I’d been fishing between the Guys Syndicate in Oxfordshire and a lovely little lake hidden deep in the Blackdown Hills on the border between Somerset and Devon, Hartsmoor. I’d enjoyed great success on both waters and wasn’t really looking to move on, but someone asked me about the Linch Hill syndicate in Oxfordshire. I told him I didn’t know much apart from the fact it had some of the finest strain of fish in the country and that I was on the waiting list myself. I said I’d give him Fletch’s number so he could ring him, but his phone was flat, so I ended up calling myself. In typical Fletch fashion he straight away asked, “How long have you waited to get on?” I said something like, “Two years,” and he replied, “Well get up here and bring cash!” (£400). By this time, in my euphoria, I’d completely forgotten why I was ringing in the first place. That bloke never did get on syndicate…..haha.
So it was bye-bye Hartsmoor and Guys, and hello to Linch Hill. If you’re reading this, you’ll know the mix of excitement and slight trepidation when fishing a new water for the first time, and I felt no different. At first I decided to fish Willow Lake as it was less busy, really pretty, and had about thirty-five 30lb plus carp in roughly nine or ten acres. The truth is Christchurch seemed a bit full on, with several well-known anglers all after the big one, “Petals,” and I didn’t fancy that situation at all, so I chickened out and left that for later. Willow was incredible and for three years I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. The stalking opportunities were brilliant, and by the time I’d caught in excess of forty 30s, one for the ninth time, I decided it was time to man up and get over to Christchurch.
On my first trip I settled into the End Trees swim. This wasn’t down to wind, air pressure, or the number of lines, it was simply because I’d be the farthest away from everyone else. I’m still like that now. I can still recall the next few hours. I flicked out the marker and quickly found a nice firm, clear spot amongst a lot of weed. It was ten and a half wraps. I can still see it. Anyway, at first light the next day, over a bed of Scopex, I had a belter of a run and as I’m playing it, half asleep, a voice, Craig, who I didn’t know at the time, says, “You’ve got a right lump there, mate,” which was the last thing I needed to hear. Still, no drama, and before too long Scar was sat fuming in the bottom of my net.
Even now, as I pause for thought, I can still feel it, the shock, the elation, almost numbness at the lump in front of me. My first Christchurch carp, all 43lb 2oz of it, a new PB too. So on it went, and for the next three years I enjoyed fishing for, in my opinion, God how I hate that sentence, the best carp in the land, culminating in the Hamster at 45lb 10oz.
As that three-year period was coming to an end there was talk that Christchurch was going day ticket and that the number of swims was going to increase. At the time I think there were thirteen or fourteen pegs, and it was rumoured it was going to be something far in excess of that. So a few of us asked Julie, who ran the syndicate, if we could move to Stonies the next year and thankfully she agreed.
Once again that fear thing resurfaced. I mean this was a whole new ball game involving boats, markers, prodding sticks, life jackets, scopes and on and on. Anyway, I soon had it all sorted and began my search for Bitemark and Choco. Now this “catch on the first session” thing had been buzzing around in my head for weeks and I couldn’t wait to get at it. However, after many weeks of doing the boat thing without results I was getting a bit cheesed off. I was finding pukka spots, baiting by hand and even dropping rigs. Everything was perfect, but in reality it wasn’t. So, in a fit of despair, I decided to stop the boat business and fish from the bank with a marker rod as my only guide. I was in the Island swim and found a decent area at fourteen and a half wraps, which on a forty-seven acre lake is pretty close in, but it is the biggest feature, the margins. I will admit I left my marker out there and went out in the boat to see what I’d decided felt okay.It looked crap, but I stuck to my guns, fired out some CC Moore Live System, which worked for me as the quality of the Scopex had dipped, and cast onto the spot. Next morning I had a one-toner and was soon doing the business with one hell of an angry carp. After what seemed like forever, at one moment as I was standing on a point the fish was actually behind me and I could see it flanking through the bushes. Thankfully I was using X-Line 20lb at the time and that is one hell of a tough bit of kit, but it still didn’t stop me expecting a break. It was terrifying, especially as by now I had an audience.
It was a proper struggle, but eventually Kev’s Linear was netted at 44lb 4oz. Talk about vindicated, dead chuffed more like.
One day I was doing the walk, looking for signs of fish activity, and as I neared the top corner by the Plateau swim I saw a massive carp come straight out and down without making a sound. It was huge, quite plain looking apart from a bit of scale on its flank. I was fairly sure I’d been looking at Bitemark, Choco had passed away by now, but I went down to a couple of mates and asked what Bitemark looked like. It was confirmed that I had indeed seen him, or her as it transpired. Funnily enough, and I don’t mean this in any bad or moaning way, but one of those mates moved up and started casting around in the area where I’d seen the fish and where I myself was setting up, and that was the end of that chance. I did my customary three nights but didn’t see that lump again. On the way home I climbed a couple of trees further along the bank. I’d actually loaded up the car and was driving back around the lake when I decided on that one last look, and there she was, hanging around in the sunshine with a couple of her mates. Gotcha, I thought, but not today.
The spot where I’d seen her was in a shallow, weedy corner not far from a lovely little swim called the Grassy Knoll. This peg was like the proverbial egg box and I just didn’t fancy it, but the next swim along was Crows, a cracking swim with many options. One of those options was about a hundred yards out which I’d seen from the boat. A big old electrical cable or pipe from when the place was a working gravel pit. At times, especially earlier in the year, the carp would be very active in this area, rubbing against the pipe to rid themselves of leeches. I knew exactly how far that cable was from the swim as in the previous winter I’d spent a day mapping out that part of the lake. It was twenty-five wraps and that was just about as far as I could get a spod. So I baited it up, put one rod on it, had one close in and one towards the island where a fallen tree had been like a magnet to some of the carp. Then at 1:30am the pipe rod was away. Game on. I ran straight to the boat, grabbed the rod and used the weight of the fish, which was just sat somewhere out there in a pile of weed, to crawl out towards it. It soon became clear, however, that I should’ve put a bloody coat on. It was freezing. Anyway, too late for that. I gently eased my way out, shivering, towards the fish and felt nothing. It was solid and naturally one thinks, “I’ve been done,” but as I was directly above it fearing the worst, it moved, and before I knew it so did I. It was actually towing the boat. I thought, “S**t, this is a proper carp,” and in the words of Martin Clarke, mahoosive. For about fifteen minutes I was a passenger with no control, but after a while out there in the darkness I could hear a tail slapping around and knew it was getting tired. I wasn’t, I was too cold for that. Then suddenly in the dim red light of the headtorch I saw a big pale shape emerging from the depths only for it to surge away again and again. It’s at this point you start to think, “For Christ’s sake mate, give it up, I only want a picture.” Then, as I was thinking just hang on and let it tire itself out, it popped up behind me and was laid flat on a bed of weed, so big I couldn’t get my net under it. It was like comedy half hour. Surely it was all a bad dream. So, in desperation, I grabbed the line, spun the boat around and hand-lined it over the drawstring to the waiting net. Got it. The relief is somewhat intense, but that was tempered by the slow one-handed paddle the hundred and fifty yards back to the bank, the other hand clutching the rolled-up landing net.
At this point I still didn’t know what I’d caught. I did have a peep but didn’t like to scream out “Bitemark” at 2.15 in the morning especially if it wasn’t her. And sod’s law, I couldn’t wake my mate as he’d turned his phone off, so I called Scott Lloyd who I knew would probably be awake planning captures, and he was. He came straight around, as he would, and had collected Miles and I think Adam came too, and it was Miles who identified the fish as the mighty Bitemark. The weight was immaterial, but I thought I’d broken my 45lb PB. It went 41lb 10oz and was obviously a well spawned-out female, and that’s good, a very healthy fish. The events that followed are now forever etched into my memory.
First off I got a proper drenching from the lads and secondly Scott said he’d get the order in for food and drinks. I’m like, “What? I haven’t enough cash on me, I can’t afford that lot.” He said, “Don’t worry mate, it’s on me, you’ve got to celebrate a fish like that.” I mean wow, what a guy, what a day. Still get choked thinking about it. Made the front cover of Carp Talk too.
Andy Edwards
Feb 2026
Be Free