The carp, that fish that chose me

There are passions that take root slowly, almost imperceptibly. And then there's carp fishing. It crept into my life like a quiet, undeniable force, then gradually took up more and more space, until it became a guiding thread. I couldn't say exactly when it all really began. There was no heroic moment, no mythical first carp etched in my memory like a scene from a film. No, it happened differently: gradually, little by little, out of curiosity, and then out of necessity.

The first thing that struck me was the size of the fish, its power. Then, very quickly, it was its behavior, this astonishing way it has of defying all the rules. The carp never quite does what you expect of it. It adapts, it goes around, it tests, it surprises. It forces you to think, to observe, to understand. Very quickly, I understood that you don't fish for carp like you practice a hobby: you pursue it like a living mystery.

What I love about this type of fishing is, first and foremost, the search and the discovery. Exploring new waters, delving into memories, conversations with other anglers, or an old book I stumbled upon. I've become a lover of details. A passionate observer of the minuscule, the almost invisible, that changes everything. It's never the fish itself that hooks me. It's that moment just before, when I think I might have figured something out.

Mobility

This is certainly what led me to a more mobile, lighter, almost artisanal style of fishing. Two rods, the bare essentials, a few baits. Nothing cumbersome, everything that allows me to blend into the environment rather than impose myself on it. This approach reflects who I am. It compels me to remain present, attentive, and honest in my choices. It allows me to fish the way I like to live: in motion, but with intention.

One day, without really intending to, I also became interested in the fish itself. Not just in catching them. But in their biology. Their feeding habits. Their seasonal migrations. The way they explore the seabed with almost surgical precision. The more I fished, the more I wanted to understand. It became clear. I was no longer fishing just to catch fish, but to learn.

And then I discovered something that changed everything: its history. Not just recent history, but the earliest writings on fishing. I started searching, reading, collecting. Technical books, old accounts. I realized that reading these books felt like talking to anglers from another era. As if their words were illuminating my own fishing trips, my own questions.

My library has become a kind of extension of my outings. Another way to be by the water, even when I'm warm and cozy in the van. I love the idea that each book tells a piece of carp fishing culture, a rich, deep, passionate culture, often unknown to those who don't delve into it. When I read a passage from several decades ago, or even sometimes close to 100 years ago, and find a reflection that's still relevant today, I realize that this passion has deeper roots than we imagine. But nothing compares to being by the water itself. Something within me unravels as soon as I walk silently along a riverbank. A kind of inner calm that exists nowhere else. Even when I know the day will be tough, or the conditions are bad, there's a feeling of rightness. The small waves against the rocks. A jump in the distance. The whisper of the wind. The mist clinging to the trees. A thermos of tea on winter mornings. Those moments are worth as much as any capture.

The carp taught me patience.

She taught me humility, and not without a touch of irony. She taught me that even when you think you know everything, there's always something more to discover. She showed me that hasty conclusions are rarely the right ones. She taught me that a missed fish can reveal more than a caught one. All of this goes far beyond fishing. It's a school of life disguised as a hobby. She changed the way I observe, understand, and move forward.

Today, I fish for carp because this passion has become a part of me. I fish for the catch, of course, but also for everything else: the reading, the reflections, the doubts, the adjustments, the failures, the small victories that are only truly victories for those who know what they represent. I fish for the encounters, for the solitary sessions that help me clear my head, for the endless discussions over a rig or a book.

I fish for it because carp have a story, and I've found a bit of my own in its story. Because each session tells me something. Because each fish—whether trophy or modest—adds a line to a narrative that never truly ends. Because it feeds my curiosity as much as my need to be outdoors. Because it still challenges me, even after all these years.

And as long as she continues to teach me, as long as she continues to surprise me, as long as she continues to be this elusive, complex, elegant, and sometimes completely baffling fish, I know I will return. Bag on my back. Two rods. A few baits. A book somewhere at the bottom of my bag. And this undiminished desire to listen to what the water has to tell me.