elcome back to another fishing adventure. There are weeks in carp fishing when everything seems to line up, and others where nothing goes to plan no matter how hard you try. This session fell somewhere in between—full of excitement, a few golden moments, and some lessons that will stay with me for the next time I return to Airfield Lake.The Build-UpThe week before, I’d wrapped up a slow-going trip with not much to show for my efforts. My mate Ian, though, had managed a couple of nice carp after I’d left, and he’d also spotted a few milling about in my water. That gave me some confidence—I clearly hadn’t been far off.Still, what really concerned me as I prepped for this session was the weather. The wind had swung round to the north, which usually spells trouble at this time of year. A cold northerly can kill sport dead, and with autumn knocking on the door, I wasn’t sure how the carp would react. On the flip side, the sun was shining, and with it came a surprising warmth, even with the chill of the breeze.After a good chat with Ian, weighing up our options, I decided to give the same swim another go before trying the island again. We’d seen a very good fish show over there the previous morning, a big carp that looked to be every big, even from 300 yards away. I knew the fish were here—it was just a case of proving it by getting one on the bank.Tight lines and be lucky!
Welcome back to another fishing adventure. Trip 30 Carp Fishing - The Double Gravel Swim – September SessionAfter a good look around the lake earlier in the week, backed up by studying my old records, I decided the Double Gravel swim was my best bet. It wasn’t an easy decision, but with no other clear signs of carp activity elsewhere, it stood out as the most logical option. This swim has produced for me in the past, often with a bit of patience, and it’s one I’ve built confidence in over the years.The first thing I always do when settling into a swim is to get the marker rod out. Even though I know the area well, I like to double-check that everything is still as it should be. Weed shifts about, silt builds up, and there’s nothing worse than assuming a spot is as clean as you remember only to find it’s changed. The rod whistled out into the wind, clipped at the right distance, and the lead hit down with that firm, reassuring thud of clean gravel. A couple of drags confirmed it. Perfect. The long-range gravel bar was still there, sharp and defined, while the closer line I’ve favoured before was equally inviting.This time, though, I wanted to tweak things. Normally, I’d fish further out, but my gut told me to bring one rod shorter. It felt like a gamble, but sometimes carp fishing is about breaking habits. The plan was simple: one rod fished closer with solid PVA bags, the other at long range on a proven spot that has a knack for throwing up the bigger carp every so often. That second rod, however, would be fished with single hookbaits only.Tight lines and be lucky!
Welcome back to another fishing adventure. With the weather all over the place from midweek onwards, I found myself juggling gardening jobs and studying forecasts more than I’d like. The plan had been to head to the lake on Wednesday morning, but after a closer look at the charts, Tuesday afternoon was clearly the better choice. Rain was due to sweep in around 5 p.m., and I needed to be set up well before then.I hit the deadline perfectly, rods out and camp sorted, only for the weather to delay its entrance until much later that night. For once, the timing worked in my favour. With just six weeks left before Airfield Lake closes for the winter, I’ve committed myself to focus here. Time has flown this year, and while I’m not exactly looking forward to the coming cold, a recent change in medication will hopefully help with my perennial issue of frozen hands.Tight lines and be lucky!
Welcome back to another fishing adventure. With heavy showers forecast over the next few days, I shuffled around my gardening work, pushing jobs to the end of the week. That gave me a chance I couldn’t ignore—two nights on the bank. The car was already loaded before I had time to second-guess myself, and by mid-afternoon I was crunching down the familiar track toward the lakes.I was surprised to see a couple of good swims still free. For a moment, I nearly swung the car around and headed straight to Airfield Lake. The southwesterly was tearing across its wide waters, piling into the big island swim—a spot that’s hard to walk past when the conditions line up.But something made me pause. I’ve always had a soft spot for Meadow Lake, even if it doesn’t always produce. Less angling pressure, fewer distractions, and a kind of quiet character all its own. It’s the sort of place that tests your patience but rewards effort in its own way. In the end, I couldn’t resist the temptation.Tight lines and be lucky!
Welcome back to another fishing adventure. West Stow Country Park Carp SessionFishing sessions often carry a strange sense of anticipation, as though every trip holds the possibility of something special—something unforgettable. This week’s trip was one of those rare occasions when the excitement had been building steadily for days. Not only was I heading back up to West Stow Country Park, a place that carries its own quiet charm and challenge, but I was also fishing alongside my oldest friend, Rob. We’ve shared countless hours bankside together over the years, and whenever we plan a session, it always seems to take on an extra layer of importance.The Journey NorthMonday morning started early—brutally early. I was up at 04:00, the kind of hour where the world outside is silent, and only the occasional fox or owl breaks the stillness. By 04:30 I had the car loaded, rods stacked neatly, bait buckets wedged into the boot, and the kettle washed up from the night before. The air was cool, fresh, and full of promise.The roads were surprisingly clear. No roadworks on the M3, no speed restrictions, and even the dreaded M25—a road that can easily turn a good mood into frustration—was running without issue. I took this as a good omen. Heading north via the A414, the old Northern Orbital Road, then pushing on to the A1(M), I felt the tension ease out of me. By the time I merged onto the A14, the sun was climbing, lighting up the fields with a golden haze.Of course, the A14 wouldn’t be the A14 without drama. I nearly witnessed a couple of accidents, careless drivers cutting across lanes and others forced into evasive action. Fortunately, the sensible heads among us kept it safe, and I pressed on, shaking my head at the madness.At 07:10, I rolled into the West Stow Country Park car park, the familiar landscape unfolding around me. There’s always a strange mixture of calm and excitement on arrival. Part of me just wanted to rush to a swim, set up, and get lines in the water. Another part of me knew the importance of slowing down—taking the time to look, listen, and read the water.Tight lines and be lucky!
I must admit, I nearly didn’t bother going this week. After a run of scorching hot days, the thought of sitting lakeside in 30-degree heat with the carp sulking in the margins wasn’t overly appealing. Yesterday had hit 30°C, and the forecast promised the same for the end of the week, but today was a different story altogether—just 22°C, overcast, with a welcome breeze moving across the lake. A short break in the relentless heatwave. That alone convinced me it was worth a go.
Ideally, I’d have liked to fish Tuesday into Wednesday night, as the conditions then looked even more promising, but work and commitments meant that wasn’t an option. So I settled for Wednesday into Thursday. Sometimes you just have to make do with the window you’ve got.
I rolled up around 1:30pm, gardening jobs done and dusted, and immediately felt a lift in mood compared to the past few stifling days. To my surprise, the lake was almost empty—only three other anglers dotted around. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen it so quiet, probably not since the winter months.
Three Choices, One Bay, and an Eighteen-Pounder
It’s not often you walk onto a carp lake and find yourself with options — real options. Not the “one free swim nobody wants” kind of choice, but the sort where you actually stop and think for a moment, weighing up which peg might put you in front of the fish.
This week, luck was on my side. Meadow Lake, usually busy at the best of times, had space. Three swims stood empty, all of them with potential.
The wind was the deciding factor. A stiff south-westerly was pushing across the lake and piling straight into one of the bays. This wasn’t just a lazy breeze — it had that warm, pushing quality that can transform a swim. In my head, the picture formed instantly: coloured water pushing into the margins, food drifting in on the current, and carp using the cover of wind-chopped water to feed without fear.
After missing out on the lakes entirely last week—bar a few fleeting, frustrating hours by the river—I was itching for a proper session. The river had been enjoyable in its own way, but watching Chub ignore my hookbait for five hours tested my patience more than usual. You can catch up on all the drama from my last blog or video, but suffice to say, I was ready to return to somewhere with a proper bedchair, bivvy, and the solid thump of a big carp.
This week, I’d cleared the decks: three nights at my disposal. I’d planned to arrive at the lake around 2pm on day one, but the weather forecast looked atrocious. Every radar I checked showed a deluge sweeping across the South. So, I took the gamble—called off my gardening jobs and pointed the van towards Ringwood. Looking back now, I probably jumped the gun. The rain just didn’t show up near the lakes. Classic.
Back on the Riverbank
For the first time in a good few years, I found myself back on the riverbank—rod in hand, heart quietly hopeful. I wasn’t under any illusions of grandeur; this wasn’t about hauling out a barbel first cast or breaking personal bests. This trip was more of a test run—to see if my kit setup was workable and to rediscover that old river rhythm.
As it turned out, I wasn’t burdened with as much gear as I feared. You know how it usually goes—too many bits, bags full of "just in case" items—but surprisingly, I’d only brought a touch more than necessary. A few tweaks here and there and it’ll be bang on. It felt good just travelling light again, wandering down to the river with purpose but without pressure.
1545 – A Glimmer of Interest
I had a sudden, sharp take—well, sort of. It turned out to be an aborted one. Closer inspection showed the hook point had snagged a small twig, just enough to blunt it. Still, it told me something was down there, inspecting the bait and showing an interest in the swim. A glimmer of hope.
I was fishing with 8mm Big Fish Mix pellets and matching boilies as hookbaits. Ideally, I’d have used small PVA bags to create a tighter attraction around the rig, but in true riverbank fashion, I forgot to pack the PVA. First lesson learned—or maybe just re-learned.
The Case of the Vanishing Chub
What puzzled me most was the complete lack of interest from the chub. This spot should have screamed chub holding territory, yet I hadn’t even had a knock. Not a pluck, not a twitch. Nothing. I’d watched fish spook off the area earlier, but even that had slowed to a standstill. They weren’t having it.
I tied up two new rigs, making subtle adjustments in presentation, hoping a change might trip them up. Still, silence. The rigs looked spot on in the margins, but confidence alone wasn’t enough today. It had me questioning the whole setup, especially the main line. It might be time to switch to something finer, more supple, or just less visible before the next trip. There’s a niggling feeling it might be the final piece of the puzzle.
Calling Time
I held out until just before 10pm, but my session ended slightly earlier than planned—thanks to my head torch batteries giving up the ghost. And yes, I’d tested them over the weekend. Clearly not well enough. Another lesson chalked up.
Despite giving it my all, I left with a blank. Not even a nibble to show for my efforts. But honestly? It didn’t sting like it used to. I’d already made peace with this trip being more about learning than catching. That said, the lack of action has me itching to go back to the drawing board—reassess the rigs, rethink the baiting approach, and maybe do a bit more late-night research online.
The river’s a different beast to the stillwaters I’ve spent so much time on. It moves, it changes, and it demands your full attention. But I’m in no rush. This was just the beginning.
Until next time,
Richard
I wasn’t planning to arrive at the lake on a Monday night—not originally. But sometimes the stars align, or in this case, a shift in the weather, an open diary, and a nagging sense of timing all came together. I’ve learnt over the years not to ignore that instinct.
A large southwesterly weather front was sweeping through, bringing cloud cover, warmth, and that rolling, humid air pressure that often gets the carp on the move. If that wind hadn’t started hacking into the Airfield Lake, I probably would’ve stuck to the club water. Meadow hadn’t been producing much lately, despite that recent capture of the 50lber that caused a frenzy of activity down there. But realistically, it was only the stockies that had been coming out, and I had my theories as to why.
Some thought they hadn’t spawned yet; I wasn’t convinced. To me, it was more likely the lake was suffering from a nutritional imbalance—namely, a tidal wave of tiger nuts. Don’t get me wrong, carp love them. Love them a bit too much. The trouble is, they’re addictive but hard to digest. It can take three, even four cycles through a carp’s gut before they actually break them down, and in the meantime, the lake becomes one big recycling bin of tiger nuts. They’re being eaten, crapped out, and eaten again until eventually digested—if not by the same fish, then by another. While this is happening, the carp can end up losing condition. So no, Meadow wasn’t for me right now.
I needed somewhere I could build on something - a spot, a pattern, a little piece of rhythm with the lake. August was nearly upon us, and over the years, it had been a kind month on the Airfield. It was time to prep a couple of areas, see how the fish were behaving, and maybe carve out a session or two that could set me up for the rest of the summer.
I arrived at the Airfield Lake just before 1900 hours. The drive in along the east bank offered early signs of promise: several carp topping mid-water, rolling just beneath the ripple. And to my relief, no one was in the southwest corner swim—the exact spot I had in mind.
With four nights ahead of me, I had options. If it didn’t pan out in 48 hours, I could up sticks and try elsewhere, but I felt quietly confident. Everything about the air, the lake, the light… it just had that feeling.
Session Journal – Early July
With the heatwave finally taking a break and a couple of free nights in the diary, I found myself back on the bank in early July. Reports from the lake weren’t exactly encouraging—it had been fishing hard, and water levels were the lowest I’d seen in years. Still, it was all to play for.
Ian had arrived the day before and mentioned that the lake was very busy. I messaged another member to check if he was doing his usual one-nighter, hoping I might be able to slide into his swim once he’d packed up. Fortunately, he was, though the timing wasn’t ideal—I had to drop my youngest off at 4:00 a.m. for a school trip. The alternatives were trying to go back to sleep or sitting around at home, neither of which appealed in the slightest.
A Blowout, a Buzzer, and a Battle – A Session to Remember
With the weather nudging into the high twenties—26, maybe even 28 degrees—it was too hot for my liking. I knew sleep at home would be a restless affair, so the lake felt like the best escape. I wrapped up my last gardening job by 11, shot home to load the car, and just had one last task—drop the eldest off at her boyfriend's. From there, it was lake time.
By 12:30, I was finally on the road… and right into a dose of classic British road rage. According to the red-faced man in the Audi A4, I was somehow in the wrong for not letting him dive into my lane, after he’d undertaken me in a long queue of traffic without so much as an indicator. A bit of polite signalling might’ve helped rather than waving his fists at me through the window. Ah, well—onto better things.
I’ve been running a bit of a side plan lately: swing past Meadow Lake on the way to Airfield Lake, and if a decent swim is free, I drop in. This time, fortune looked to be smiling—my preferred shady spot was vacant. Perfect. Or so I thought.
Welcome back to another fishing adventure. It’s been a week longer than I originally planned, and to be honest, I’m still not 100% sure I should even be out fishing. But after surviving a couple of days back at work and feeling reasonably okay, I figured some bankside recovery time was just what the doctor ordered.The man flu struck hard while I was away camping in Wales. I ended up coming home three days earlier than planned—and truthfully, I probably should have cut the trip even shorter. Just to round things off, I had a tyre blowout going over the old Severn Bridge. Thankfully, the Highways Agency and the AA were absolutely brilliant. The whole situation was sorted in just over an hour—1 hour 15 minutes to be exact—and I was back on the road. A real credit to both services.Tight lines and be lucky!
There are moments in carp angling when instinct kicks in—when the changing sky and shifting pressure whisper that now is the time. After a prolonged spell of still, bright weather, a dramatic change had been forecast. A low-pressure front was moving in, bringing with it a band of rain followed by patchy showers. To any seasoned angler, this was a beacon—conditions that just scream feeding spell. I knew I had to act.With a few gardening jobs to wrap up first, I spent the morning moving soil and trimming hedges, watching the clock and keeping a close eye on the weather updates. The wind direction hadn’t shifted dramatically, but the incoming rain was what had my attention. It was around 1400 hrs by the time I finally loaded up and headed out, tired but fired up for a proper 40-hour session.As I approached the lake, I already had a plan formulating in my mind. I was hoping the wind would gain strength and push directly into the bank I had in mind—a bank that had given up good fish in the past under similar conditions. To my surprise, as I crept along the tree-lined margin, I spotted a few carp moving. They hadn’t been showing much lately, so this was an early sign that my hunch might just be spot on. It always pays to watch, and I took it as a quiet confirmation from the carp gods that I’d timed this right.Tight lines and be lucky!
There’s a certain freedom that comes with two nights on the bank — a kind of rare permission that makes every cast, every move, that much more purposeful. I’d been granted that freedom once again, thanks to the understanding of my wife and family, and I wasn't about to waste it. After a couple of tricky sessions that ended in blanks, I was determined to get it right this time. If the carp were going to make me work for it, I was more than willing to put in the effort.I pulled through the gate just after 9 a.m., taking my time as I unpacked. There was no mad rush — the fish hadn’t really been on the feed lately, and I knew the conditions still weren’t ideal. We were enjoying a slight rise in temperature — the kind that gets you thinking spring might finally be here — but the wind was doing its best to convince me otherwise. That persistent easterly was still biting, bringing a chill that cut through layers. Forecasts predicted gusts up to 30 mph, and I’d experienced enough blank nights recently to know I didn’t want to be sitting head-on into that wind again.Tight lines and be lucky!
July Update
With limited time available to me for the rest of May, I really need each trip to count.After a few hours of gardening this morning, I arrived at the lake in the early afternoon. The conditions weren’t ideal—there was a fresh northeasterly wind blowing across the water, bringing a chill with it. Still, I’d seen no signs of spawning since Sunday, and that continued today. Unfortunately, visible signs of carp were scarce too, aside from a few indications in the area I’ve chosen—though not in any great numbers.Tight lines and be lucky!
After a false start on Wednesday, which saw me heading home just a couple of hours after I arrived, I found myself once again back at the lake. Somehow, I’d gravitated back to the same swim—tucked under the trees, shaded from the harsh sunlight, and blessed with a cool breeze that occasionally drifted across my face like nature’s own sigh of relief. It felt familiar. Safe. A natural corner that always seemed to hold potential.The Fox Voyager tarp giving me shadeBut this session was already different.The carp were twitchy, moody—on the verge of spawning. You could feel it in the air. That thick, humid pressure before a storm. The kind of atmosphere that makes you sweat without moving and question every decision. I was praying that the forecasted weather change due on Friday or Saturday might delay the inevitable. It had originally been predicted for Thursday, but like everything in carp fishing, it had drifted—just like the carp, always unpredictable.I’ve always believed they know what’s coming before we do. Some sixth sense about them. The kind that makes them vanish into snags or appear out of nowhere when you're least expecting them.I wasn’t entirely sure how to approach this trip. With the temperature rising fast, I knew I had a narrow window before the day turned into a furnace. I flicked both rods out to obvious spots just to get something fishing while I set up camp, cracked open a drink, and let the place talk to me.Tight lines and be lucky!
Originally, the plan was simple. I was meant to meet up with my mate, who’d finally secured a place on my syndicate after being on the waiting list for what felt like forever. We'd been planning it for weeks, talking tactics, swim choices, and baiting strategies. You know how it is — the kind of excitement that builds up when two mates finally get the green light to fish together.Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately depending on how you look at it, life threw him a curveball. He got the call he had been waiting for even longer than his syndicate ticket: a hospital appointment. It was due the next afternoon. No brainer, really. Health always comes first, well above fishing. We both knew that. Still, it left me sitting there, rods in the garage, bait prepped, weekend plans suddenly wide open.After a quick cup of tea and a bit of pacing about, I decided to message the wife. I explained the situation — that I had a rare window opening up — and asked, as nicely as possible, if it was alright for me to slip out that afternoon and give myself a proper session. A couple of nights on the bank sounded like heaven, especially knowing that a couple of busy weeks in May would mean I wouldn’t get another chance for a while.Tight lines and be lucky!
It's been a strange trip, full of highs and lows.