This is Nowhere
Subsurface editor Gareth Fareham grabs a last minute trip to Belgium as Issue 1 gets ready to launch…
With politics and busy banks being high on the agendas back home in the local scene, it seemed a perfect time to take a break and go angling for angling’s sake, not for targets, not for numbers, not even for giants, just plain old angling…
I collected a rather overly excited Dave in Southampton on the way, chucked his couple of bits of minimalized DPM clad kit in the van and we buzzed our way up the M3, along the M25 and arrived at Folkestone in no time; before we’d even got out of the concrete lined streets of Southampton talk of sacks full of huge scaley giants racked up waiting for their photographs abounded…of course it was all hopes and dreams, what we were most excited about was a few days angling into the unknown and not being wrapped up in making up the numbers back home.
Arriving at 3am, slightly less enthusiastic than we were 10 hours previous and fuelled by coffee we headed off into the humid darkness to try to find some carp. Suddenly the ‘yeah, lets just get there, do a few laps, listen for some shows and get some choddies on them for the morning’ plan seemed a distant hope, two laps round and still none the wiser we settled for listening to the drunken skinny dippers diving off the dam wall and then decided a few hours kip tucked away in the bushes and a dawn recce was the best option.
That plan would have been fine had we bargained for the relentless savagery of the local mozzie population. 3 hours of broken sleep and buzzing irritation later the sun finally started to make its way towards the horizon, bringing the scenery and setting into focus, followed almost on cue by the unmistakeable sound of a large carp wallowing out just through the little gap in the reeds we were tucked behind…the game was back on. Beds back in the van, coffee made and drunk we headed back off for some more laps, and so it began.
5 days later we returned home, sunburnt, completely sleep deprived from nights under the stars with the continual worry of the authorities and other slightly more dubious park-goers who frequented the bushes at night, but with a few more stories and experiences under our belts. The tales of the trusty carp flute… The ‘white suited chemist’ that collected a sample from the outflow just above Dave’s hookbait one morning… The pedaloe riders that crashed into our swim… The 20 strong canoe club that rowed right through all four of our lines, almost decapitating an unsuspecting 12yr old Belgian cub scout… The swimmers standing up on the shallow plateau over our rigs, unbeknown that a size 5 Chodda was waiting literally inches away to impale their ankles… The mad chemical canal spot that felt more akin to crabbing… The updraft buffeting our brollies all night from the lorries doing 70mph a mere 3ft behind us… The Rub, or was it a Chud, we never did work those out? The tale of the landing net in the wrong swim, and the VBK mirror, and the last ditch chocolate brown one on the last night… Here’s a few images, they don’t convey a lot of the oddities of that trip, but the rest we’ll leave to your imagination. This is Nowhere.
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