It is without doubt, pretty rare these days to stumble across a body of still water and know absolutely nothing about it, or for that water to be completely devoid of fish, certainly in the UK anyway. The chances are, there will be fish in it. And the chances are that some of those will more than likely be carp. And if that’s the case, some of those have probably been caught recently, weighed, photographed, even named, then returned, only for someone else to catch it a week later and repeat the whole process. Over the last four or five decades, possibly more, carp fishing and all the chutney that goes along with it, has seen such an exponential rise in popularity and the demand for commercial carp venues has increased with it. Land owners and farmers have realised that there’s money to be made and potential in that pond in yonder field, or that gravel pit, or that old estate lake in the grounds; commoditization!

It wasn’t always like this. I remember when I was growing up in the 70s and 80s, if you happened across a lake, or a pond, or even a gravel pit, there was no guarantee there would be any fish in it at all, let alone fish with names; there were unknowns and there was mystery. I consider myself to be relatively late(ish) to the party, even in the 70s and 80-s there was so still much excitement and anticipation in that whole discovery experience, for me anyway. Finding somewhere completely new and ‘untapped’ or perhaps somewhere you’d heard only whispers of and rumours of fish, was really quite magical. I recently discovered a pile of old ordnance survey maps, with various rings and notes scrawled next to small patches of blue. A lot of them have an ‘x’ next to them and only a few have a tick. Before you got any where near wondering what bait or how much you should take with you, your first challenge was to actually find somewhere that had fish; a pre challenge, challenge, if you like.

How things have changed here.

March 2008 and my ex partner and I, had decided that we’d take our young son abroad to Portugal for a few months, to work on the house. I had driven down there in my trusty old VW bus and, of course, had made some space for my fishing tackle. Most weekdays were taken up with visits to the house to keep tabs on the builders – a necessary thing in any country, but particularly there it seemed. But when time permitted, I would hop in the van and take a jaunt up in to an area above the Algarve. The Alentejo is far less populous than its more touristy neighbour and isn’t generally known for its lush green landscape and in high summer. Temperatures there often top 40˚C and the whole region becomes parched and dry. But late winter and spring are quite different. A liberal dousing of seasonal rain, brings the area back to life and the rolling countryside is carpeted in colour from a mix of Cistus, Lavender, Poppies, Daisies and lots of other flora I don’t know the names of.

Much like I used to do when I was in my early teens, I had again taken to scrutinising maps, highlighting areas and ringing them. For no reason in particular, I had marked a lake in that region, although I won’t mention it by name or town, for obvious reasons. It wasn’t the hardest lake to find but back then, it wasn’t the easiest to get to either. With no made roads and only a cringingly bumpy track to follow, fifteen minutes driving over what felt like an endless, bone shakingly tortuous cattle grid, felt more like an hour and I don’t suppose it was particularly good either for a vehicle not made for the off-road. But it was worthwhile and when I reached the edge of a ridge, I was met with the sight of a rather lovely looking reservoir below.

Lakes in Southern Spain and Portugal are quite different to a lot of the water we have in the UK. The surrounding terrain is often hard and dry and water there in summer is precious. They’re usually dammed rivers and done so for irrigation purposes and in the case of some the larger waters, hydro-electric power. And some of them are vast inland seas. This actually didn’t really look like one of those. And whilst it wasn’t exactly a tree lined, lily covered, picturesque pool with weeping willows, it certainly had its own charm and in the late hours of that day, I was quite excited at the prospect of a couple of nights there.