Sylosis recorded Monolith at the famous Rockfield Studios in Wales, and there is a song on the album called 'The River'. The river that flows past those studios is the one that I've spent many a summer's day having fun on (and in). It doesn't take much of a leap to imagine it was the driving force behind the band writing that song (the studio is a residential studio - bands stay for weeks at a time). Is the river sound effect at the start of that song, the River Monnow herself? It could just be a generic sound clip, but I'd like to think otherwise.
Black Sabbath also recorded at the studio back in the 70s and here's a photo of the band messing about in the River Monnow (photo via Wales Online)
Mark's elderly father had passed away four days earlier, and my mother had only just been diagnosed with cancer the week before, so going on a fly fishing trip to the River Monnow mightn't have seemed like the best idea to some folk. But to us it made perfect sense. Psychologically and logistically. The latter was served by the fact that Mark's dad had lived in Kington, not far from where we'd be fishing the Monnow. One of our days would be earmarked for dealing with those surreal practicalities associated with death in the run up to the funeral: Collecting the medical certificate from a sterile front desk at the local surgery; signing bizarrely matter-of-fact paperwork with the registrar; buying copies of the death certificate using a scrunched up fiver and some loose change; and meeting the many wonderfully reassuring and seasoned experts who help co-ordinate such matters all too frequently. The rest of the time would be spent focussed on the pursuit of deceiving characterful wild browns on a handsome new river, as we allowed our absolute focus to fall on fly fishing to assist in evaporating the fog of crap that was hanging in the air of late, in the hope of entering that mercurial state of equilibrium that rivers so readily provide.
If you're still here, amidst the apparent doom and gloom, let me lighten the mood a little before I continue. My mother's prospects are very good, and her joyfully positive and infectious attitude to life mean that not only will she kick cancer in the cajones, she's sure to make the malignant neoplasm sorry it ever messed with the fiery little 67 year-old Brazilian lady at the epicentre of our family's world. I didn't know all this before we left on our latest fishing adventure, so the company of my best pal for a few days and some meditation on the River Monnow was a perfectly prescribed tonic to achieve some perspective.
Preparing to fish a new river can be daunting, particularly when you have no clue where to begin. I've waxed lyrical before about the generosity I've received in terms of sage advice and friendship when fishing the River Eden, courtesy of North Country Angler and all-round great chap, Matt Eastham. So when it came to getting ready to fish around South Wales I again turned to the Fly Fishing Forums as a start point, and was fortunate enough to find the right guy to speak to. Dave Smith, or "Tigermoth" as he goes by on the forum. Dave is another rare breed of angler, who was kind enough to spend time on the phone with me in the run up to this trip answering my barrage of maverick questions, offering invaluable advice and even setting us up with guest tickets on his club waters. So it came as little surprise that Matt and Dave knew each other. Dave's a man who is proud of the river and a humble champion of it. I'd soon discover exactly why.
Day one - September 18, 2013
Having lightly dusted the X-Trail's boot with our fly fishing gear we hit the road just after 5am, enabling our trusty blue vessel to drift out west across the M4, only pausing in the eddy of the Reading services for a breakfast bap, before crossing the Severn Bridge and arriving at the Old Pandy Bunkhouse near Abergavenny not long after 9am. Base camp for the next couple of nights, before upping sticks for the Premiere Inn in Hereford for the following two nights, as everywhere in and around Abergavenny was booked up that weekend for the "Glastonbury of food festivals".
We decided to use the morning to recce the waters Dave had put me onto. We had the option to fish a beat that included some of the River Honddu feeding into the Monnow, as well as as another beat further downstream and north-east of the confluence, with around three and half miles of both-bank water to explore. It had clearly been raining over the past few days as the Honddu was running opaque and greeting the Monnow with powdery waves of swirly brown hellos. Still, the water was relatively thin as a result of the dry summer - the recent downpours hadn't managed to put any more meat on its bones. We decided to investigate the downstream option on the Monnow, where the water turned out to be a little clearer and less soupy.
To quote Matt, "It's the challenging conditions in which we learn the most". Amen. Had there been treacle running through the valley, it wouldn't have suppressed my excitement at simply being on this striking river with the opportunity to deceive wild trout with fur and feather. No excuses. "The harder you try, the luckier you get". Waders on, and with my favourite fishing mantra front of mind, I lead the way down to this unfamiliar yet incredibly welcoming river.
Some easy wading saw me quickly work my way up the tail of a long riffle with a size 14 tungsten head Pheasant Tail Nymph (tied with a red rib on Dave's recommendation) to get my eye in. Nothing doing just yet, but up ahead, above the riffle, sat a promising boulder alongside a deep pocket of of water in front of which there'd surely be a fish. I'd given Mark a couple of these freshly tied heavyweight nymphs, and it was his turn to christen the water. No rises, boils, swirls or any indication to my eye confirmed its position, but we knew it made sense so Mark plopped the nymph a couple of yards ahead of the boulder and was immediately into a scrappy wee brown. One cast, one fish, one giant leap closer to flushing the brain of its recent clutter.
It was my turn now, and I decided to drift my depth-charger nymph up ahead of the deep pool that ran parallel to where we were standing. I had visions of a lunker lurking down there, silently feasting on a procession of passing nymphs. I'd snagged on the bottom a couple of times by now, causing my heart to bounce off my sternum like a basketball in a tumble dryer, but this time my line took on a different character as it checked, so I lifted and was promptly greeted by the sight of a good-sized fish pirouetting under the short leash I'd fashioned for it. In my haste I tried bullying the fish to the net too quickly, keen to ensure it was landed briskly and could leave with a spring in its tail. Instead my eagerness to quell the first-fish jitters resulted in him head-shaking with a full tank of gas, and slipping the hook in a rolling manoeuvre that left a vision of his fat buttery belly etched on my eyeballs as he darted back into the depths.
Mark and I explored the water solo, encountering each other every hour or two with bank-side stories of what we'd seen, what we'd tried, what had worked and what hadn't. A pleasing ritual that echoed daily for most of our trip. Later that afternoon we met up near a nice pool, where I spotted a frequent riser ten yards or so beyond a fallen tree that lay half submerged, branches aloft like a sunken galleon aching to stay afloat with its crooked mast splintered and bent under cannonball fire. The flow of water was millpond-still, so I had to wade on my knees ever so slowly to get into position and avoid creating large surface ripples that might spook my quarry.
Once in place, and having consciously attempted to "make haste slowly", I tied on a size 16 CDC & Elk - the go-to dry fly pattern in these parts, and the smaller size seemed to match the profile of a few of the random Olives and Sedges I'd seen fluttering past. The wind was kind, but my casts were falling short. My next cast finally landed broadly where I intended, but as it drifted over the fish it wasn't met with a response. I let the fly drift down before lifting to recast, so as not to spark suspicion, but just as I was about to lift another spirited brown rose up out of nowhere and glucked down the fly to my surprise. A quick and playful scuffle followed before I was able to slip my net under him and return my first wild brown back into the Monnow. Delighted.
As we headed back downstream to the car, I told Mark I wanted to try that deep pool again where I'd lost my lunker a few hours earlier. As I prospected the deep pockets of water for a good 15 minutes it seemed I was undertaking a fruitless exercise. Mark took the opportunity to snooze under a nearby tree. I told my self, "Last cast!" a number of times, until I was duly rewarded with another fish of the same pound-plus proportions as before. But again it shook itself free. I cursed, stirring Mark from his slumber.
Refusing to end on a bum note I tried another inviting cauldron a few yards up, and it wasn't long before I was into another feisty brown. No sooner was I reaching for the net and she shook me off too. I'd run out of bad language by then, but in spite of losing three fish I was buoyed at having deceived, hooked and played four fish regardless of the fact that only one had made it to the net.
I'd like to say I had recognised through my own mistakes that I'd been playing these fish a little too hard, but it was Mark who pointed it out. He suggested I give them a bit more time pulling away from me, both to help set the hook better and so they'd tire a little first before I attempted to land them. Each of the fish I'd lost today had been coming towards me head-on and each shook free in the process. At least I'd learned something from my mistakes, and vowed to improve my fish-hooked-to-fish-landed ratio over the coming days.
Day two - September 19, 2013
The sky remained dark like damp newspaper ink, drizzling from the moment we woke up until late afternoon, during which time we spent the day in and around Kington as Mark worked through the necessary funeral arrangements.
We made it to the water by around 4pm and were pleased to see the rain hadn't affected the colour of the water. In fact it was beginning to run clearer. I decided to explore the bottom reaches of the beat to little avail, with only a couple of catch 'n' escape small grayling to my name. A blank by all accounts.
Mark on the other hand had tempted a stout 10-inch brown to snaffle an olive whatsit of a nymph, but was forced to kill it as it was deeply hooked and bleeding. Still it proved an appreciated gift for Alan, the Landlord back at our bunkhouse, who'd have it for his breakfast the next morning.
Day three - September 20, 2013
There's a process of getting to know a new beat on a river. A courtship if you like. By the previous afternoon's performance the Monnow clearly hadn't been in the mood for my clumsy advances, but I hoped today would be different.
Granted, I was far from having an intimate understanding of every curve, glide and eddy, but I was becoming familiar enough with the lower half of the beat so as not to get lost. And I now had a good idea of which spots that warranted further investigation. But rather than revisit the tempting stretches from the last couple of days I decided I wanted to familiarise myself with the upper half of the beat too. So I set myself the challenge of plucking a trout or two out of yet more untrodden territory. I had all of tomorrow to revisit the entire beat, so I thought it smarter to see all of the remaining parts of beat before the day was out. I'm glad I did.
The morning was pretty slow, with just a couple of tiny grayling under my belt, and no fish had been showing. Then I turned a corner and spotted a stunning short glide above an equally appealing riffle. The glassy current was being occasionally warped by subtle boils, suggesting a few wild browns were feeding on nymphs or emergers just beneath the surface.
With the water so thin my tungsten-headed nymphs were often getting snagged on the bottom and wouldn't do here, so I switched to a regular #14 PTN (tied Charlie Craven style). I also decided to lengthen my leader to around 15ft so as to reduce the chance of spooking the inhabitants, as I'd been fishing with about a 12ft leader all morning with very little joy. I waded slowly up into position at an angle behind the rear-most fish, and before I cast I remember telling myself to remember a couple of things: "Stay in touch with your line, damn it, and this time try watching where the fish is rising for any sign of a boil or swirl as the nymph passes. Got it?! Good."
I pitched my nymph above the rise and waited for any sign of movement. There was a gentle swirl roughly around where my nymph should be, so I tightened, and whaddya know, there was a brown bullet on the other end of the line careering downstream and back up in frenzied lap of surprise. A cracking little fish, with bags of energy, on a picture-postcard piece of water, caught in the way I'd entirely planned. What a rush!
Luckily this tussle hadn't put the other fish that was lying a few yards further upstream off the feed. Again I pitch my Pheasant Tail a couple of yards ahead of its feeding lie, but this time I notice the tip of my leader cutting through the water a little faster than it should. I lift and sure enough, another whisky gold brown takes hold and makes a bid for freedom. Remembering day one's losses I give her a little more line, with rod held high and applying side strain only to keep her our of the riffle below when she threatens to sprint downstream. She's a little beauty, cheeks blushing gold and sparkling in the midday sun.
After lunch I continue upstream towards the top of the beat where the river narrows considerably and is far more overgrown and brook-like. I'm wishing I had my new 6ft 2wt outfit to hand, but my old faithful 8ft 4wt Trout Bum proves its versatility as I throw out a shorter line, holding the rod just above the cork handle for greater close-quarters control. It's tough to negotiate and had the potential to be a real snag-fest, but I loved chucking nymphs into the tails of likely froth pots, and the few tangles I did get into were worth it.
After prospecting up through a couple of encouraging looking spots I encountered deep narrow pool beneath a spumy riffle, swirling beneath a steep bank-side mesh of tree roots resembling a ripped pile of rattan chairs. There had to be a fish hugging the steep bank. I imaged it sheltering in the safety of the roots as it intercepted nymphs churned up in the boisterous currents below. I popped on a tungsten Gold Ribbed Hare's Ear to get down there fast, in full knowledge that I'd most likely be spending the next 20 minutes up to my shoulders trying to unhook my fly from the spaghetti of roots below. A few casts later, and as predicted, my line came to an abrupt stop, but it wasn't a root. It was a tiny brown torpedo. I tried to gather line as a plump pounder revealed itself and bucked at the surface, but I made a right pig's ear of it and and was promptly punished with that sinking feeling of no resistance. It was an intense brief encounter I won't forget in a hurry. But, #@%! I should've got him!
I got to wondering whether I'd ever land a good-sized fish on the Monnow before our time was up, but before I could give it too much thought I was into another angry little brown in the next pool up. A brilliant reminder that this river is full of surprises.
So today I'd landed three fish and lost one, flipping day one's fish-hooked-to-fish-landed ratio completely on its head. So real progress by my standards.
I fished my way through this streamy stretch of the Monnow up to the stone bridge at the very top of the beat. A lovely spot, even with the passing traffic - it's the only part of the beat where I'd seen or heard any sign of civilisation…
But no sooner had I thought, "It ain't so bad fishing by a road in surroundings as lovely as this", when a truck driver lobbed an empty 2-litre Fanta bottle out of his window and into the river below, right by where I'd been attempting to winkle out a wild brown from behind a rock! Needless to say this threw me, and my brown buddy, off our stride.
I'm sure many of us have witnessed the odd plastic bag or piece of litter clinging to obstacles in our rivers, but such blatant disregard for our landscape is hard to compute. It reminded me of a time my wife Lucy was on Oxford Street and witnessed a man walking along the packed pavement eating a Big Mac. Having scoffed the final mouthful, he walked straight past a bin and instead decided to throw the empty Big Mac box over his shoulder and into the crowd of people walking behind him. It's not obliviousness that motivates these actions, and I refuse to believe it's ignorance - it's the flagrant and unapologetic behaviour of an individual I dub 'The Whatever' - a rare (but unfortunately not extinct) beast who's most familiar grunts include, "Who, me?", "Someone else's problem, isn't it", and you guessed it, "Whatever".
Luckily, I managed to grab the unwanted receptacle before the current stole it further downstream, but unfortunately we can't camp out 24/7 under bridges like litter trolls waiting to collect the junk that The Whatevers chuck into our rivers. But stepping back for a moment, it's also important to remember that this sort of incident is relatively uncommon (and one of the less potent threats to our waterways), so despite being more than momentarily miffed by the Fanta-flinging philistine's actions, I soon felt reassured by something Mark had reminded me about earlier: This river would long outlive us all, and would continue to slowly carve and invent incredible new routes through the Earth. Of course, it remains our absolute responsibility to protect our rivers, and we need to continue to remind and spread the word on the basics, but it'd take a lot more than this sort of behaviour to derail the future of the beguiling Monnow and its kin.
Day four - September 21, 2013
Ever the foodie, Mark decided to forsake the morning's fishing to explore the Abergavenny Food Festival that was now in full swing, but no amount of cured horse meat sausage (no, really) could pull me away from the Monnow. We decided we'd meet up for a riverside pie (not horse) later, so I had the entire river, or least the three and half miles of this beat, to myself for a few hours.
I chose to take things slowly, soaking up the splendid weather and clear waters. Although there was a healthy breeze, it was warm, and felt like some dry fly action could could be on the cards later. In the meantime I decided to slink my way up through the trees, looking for any fish that might be stirring at or just beneath the surface. I'd had fun deep-nymphing on previous days, but today I only wanted to catch fish that I could see take my fly.
Things started to pick up around midday when I spotted a recurring light dimple below a high bridge midway along the beat. As with many of the glides on this stretch of the Monnow, I needed to wade slowly and stealthily so as not to spook my opponent with disturbance waves. Having planted myself well within casting range I threw a Gold Ribbed Hare's Ear into the shallow water where it was feeding and was treated to a small swirl at the surface which told me to point my rod to the sky. I obliged and wrestled a playful pint-sized brownie to the net.
30 yards or so further upstream and just behind the bridge there was a big fish I estimated to be around two pounds rising on the far side of the pool beyond a sudden and deep drop-off. She was confidently feeding at the surface, her snout betraying her position and providing a clue as to her proportions. I managed to drift a CDC & Elk over the exuberant brown, but couldn't provoke a take - I only succeeded in putting her off the feed for a few minutes after every cast. Looking back, I probably needed to lengthen my leader and I should've tried mixing it up with a few different patterns as she was clearly scoffing down something I hadn't clocked. In hindsight there was an overhanging tree nearby and it was pretty blustery, so a terrestrial or even a daddy might've been a good idea given the few crane flies I'd spotted of late. Instead of play Sherlock, as maybe I should've, I moved on, as I had a feeling there'd be more risers further along river. Thankfully there were.
A few fish were cashing in on a healthy hatch of various Olives and Sedges that were making an appearance. I couldn't figure out precisely what they were taking, so I turned again to the CDC & Elk that had done the business on day one. This time I was right on the money, hooking and mindfully playing a good fish for a while before bad luck (for me) saw my barbless hook slip free in the battle and saw him evaporate back into the depths. Never mind. Disappointment quickly turned to delight as I cast over another riser that keenly shovelled down my fly. I was in! She sprinted this way, that way, and the other, but finally allowed me to bring her close enough to cradle her in my net. As amazing to look at as she was to play, I'd never seen a trout as spritely or characterful in appearance - her back was a metallic blue-grey that perfectly contrasted a melted-butter belly, and perhaps most impressive were the multitude of dark spots that prominently covered her entire body including her tail, topped off with a firework display of neon red spots. To some folk a fish is a fish is a fish, but this little fishy was different and was one of the rare ones that has lodged itself more firmly in my memory bank, like my first ever wild brown caught on a river.
Had it been time to call it a day I would've been suitably chuffed with my lot. But the day still held a couple of trump cards up its sleeve.
I wandered up to an impressively long, flat and steady bend in the river that appeared to be doing an impression of the Paddock Hill Bend at Brands Hatch. It was a spot where Mark had caught a lovely trout the day before that measured a couple of inches longer than his size 12 boot. It was properly deep on the outside edge of the bend, and that's where a number of fish were feasting as the sun began its late afternoon descent.
Again, I waded out slowly until the water hugged my belly, careful not to send shockwaves across the surface. I spooked my first fish, who promptly went off his food. But there was another further up that continued to break the surface every few minutes. I could tell it was a bigger fish, so naturally my heart did its usual trick of using my chest as a bongo drum. The wind was up, so my first few casts fell way short, with my leader bird-nesting with every throw. But luck rather than technique saw my next cast land in the sweet-spot a few yards ahead of where he'd been rising. It was a merciful drag-free drift, yet line control remained front of mind, as I couldn't afford to gather line when called upon to lift for fear of a break-off. And indeed I was required to act moments later when its jaws broke the surface and vanished with my fly. I tightened, met resistance, and watched joyfully as my rod curled and pointed at the burly trout at the end of my 6x tippet. I didn't rush it, letting him run when he really wanted to, and holding fast between bursts, before landing him a few minutes later with plenty of pep still in his step. Wow! I'd only gone and landed the biggest fish of our trip. A wonderfully chunky and perfectly conditioned pound-plus wild brown trout. Now I could go home. Well, perhaps just one more cast…
I waded out back to where I'd caught this beauty, as I'd seen another fish rising ahead and this was the best route to get into position. Only by the time I'd got there it had decided to stop rising and no evidence of its existence remained. Just as I was about to head for shore, where Mark was now waiting, I spotted a rise over my left shoulder about 20 yards away, across and downstream of where I was standing. Chancing it, I lobbed my CDC into its path, but after a handful of tries it didn't want anything to do with it. On my absolute final cast I looked away once my fly had drifted slightly beyond where I expected her to rise, but whilst looking in the opposite direction I heard the clap of water as lower-jaw-meets-snout and instinctively turned and lifted into this treat…
That really was the last cast of my first adventure on the Monnow, and what an unexpected and perfect parting gift from such a generous and deeply alluring river. The perfect end to an amazing trip that had wholeheartedly delivered on the promise of solitude and perspective. I couldn't have asked for a finer way to close the season.
