the pit. Rod in hand, I crept out to the end of the pipe and gently cast into the vicinity of the previous day’s sighting. Even from a kneeling position, my cast had clipped the branches overhead, but I was happy enough to know I could fish a single rod into the corner. The drop had felt good enough, so I sunk the line and spread thirty or so freebies around the hookbait.

I crouched on the end of the pipe, hood up, longing for even the smallest of signs that might give away the carp’s presence. My stay could only be brief as I had work in an hour, but moments before heading off I spotted something about twenty yards out. It was little more than an irregularity amongst the waves, but it was all I needed to see, and I planned to be back the following morning.

I returned under the cover of darkness as yesterday’s storm blew its final gusts across the pit. Rod in hand, I crept out to the end of the pipe and gently cast into the vicinity of the previous day’s sighting. Even from a kneeling position, my cast had clipped the branches overhead, but I was happy enough to know I could fish a single rod into the corner. The drop had felt good enough, so I sunk the line and spread thirty or so freebies around the hookbait.

I wasn’t overly expectant as I sat back to watch the sunrise that first morning, so I was taken aback when I received a take less than an hour later. After a spirited fight, I scooped a mirror into the net, which I actually assumed to be the biggest one in the lake at first. Once on the mat though, I realised it was a male fish and far leaner than I’d originally thought. Still, he was a beautiful old carp with muscular, brown-toned flanks. I snapped a few self-takes amidst the falling leaves before slipping him back into the cold depths, elated by my quick result.

After such a start, I thought a few more might come my way in quick succession, but as winter tightened its grip on the world, all carpy activity dried up. My evening shifts in the warehouse were making it difficult to fish the nights, so I persevered with short morning sessions until the New Year with nothing else to show for my graft. Sometimes you get lucky, and with such a low stock I knew I’d been fortunate to winkle one out so late in the year anyway.

I didn’t get out much in January or February. The fridge was seriously getting me down, so I was desperately using my free time to find more fulfilling work. My efforts were falling flat however, and without a language diploma the job search wasn’t getting any easier. I’d been notified that physical language lessons would be possible again in May, so until then I’d just have to get by, dealing with my amplified winter blues until restrictions were lifted. On a positive though, I’d been granted residency a few days before the New Year deadline, so at least I wasn’t getting deported!

Travel to and from the UK was hampered by lengthy quarantine times, so I hadn’t seen any family since my cousin’s visit in October and starting to feel homesick. I’d got my life with Suzanne which was what I’d wanted; I never regretted my decision to move, but especially around this time I felt stuck. I was in limbo, isolated from the familiarities of my old life and feeling stripped of any opportunities to build a new one here.

In tough situations like these, I’d normally use fishing as an escape but for some reason I’d forgotten about the soul-healing remedies of the great outdoors. Instead, I’d leave my chilly workplace to sit behind a laptop at home, fruitlessly and insipidly churning out applications. My wellbeing was taking a hit as a result, but by the time I realised I couldn’t take any more and had to get out angling more than ever, the Dutch government implemented a curfew and I tested positive with Covid; both in the space of a few days.

Being stuck in quarantine for two weeks was probably the kick up the ass required for me to make some necessary changes. The first thing I did was negotiate a shorter working week with my manager, giving myself room to breathe while I worked on improving my situation. Then once free to leave the house again, I made sure to get out angling more often. Doing the days only, I flitted between a few local waters with varying degrees of success. Then at dawn following the March full moon, I struck gold and landed the most impressive carp I’ve ever caught. It’s a bit of a local treasure and a story I want to keep to myself for now, but it was all the dopamine I needed to get back out in pursuit of that leathery old lump again.

In tough situations like these, I’d normally use fishing as an escape but for some reason I’d forgotten about the soul-healing remedies of the great outdoors. Instead, I’d leave my chilly workplace to sit behind a laptop at home, fruitlessly and insipidly churning out applications. My wellbeing was taking a hit as a result, but by the time I realised I couldn’t take any more and had to get out angling more than ever, the Dutch government implemented a curfew and I tested positive with Covid; both in the space of a few days.

Being stuck in quarantine for two weeks was probably the kick up the ass required for me to make some necessary changes. The first thing I did was negotiate a shorter working week with my manager, giving myself room to breathe while I worked on improving my situation. Then once free to leave the house again, I made sure to get out angling more often. Doing the days only, I flitted between a few local waters with varying degrees of success. Then at dawn following the March full moon, I struck gold and landed the most impressive carp I’ve ever caught. It’s a bit of a local treasure and a story I want to keep to myself for now, but it was all the dopamine I needed to get back out in pursuit of that leathery old lump again.

With the days lengthening, the pit was coming back to life and the spring sunshine was slowly ridding the carp of their winter lethargy. On occasion, I’d see a few holding up in the snags by the pipe again, so I dusted off my old winter spot with a bit of particle. The curfew meant night fishing was prohibited for now, but I was happy to just drop in for a few hours once or twice a week before work. I’d completely cut down my kit so I could cycle to the lake, armed with a single rod and enough tackle for a few hours. It made for some exciting fishing and nobody else seemed willing to do the short sessions – as a result, I had the entire pit to myself for most of the spring.

Although the chance of a bite looked realistic again, I was struggling to fool the carp. I’d catch a few monstrous tench every visit, some of them well over ten pounds, but I knew that the carp were confining themselves to the snags by day and taking complete liberty of a free feed in the dark. There wasn’t much I could do about it, so I just hoped that enough bait and perseverance would be enough to eventually scratch a daytime bite.

"The water was cold, but I knew the fish wasn’t too far out – hopefully I could dislodge it from the snag and get back to the bank in no time."

"The water was cold, but I knew the fish wasn’t too far out – hopefully I could dislodge it from the snag and get back to the bank in no time."

The take I’d been waiting for finally materialised one misty morning in early April. I scrambled out along the partly submerged pipe as the fish kited left towards open water. Just as I started gaining the upper hand however, everything ground to a halt; the line grated tenuously and I knew the carp had found something more substantial than a frond of fresh Canadian. I persisted for a few hours, hoping that time and constant pressure would be enough to free the fish, but it was an absolute stalemate. The clock was ticking and I had to be in work soon, so I had to take action quickly.

Pulling for a break is never an option in my eyes, but having done a fair bit of wild swimming back on the lochs, I decided to take the plunge and try freeing the carp by hand. I slackened off the clutch and put the rod back on the rest, stripped to my boxers and lowered myself off the end of the pipe. The water was cold, but I knew the fish wasn’t too far out – hopefully I could dislodge it from the snag and get back to the bank in no time. Following the line out with my hands, I eventually found myself holding onto the tip of a rusted scaffolding pole. Completely invisible from the bank, it must have been speared into the lakebed some 15ft below me, rising at a slant to within inches of the surface. What were the chances!

Using the pole as leverage, I was able pull myself out the water slightly and quickly assess the situation from above. The line had only gone round the metalwork once, so I soon had it free and watched as an ancient looking linear rose flank-on to the surface alongside me. She only hesitated for a moment before charging off, so I threw the mainline clear of the pole and swam back to the bank fast as I could. On picking up the rod however, I pulled into nothing. I skipped in the rig to find the hook burred over and the carp gone. Totally burnt and feeling sick to the core, I dried myself off and made my way to work, knowing full-well I’d just lost one of the bigger ones. Such is the nature of fishing low stock waters – opportunities don’t present themselves every week and the effort that goes into achieving each bite is hard to fathom. Consequently, the blow is twice as bitter when things go wrong.

A few weeks and several blank mornings later, we finally heard that the curfew was scheduled to be lifted. I was yet to spend a night on the pit, so after hearing the news I was straining at the leash to dust off my bed chair and shelter for the first time that year.

Spring was advancing rapidly, and every week was looking more promising than the last. The lake was abloom with fresh weed growth, but my baited spot had remained clean, getting firmer with every bait-up. It was obvious they were clearing me out in the night, so I was whole-heartedly welcoming the curfew’s cancellation.

Of course, I spent my first night of liberation at the pit. I was ecstatic to say the least and didn’t have to wait too long into dark before the line pulled up tight and I was away. This carp headed and away from the pole luckily, so I was free to relax and give it a bit of line. It ran through some fresh weed quite quickly, and with its face completely masked by Canadian, I guided it back towards the net with minimal fuss.

Removing the weed and turning the fish onto its side, I flicked on the headtorch and got a first glimpse of my prize. It was like a living fossil – crusted skin hued with browns and reds, embellished by a smattering of bronze crescent scales and streaked with battle scars from the long years of its existence. It was even blind in one eye, as if it needed any more character! I snapped a few night shots before slipping it back, pleased as punch.

I was noticing a bit of a pattern by this stage. The carp were regularly present in the corner, but after hooking one they’d suddenly vacate. It could take a few weeks of steady baiting to regain their confidence, so I felt it was best to leave the spot alone for a while after each bite. Less was undoubtedly more in this scenario. I wasn’t confining myself to the corner spot by any means, but the weed was festooning the rest of the lake and I struggled to find anything solid to go on elsewhere. Given enough time and free food though, the carp would always return to the pipe. They really seemed to like it there, so that’s where my attentions remained focused.

I’d seen the big girl in my corner on a few occasions now. As I sat by the end of the pipe one time, I actually felt the jetty moving beneath me. I looked down and she was right there; inches from my feet, flanking across the woodwork! She looked massive and I just knew she would slip up soon. My only worry was that now the curfew was over, other anglers were coming back to the pit. Every weekend, you could guarantee there’d be bivvies in the main swims, with anglers boating baits out across the entirety of the lake from there. There was over 200 yards between the big swims and the pipe, so I was hopeful that the corner was being left alone when I wasn’t around. So long as I could keep the big girl tucked at my end, out of plain sight and with plenty fresh grub nearby, there was little chance of her ending up in the bottom of anyone else’s net!

It was mid-May before I got down for a second night. We’d had some muggy weather over the previous days and the carp seemed to be responding well to the rising water temperatures. I’d watched the big girl showing behind my spot on three separate mornings now, so as long as I didn’t fluff anything up, I knew I was in with a good chance.

Until now, I’d only been fishing a single rod. Especially on low-stock waters, I’ve found that once you know where they’re feeding, there’s no need to be spreading lines everywhere unnecessarily. Instead, I prefer to fish discreetly and as minimally as possible. This time however, I would be taking a second rod. I’d watched the big mirror clatter out just behind the baited area several times, so after dropping the first rig on the front edge of the spot, I clipped the second one up several yards further and punched it out slightly to the left, where I knew the weed wasn’t so bad. It was only a yard or so from the main bed of particle, but sometimes these small changes can make all the difference.

Just after dark, the rod positioned directly on the spot signalled a stuttered take. The bobbin hit the blank, the tip pulled over, but the line stayed in the clip. Must be a tench, I thought. The tell-tale tapping of a lightweight fish continued all the way in, but then things got a bit weird. In the dark, I struggled to lift the net around it! Eventually, I resorted to my head torch for assistance and was surprised to see a huge bar of carpy scales floundering in front of me. At well over a metre long, it was an enormous grass carp! Until this point, I hadn’t known there was one in there, so it came as a shock considering I was ready to shake off a little tinca. On the scales, the creature went well over fifty pounds – not bad for my first one!

Now I’m no grassy expert, but I quickly learned that they tend to beat the shit out of anglers after netting and on the bank. It was a warm, sticky evening and I just wanted to get it back quickly, so I awkwardly held it for a few crap self-takes before releasing it.

The night passed without incident, but I was up at first light regardless. I made a coffee and edged out to the end of the pipe for a better view of the lake. Hardly a breath of wind rippled its surface and judging by how uncomfortable the night had been, we were in for more hot and humid weather. As I drained the last of the coffee, I noticed a huge plume of bubbles break the surface off the back of the baited area. Something was down there, and the feeling of expectation was immense.

I was still sitting by the pipe when the rod fished long melted off. Reaching back, I pulled it from the rests by the spigot, wound up the slack and leant into the fish. The weed had formed a bit of a wall at the back of the spot, and I did my best to prevent the culprit from reaching it. It rucked and twisted, sending up sheets of bubbles as I took a breath and found my composure. Staying deep, it plodded as big fish do, but it wasn’t until it came into netting range that it took any line. I caught glimpse of a big grey flank, but I was reluctant to draw conclusions over which one it was until I’d put the mesh under it. Sure enough though, after a lengthy battle under the tip, she went in the net and there was no mistaking her – it was the big girl after all.

Hoisting her onto the mat, I unhooked her and took some time to admire her properly. With high shoulders and a deep gut, she looked colossal and judging by her thick striated skin and knotted fin rays, she was clearly ancient. As I rattled off a few self-takes, a couple of local anglers turned up. They congratulated me on my capture, and we prattled away in a mix of Dutch and English as they set about helping me. It was lovely to finally get to know a some of the locals, gain their trust and share my special moment with them. They confirmed she was indeed the lake’s biggest and, like the rest of the lake’s stock, well over forty years old. With the utmost respect, we got some photos and put her back.

Perhaps it’s worth mentioning at this point, that in the same week I also came lucky in my job search. Finally free from the warehouse, and with prospects of more exciting work ahead of me, I felt a huge burden lifting from my shoulders. On top of that, I’d also be starting my language course the following week, offering me a chance to meet and connect with more people in the area. The nine months leading to this point had been a bit of a rollercoaster, but finally things were beginning to look up.

In a way, I look back at my capture of the big mirror as a bit of a turning point in my life here in the Netherlands. Not that a carp ever had anything to do with the struggles I’d gone through, but it coincided perfectly with so many positive circumstantial changes and made for a fine bonus to cap it all off.

In a strange twist of fate perhaps, my next carp from the pit happened to be the same mirror. It was less than 72 hours later, and I’d dropped in for a quick morning – same bait, same spot! I felt a little embarrassed by it, and not wanting to cause her further stress, I unhooked her in the net, apologised for the inconvenience and let her go again. You can’t choose them out in the pond, but it’s undeniable that repeats of former targets can dull the magic of the first capture somewhat.

The night passed without incident, but I was up at first light regardless. I made a coffee and edged out to the end of the pipe for a better view of the lake. Hardly a breath of wind rippled its surface and judging by how uncomfortable the night had been, we were in for more hot and humid weather. As I drained the last of the coffee, I noticed a huge plume of bubbles break the surface off the back of the baited area. Something was down there, and the feeling of expectation was immense.

I was still sitting by the pipe when the rod fished long melted off. Reaching back, I pulled it from the rests by the spigot, wound up the slack and leant into the fish. The weed had formed a bit of a wall at the back of the spot, and I did my best to prevent the culprit from reaching it. It rucked and twisted, sending up sheets of bubbles as I took a breath and found my composure. Staying deep, it plodded as big fish do, but it wasn’t until it came into netting range that it took any line. I caught glimpse of a big grey flank, but I was reluctant to draw conclusions over which one it was until I’d put the mesh under it. Sure enough though, after a lengthy battle under the tip, she went in the net and there was no mistaking her – it was the big girl after all.

Hoisting her onto the mat, I unhooked her and took some time to admire her properly. With high shoulders and a deep gut, she looked colossal and judging by her thick striated skin and knotted fin rays, she was clearly ancient. As I rattled off a few self-takes, a couple of local anglers turned up. They congratulated me on my capture, and we prattled away in a mix of Dutch and English as they set about helping me. It was lovely to finally get to know a some of the locals, gain their trust and share my special moment with them. They confirmed she was indeed the lake’s biggest and, like the rest of the lake’s stock, well over forty years old. With the utmost respect, we got some photos and put her back.

Perhaps it’s worth mentioning at this point, that in the same week I also came lucky in my job search. Finally free from the warehouse, and with prospects of more exciting work ahead of me, I felt a huge burden lifting from my shoulders. On top of that, I’d also be starting my language course the following week, offering me a chance to meet and connect with more people in the area. The nine months leading to this point had been a bit of a rollercoaster, but finally things were beginning to look up.

In a way, I look back at my capture of the big mirror as a bit of a turning point in my life here in the Netherlands. Not that a carp ever had anything to do with the struggles I’d gone through, but it coincided perfectly with so many positive circumstantial changes and made for a fine bonus to cap it all off.

In a strange twist of fate perhaps, my next carp from the pit happened to be the same mirror. It was less than 72 hours later, and I’d dropped in for a quick morning – same bait, same spot! I felt a little embarrassed by it, and not wanting to cause her further stress, I unhooked her in the net, apologised for the inconvenience and let her go again. You can’t choose them out in the pond, but it’s undeniable that repeats of former targets can dull the magic of the first capture somewhat.

"With the utmost respect, we got some photos
and put her back."

"With the utmost respect, we got some photos and put her back."

I stayed away from the pit for about a month afterwards. Every carp in there was a character and I’d dearly have loved a chance at more of them, but my new work commitments were a priority and there’s simply too many phenomenal carp waters around for me to restrict myself to one low-stock pit.

Given my spring success, I wasn’t intending on returning but after struggling to find inspiration elsewhere, I dropped in for a look one blisteringly hot June afternoon. The carp were right where I thought they’d be, sat amongst the snags either side of the pipe. I recognised some of them as fish I’d already caught, but there were a few others to be had. Among them was a typically long, Dutch common that I hadn’t seen since last September. As I watched, he turned and left the snag, swimming off in the direction of my old spot. Moments later he returned, closely followed by the mirror I’d caught back in November.

I decided to chance my luck and gave the spot a bit of bait there and then, before dropping in for a night a few days later. Lo and behold, the common went in my net at first light! Shortly after, the repositioned rod was away again, turning out to be my November mirror. Like I’d done with my previous recapture, I slipped him back straight away, wishing to minimise his ordeal.

I knew the lake’s stock was low and the probability of a recapture was getting higher, so I made a firm decision to step away from the lake at this point. There were plenty others to be had still, including that big dinosaur of a linear that I’d lost back in April, but for now I wanted to pit my wits on pastures new. Perhaps I’ll be back one day!

As you might expect, fishing for such a low stock had been slow going, but I couldn’t say that it’d been overly difficult. I’d been able to concentrate on a single area from the off, and some persistent baiting had kept the bites coming. I hadn’t put in too much time either – a few hours per week during the curfew, then three nights and a few mornings later in the spring. I think this just goes to show what’s possible if you find somewhere neglected by other anglers. If you can stay quiet, stay patient, and keep the bait going in, the rewards are there to be had, even on limited time.

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