1984; it was a mild winter. The winds blew in from the south, bringing with it unseasonably warm temperatures. Rain pitter pattered against the windows and the trees swayed gently in the warm breeze. Nothing too Orwellian so far!
It was just a few days before Christmas and the young lad had been waiting patiently for the weather to improve. As a sixteen-year-old, his Christmas duties like buying presents and wrapping them were a mere formality. He had finally been given the necessary permission to go for a one nighter at the local pit. Conditions now seemed perfect. The wind had abated somewhat, the rain had eased off and the temperatures were still remarkably mild for the time of year. If there was any chance of a carp or two, now was the time.
With a certain amount of excitement, he rummaged through his fishing bag, checking everything was in order; plenty of rigs tied, an assortment of leads and the usual paraphernalia that adorns a carp angler’s rucksack. The rods were cleaned and made up at home ready to go, the bed chair was checked, sleeping bag was in order and the 50” brolly packed, with accompanying storm poles of course. The Coleman stove was fired up to make sure it was operational and topped up with fuel and along with that, the kettle and frying pan were essential equipment, particularly at this time of the year.
The following morning his Dad’s van was loaded and as the journey passed his anticipation grew. He was never happier than when he was fishing. It was almost a release, somewhere that was his and his alone, a place of freedom from all of the stresses and anxieties of everyday life. As a young man, most of these feelings were admissible to most but not to him. They were real, tangible emotions and fishing exported him to a world where he felt comfortable and revelled in the surroundings and wildlife.
It was a long trudge from the fishing club’s lay-by to the actual lake. He was loaded up like a pack-horse and slowly lumbered along through the sticky mud. Every now and then he would become momentarily stuck as the mud gripped his boot and tried to pull him down. With an almighty ‘schlurp’ his foot would break free of the mud and he continued on his march towards the lake.
The wind was blowing in from the south west and was pushing up to the far end of the lake. Despite passing numerous tempting swims, he knew where he wanted to go in these conditions. At the furthest point the lake was pinched together by two heavily wooded spits of land just a few yards apart, creating a natural lagoon. This end of the lake was thick with oaks, alders and elms and the banks clothed in an assortment of bushes and undergrowth. It was like having a small, intimate lake all to oneself. To get to the other spit required a monumental effort to carry all of the fishing tackle and fight your way along a narrow, overgrown path that ran right next to the railway line, so few were tempted by this arduous journey. There were no other swims in the lagoon and so it was often only occupied by one angler.
He gazed out at the water, scanning for signs of life; a movement on the surface to indicate a fish rolling, or a carp hurling itself completely out of the water. His favourite sight was when just the head and shoulders of a carp would quietly emerge upright from the lake’s surface and slowly and silently drop down again, without barely making a ripple; it was almost like an apparition.
Soon the brolly was up and the storm poles fixed firmly in position. The Coleman was fired up and the kettle was soon bubbling with steam bellowing out like an old steam train. The rods had been set-up and the bait was a single boilie on each rod. The bite alarms were checked and the monkey climber bobbins pulled down to a few inches above the ground. The clutches on both reels were checked and now it was just a waiting game. At this time of the year casting was relatively infrequent but the bait was checked occasionally and just a small amount of boilies catapulted in as loose feed.
The day wore on and the light slowly faded. It was a lovely, peaceful place. A very occasional train would hurtle past, to interrupt the tranquillity but he had got used to that and hardly noticed them these days. The radio was on but barely audible and very little moved. A final cup of tea was in order before he got his head down for the night. He was of course hoping that sleep would be regularly interrupted by the sound of an Optonic wildly and impatiently screeching out. He sipped his tea and stood gazing into the gloom at the rippled surface of the lagoon. It was then he heard someone approaching. Unusual he thought, at this time of the night, although anglers did occasionally arrive late. By now it was around 10pm. He could hear the heavily booted footsteps coming along the bank and the distinct sound of waterproof trousers brushing together at each step taken. The footsteps got closer and moved down onto the swim called the ‘beach’ just a few yards from the entrance of the spit. They continued their thump, thump, thump approach until they quite suddenly and inexplicably stopped at the entrance of the lagoon.
The young lad called out to the unseen angler, who was obviously hoping to fish the spit. “Hi” he shouted, “I’m fishing here”. Nothing. No return call, no movement and no further footsteps. He called again but no one responded. This time he called again but with a slightly nervous edge to his voice. Still nothing moved. A cold shudder reverberated through his body and a sense of fright crept over him. Why was this guy not responding? He plucked up sufficient courage to grab his torch and go looking for the invisible prowler.
He left the spit and headed onto the beach; nothing. “That’s not possible” he reasoned. How could he not have heard the person walk back with those heavy boots and clothing swishing as he went? It didn’t make sense. Curiosity seemed to overtake the sense of fear that had gripped him. He now slowly worked his way along the bank, past the hedgerow and all the way down to entrance of the lake. There was no sign of anyone, no lights, no swims taken and a cursory look up to the lay-by didn’t provide any answers either, as no vehicle could be seen in the torch light.
A sense of foreboding gripped him. Its icy clasp crept through his veins; goose bumps exploded all over his skin. Where had the person gone? Did they even exist? Did he hear what he thought he had, or maybe he’d made a mistake? There was no doubting in his mind what he had heard; that was someone walking up to his swim, no question of that. But to just disappear?
He started to walk back to the swim. His pace increased the more he processed the information and he could only come to the conclusion that this was something supernatural. Supernatural? Really? No, that just wasn’t logical to him but nevertheless every vein and artery had crystallised with icy fear. On arrival back he realised he’d left his rods out, such was his state of anxiety. Nothing had changed though; the bobbins hadn’t moved. He dived into the sleeping bag and pulled it over his head. As quiet as he tried to keep his breathing, it was harsh and laboured. He tried desperately to breathe slowly, calmly but the feeling of dread was winning the battle.
Suddenly an Optonic burst into life and the staccato signal soon screeched out with a shrill single toner. He almost leapt out of his skin with shock. He wasn’t sure whether the alarm or his scream was louder. He managed to fumble for the rod, sleeping bag still around his waist. On picking up the rod he felt the heavy thump of a fish. It kited around to the other side of the lagoon. Side strain kept her out of the overhanging branches. The fish then changed direction and headed towards him, only to try and vie for freedom by heading through the narrow channel created by the spits and out into the main lake. The lad bent into the fish. The Conoflex carp rod bent right through to the butt and the fish was turned just in the nick of time. This seemed to be all the carp had left and it rolled on the surface. The mesh of the landing net soon engulfed his prize. As he hoisted the fish out of the water and laid it on the ground, the mesh exposed his capture; it was a beautiful leather carp and the biggest carp he had ever caught.
He soon wetted a sling and zeroed the Avon’s ready for weighing. The fish went 10lb 11oz. Certainly, no monster, but it was to him. The camera caught a scratchy shot of this very special moment and the fish was gently eased back into the dark waters of the lagoon. During all of this commotion he had completely forgotten about the evening’s earlier events. He shuddered at the thought and tried to find logical reasons for the events. As a countryman he knew what a fox or a badger sounded like and this was nothing like that. It would always remain a mystery he thought.
It didn’t take long for the story to circulate around the small, regular group of anglers that fished the pit. Each time the lad heard it, it seemed to have changed and grown into something far more sinister and malevolent. He just chuckled every time he was told about what had happened that night and generally kept it to himself from thereon in. At the time his regular fishing companion was Mick, a much older and far more experienced angler than he. Mick assured the lad it was just a badger or a fox, but the lad knew it wasn’t. If only Mick could hear it and experience it, he would realise.
It was now early March and a few months after that eventful night. Mick had joined the lad for an end of season session. They fished adjoining swims, which enabled them to sit between the two adjacent spots and chat and drink steaming hot cups of tea, whilst whiling away the long winter’s night. As they chatted, they heard someone approaching. They were fishing about halfway up the lake and could hear the heavy footsteps from some distance away. As the person approached the swishing of wax cotton trousers could be heard at each step taken. The lad grew nervous. The memories of that infamous night came back in a rush of emotions. Despite not being alone this time, a sense of fear crept over him once again. He whispered to Mick “this is exactly what I heard last time Mick”. “Don’t be daft” Mick said, “that’s someone just turning up to fish or could even be the bailiff, you silly bugger”!
The footsteps stopped just out of sight. They both peered into the gloom of the darkness that shrouded the lake. Nothing moved. The lad nudged Mick, “told you so”. “Rubbish” Mick said, “there’s someone there and I’m going to give ’em what for” and he marched off down the bank to confront what he considered an irresponsible prankster. The lad shuddered, a cold, knowing shudder. A few minutes past and Mick came back to the swims. He was quiet and said nothing. The lad enquired with a sense of urgency “Well?” Mick had no explanation. There was no one there. No sign of a car, no torch, no visible swims taken. They were the only two on the lake…. well they thought they were!
It later emerged that someone had drowned in the adjacent lake, perhaps this was the solution but ghosts? Really? The lad never heard it again in all the years he fished the Pit and no one that he knew or spoke to had ever actually heard it either but the story circulated like wildfire and it became the stuff of legend. The sort of story told to kids around a campfire in the middle of the night; only this was no story, this was real, this happened and would never be forgotten, not even 36 years on!
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