The Ricky Cons Years

I'm not quite sure what has inspired this post. I suppose I have a barely-suppressed desire to be a bit naughty really, because what I'm going to write about is actually against the rules.

Rules?

Yes. Rules.

Twenty-odd years ago I joined a fishing club based in West London's Colne Valley, and under the heading 'Publicity' the club's rules state the following:

No member shall take or authorise to be taken any photograph of the RCAS waters and/or activities for publication or to write or cause to be written any report or article on any RCAS activity for publication without the prior consent of the committee. This rule covers all media including the Internet. Failure to observe this rule could result in a life time ban.

So yes, the rest of this post is pretty naughty. Especially the photos.

RCAS stands for Rickmansworth Conservative Angling Society. Keen carp anglers will know this club by its more familiar diminutive, 'the Cons'. To a newly-fledged carper in 2018, membership of the Cons is a non-starter. The waiting list was closed several years ago, and those currently near the bottom of it had better hope for good health and a very long life. In the mid-'90s it wasn't quite so bad. One of my old buddies was a member. He proposed me (which got me on the waiting list) and after a couple of years my name duly came up for consideration. And when I say 'consideration' I mean it, because membership was not a formality; you had to pass muster. You enjoyed the dubious privilege of an interview with three of the committee, whose shrewd quizzing was supposed to reveal whether you would be a suitable addition to the hallowed RCAS roll, or were simply an undesirable big carp glory-hunter. Meanwhile, your proposer sat meekly in the background, praying that you didn't say anything stupid...

So, Gavin, why do you want to join the Cons?
Well, I heard your lakes are stuffed with monster carp, and I fancy some of that...
Oh? Whatever gave you that idea?
Roy told me. Didn't you, Roy... [turns in dense, bovine fashion towards pale, sweating proposer]

A Cons ticket was hard-won gold dust back then, and even more so now.

Until recently you could visit the club's website and view the actual waiting list. Everything was there, the names, what year they were added, which particular sub-list they were on (ie., the family list, the <10 miles radius list, the >10 miles list, etc) but of course the latest data-protection laws have put paid to that. Scattered among the names was a mini Who's Who of prominent carp anglers. The Cons was, and is, an exclusive fishery with a stock of stunning, huge, highly desirable carp. But, because of the publicity ban, you'll struggle to find a published photo of a single one.

To non-anglers I'm sure this is all rather silly, and I must confess that I cannot think of any parallel within the birding, cycling or running world. Believe me though, to some carp anglers this is deadly serious stuff...

Anyway, I was hardly even a carp angler, let alone a deadly serious one. I simply (and handily) had a mate who was already a member, and I thought it would be nice to have access to a fishery with some clonking great carp in it. At the time I'd never even used a boilie or a hair-rig, which is angling code for 'I was a total carping noddie'.

However, by my final season (which was probably 2001-2) I'd managed to winkle out a few nice carp up to 35lb, and one night was on hand to witness a 51-pounder on the bank, a colossal beast which took my breath away. But rather than talk about me, I thought it might be more interesting to view the Cons years through my son's experience, because in Rob's book it was a formative chapter rather than just an amusing paragraph.

Rob was only 14 or 15 when I joined the Cons, and as family he automatically gained junior membership. He was thrilled, and so excited to be going night-fishing. However, initially he wasn't interested in carp at all. For Rob, it was all about eels. Dead keen, he would be down the lakes in all weathers, living up to the nickname he rapidly earned: 'Mad Eel Boy'...

An early eel, and a right wriggly handful by the look of it

 

Rob's biggest Cons eel, at 4lb 5oz. We knew of 6lb+ fish caught accidentally by carp anglers, which is very big for an eel.

Eventually though, the carp bug bit, and one day in September 1999 I got the call to photograph Rob's first Cons carp...

20lb 12oz, and the start of a mild obsession

Rob was 16. When I was that age, a fish of these proportions was a mythical creature encountered only within the pages of the Angling Times. A young angler cannot catch a fish of this size and not be fundamentally influenced by the experience. The desire for 'more' and 'bigger' bites hard.

Cons carp were far from easy to catch. A season's 'top rod' may land perhaps 15 or so. Winter captures were rare as the proverbial, and even in summer a week or two might pass without a fish caught by anyone. Rob rose to the challenge though, and in the summer of 2002, aged 19, landed his biggest Cons carp...

34lb 10oz of cracking mirror carp

Not long after this, things went a bit pear-shaped for Rob. Following some relatively minor misdemeanours involving one or two of his dodgy mates, he was invited to attend a disciplinary hearing. The verdict: guilty. The sentence: one year's ban. Shortly afterwards Rob moved down and joined us in East Devon and, when the ban expired, did not renew his Cons membership. I allowed mine to lapse also. In the unlikely event that any rabid carper reads this he will doubtless be gasping at this perceived folly. To many, it's akin to throwing away the golden ticket. And, funnily enough, both of us have a tiny tinge of wistful regret. Despite living almost three hours away, it would be kind of nice to be able to drop in and fish such a mega-exclusive venue when the fancy takes us. But do we miss it really? No. The lakes were busy enough back then, and with the fish even bigger now, I can't imagine there are fewer anglers chasing them. These days, both of us prefer the solitude offered by an unpressured venue rather than the cut-and-thrust of competing for the prime spots, and the associated bankside 'politics'.

Shortly after moving to the southwest, Rob borrowed my red hat and took it barbel fishing to the River Stour near Christchurch. It duly did the business, and Rob landed this humongous barbel, which, at 13lb 2oz, remains his biggest ever...

February 2003. A really nice red hat.

So, yes, a door had closed, but in angling, as in most hobbies I imagine, there are countless others. And frequently both Rob and I are pleasantly surprised at what lies behind them...

The rather delapidated shack pictured below was once the Cons club hut. Situated on the banks of the Cons 'Big Lake', it commanded an idyllic view across the fishery. It's long gone now. The photo was taken in about 2002 I reckon, by which time a new, bigger club hut had been built elsewhere, and it's hard to believe that one beautiful spring day in the mid-'90s I slightly nervously walked through the door of this glorified shed, sat down in front of the committee panel, and managed not to muck up my membership interview.

It's pleasing to realise that all the photos above are an indirect consequence of that occasion...