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@troutvsfly-blog
Must-read book on rewilding! Inspiring, eye-opening, fiercely intelligent and well researched. Also check out http://www.rewildingbritain.org.uk to see learn more #rewilding #rewildingbritain #naturelovers #nonfiction #rural #ruraleconomy #biodiverse #beavers #lynx #wolves
Punking it up in preparation for some grayling action tomorrow #flyfishing #punk #flytying
Spent a good while being hypnotised by some bad-ass casting at Golden Gate angling club #practice #sanfran #casting #trout #flyfishing
The ultimate fly fishing camera
When you're waist high in fast flowing water and gripping the cork handle of your rod between your teeth to take a photo, a DSLR isn’t the most practical piece of kit to capture the memory. One slip of the trigger finger, and plop, it's sayonara soggy shooter. Nor is it the ideal companion in less extreme fly fishing scenarios, given its inherent heft and lack of versatility in the macro and zoom stakes - for capturing quick-fire-up-close bug shots or faraway creatures - unless you happen to be lugging around an arsenal of lenses, from a wee wide-angle to something resembling a bazooka. Dial it down a notch and you’re into the realms of those super-zoom ‘bridge cameras’. Great all-rounders, but sadly this breed of camera remains about as pocketable as a pizza oven, and they can’t swim either, so underwater pics are out of the question.
So a couple of years ago I decided to go on the hunt for super compact camera with a few crucial fisherman-friendly features in mind. Something properly waterproof, SAS tough, versatile, and that takes great quality shots even in low light. You'd think there'd be stacks of contenders out there. No chance. The vast majority were (and remain to this day) puffed-up pretenders. But during my research I discovered that something was about to launch that ticked every single box. Enter stage left, the Olympus TG-2 with it’s impressive creds: Waterproof to 15m, shockproof so it can be dropped from up to 2m, crushproof to 100kg in case you or a baby cow were to sit on it, and it’s freezeproof to -10°C should you decide to take it ice fishing.
Needless to say I was smitten with the idea, and decided to take the plunge. I managed to pick one up back in February 2013 for under 300 quid at the time, and it’s successor the TG-3, which launched in early 2014, can be snaffled for around £265. So I’d imagine the TG-4 is just round the corner. That said, I’m still delighted with the TG-2 and don’t see any need to upgrade yet, as it does exactly what I want from a riverside camera companion. I know many swear by bigger super-zoom jobbies, but as far as I’m concerned this is the ultimate fly fishing camera.
Quick on the draw
Stretching the tape measure to just 4.5" wide, by 2.6" tall, and a bee’s wing over 1” thick, the TG-2 is super compact and tips the scales at a respectable 230g. This enables it to live comfortably in the top left pocket of my wading vest, attached by a safety cord secured to a carabiner hook - the cord and attachment comes as part of a neoprene case accessory you can buy separately for about £18. The TG-2 has purposely been fitted with a satisfyingly big shutter button, so you can be quick on the trigger, and so there’s no fumbling about. Plus it’s quick to switch on and pretty speedy at zooming and focussing. This means that you can do the ol’ Billy the Kid, quickly unholstering and shooting with ease so you don’t miss a shot.
Underwater love
Some of my favourite shots from last year were snapped sub-surface. It’s great in low light thanks to its F2.0 lens and decent image sensor, so underwater shots come up brilliantly. Granted, if it’s pretty dark down there you’re going to struggle, but in normal or bright conditions it works a treat. Unless you’re willing to go diving (which I wound’t recommend) the best way to get a handsome piscatorial portrait is to blindly fire off a bunch of shots in quick succession at different angles whilst holding the camera underwater. It’s great from a catch and release perspective too, as I can keep trout and grayling in or under the water for most of the time that I’m handling them.
Microscope mode
If you’re an amateur entomologist or just a bumbling bug spotter like me, you’ll love this feature. The TG-2 has a very special super macro mode that let’s you take insanely good close-up shots of insects. You can even get as close as 1cm from your subject, and use the optical zoom to go almost microscopic, letting you capture incredible detail. Although most bugs do have an annoying, but understandable, habit of fluttering away when you get up in their face. I’ve found sedge flies can be particularly shirty and storm off when you try to play paparazzi.
Spec-tacular
If you’re a sucker for specs, here are some more numbers that might inflate your float tube. It’s got a 12 megapixel image sensor and a 3” OLED display to frame and playback shots. It’s packing a 4x optical zoom, plus an additional 4x digital zoom beyond that, so 8x zoom in total, although I’d stay in the optical range to keep your pics looking pin sharp. The TG-2 doesn’t have a removable battery, but the new TG-3 does - not that I’ve had any problems by not being able to replace the battery (yet). It’ll take around 350 photos before the juice runs out, so plenty for even a few days fishing on the trot. It’s got a neat trick up its sleeve when it comes to video too. As well as shooting full HD 1080p footage, there’s a super slow-motion mode that lets you capture video at 120 frames per second or 240fps, but at a much lower resolution. You can switch on GPS too, so you can geotag your photos from your location, if you happen to be that way inclined.
The five Rs of this fireside fisherman
Saying hello to “my river”
Cliché alert! It’s been a dream of mine to become a member of a fly fishing club with access to a beautiful and fascinating river. A place I can escape to, grow deeply familiar with, and learn from over hopefully many years to come.
This weekend I had the pleasure of driving to “my river” (it’s a couple of hours away, but worth every mile on the M3… the journey made even more enjoyable listening to Glen Pointon’s latest podcasts en route) and exploring a couple of beats. I usually fish with a buddy, but I wanted to go alone to say hello to the river and to begin this long journey of discovery. And it was brilliant. No, there were no fish rising just yet - the chilly winds suppressing any serious hatch activity - but there was still action, exploration and fish to be encountered (see photos below). What captivated me most was the lack of pace I imposed on myself. There was no pressure on “my river”, only quiet confidence that in time many fruits will be enjoyed in its company: One day I’ll locate and tempt a wild lunker to the net; One day my son will catch a terrific trout here… and my daughter the next; One day I’ll think I’ve learned the secrets; The next day I’ll discover those secrets have evaporated and more marvellous mysteries will emerge. Until then and beyond, I’ll simply fish “my river” for wild trout and grayling with friends and family, stopping occasionally for a cuppa as I stare at the endless flow for signs of feeding fish.
Memorable morning small-stream fly fishing the River Dore in Wales. Low-hanging trees and tight corridors of rarely touched water called for light tackle approach, and an opportunity to christen the 6ft 2wt wand. Red-ribbed tungsten-head PTN in size 16 played a blinder. Proper joy plucking wild browns from surprisingly deep pockets. A half dozen wee trout and one handsome grayling later, it was time to hit the road for the four-hour drive home… with a whopping great smile on my face.
Best videos of fly fishing for wild brown trout (part two): Difficult fish!
It was around this time last year that I spent many a shrivelling winter’s night wandering the vaults of Vimeo and YouTube to tease out a selection of some of the best videos of fly fishing for wild brown trout (watch part one).
Last time round I cherry-picked a pretty random collection of clips. My only criteria being that each video should elicit that most familiar sensation amongst fly fisher folk… the moment you’ve just spotted a rising fish and your brain fires off a barrage of synapses that command your heart-rate to break into a gallop.
For part two in this series, and as part of my ritual of excitement in the countdown to the new season (which for many a lucky so-and-so has already begun in earnest), I found myself gravitating towards videos of cunning and stealthy fly fisher folk in pursuit of difficult fish on small rivers, brooks and streams. Scenarios where you’d be wary that even just the sound of your thumping heart might spook your unwitting quarry.
It’s by no means intended to be a definitive list, and if you’re expecting Oscar-grade cinematography overt your eyes now. What we’ve got here though is a sterling parade of trout conquistadors intelligently pitting their wits against tricky fish in some pretty special places.
It’s always great to read your reactions, so please scribble in the comments section below. If you’ve stumbled across any other videos that you think should’ve made it in here, or if any of the videos below give you goosebumps (or leave you flatlining), share your brain candy due south.
I’ll stop prattling on now, and let you get on with the far more interesting task of losing yourself for a few minutes in video land. Hit play, share your thoughts below and enjoy!
Fallen tree, fallen giant
Video title: Impossible catch of big brown trout in New Zealand Made by: Best flyfishing What it's about: A lunker lurks up ahead of a fallen old tree, which calls for an ultra cautious approach, some creative casting and a spot of assault course action.
Tricky trout commentary and catch
Video title: Small stream fly fishing Made by: Kevinohanlons What it's about: Kevin O’Hanlon encounters a few difficult fish on a beautiful small stream in New Zealand, in a series of catches that call for some great observation, an intelligent approach, smart presentation and deadly accuracy.
Risk and reward
Video title: Mayfly Madness trailer Made by: Fly Fishing Films What it's about: This is a cracking clip that sees Ulf Borjesson risk a downstream cast to a prize wild brown in a tiny corridor of water. This is a real one-shot opportunity.
Under the bridge
Video title: Small stream fly fishing Made by: Trout Stalking What it's about: Skip forward to around the 2-minute mark when our protagonist leverages the weight of the downstream current on his line to load the rod for a single low-profile upstream cast to an awkwardly positioned plucky brown.
Walk the line
Video title: Big brown trout caught in New Zealand Made by: best flyfishing What it's about: From the same chap who felled the trophy brown from behind that fallen tree, this time he shows some great approach work to tackle another tough buttery torpedo.
Cane and able
Video title: Devon Interlude Made by: Luke Bannister What it's about: I love watching Luke Bannister target and deceive trout, because he makes it look so damn effortless with his wee cane rod.
Snag alley sniping
Video title: Wilks Creek Made by: Charles Hobbs What it's about: He looks about 12, but Charles Hobbs shows some mature fly fishing skills as he casts sniper-style through some super narrow openings to target unwitting fish in an enchanting little brook. Skip to 50-seconds in for a great little first cast catch.
Small but beautiful
Video title: Overgrown III - Fly Fishing for Wild Brown Trout on an English Stream Made by: Adam Rawson What it's about: I’m a big fan of Adam Rawson’s “Overgrown” series, so his latest effort from this season had to make the list. Stunning stream, and watching his vids always make me want to escape to the river immediately.
Tight lines for the beginning of the new season folks, and don’t forget to leave a comment below.
Reflections: Fly fishing highlights of 2013
2013 was a big year for me as a fledgling fly fisherman. And a hugely enjoyable one. My second full season was dimpled with milestone moments, valuable learning experiences, and has left me with a deep pool of memories to reflect on and build from.
Being a family guy with young kids, and living in Beckenham, Kent (a good couple of hours from the nearest trout river), I currently get my waders wet around 15-20 days each year. I guess by some folks’ standards this brands me as a weekend flogger, but in my head and heart I feel like a bona fide ‘trout bum’, with every spare moment spent reading about, dreaming of, planning for, reminiscing on and imagining fly fishing encounters with wild brown trout. Every railway platform is a fertile bank from which I cast upstream and across the shimmering tracks to the shadow of a wispish leviathan gently supping olives in an impossible lie. Naturally, I spook him, snag or fall short every time, but maybe one day it’ll all come together.
Just a few of the many memorable encounters from this season
There’s undoubtedly a dollop of self-indulgence in publishing a piece about my fly fishing highlights from 2013. But my intention by doing so is two-fold. Firstly, it serves as a personal diary - writing it for others to read means I need to put some proper effort in, so hopefully what spews forth will be worth reading back at some point in the years to come. Secondly, and more importantly, I hope that some of these high points will resonate with many of you, who have experienced the very same or similar moments in your angling lives. Or if you’re a fly fishing newbie, that they’ll give you a glimpse of just a handful of things you have to look forward to.
It’s less about looking back on the year in a merry fog of nostalgia with rose-tinted polaroids, but rather more about gazing towards the horizon and igniting that spark of inspiration that drives us to the riverside. There’s little that inspires me more to get back to the water than reading about the adventures of other fly fishermen. Particularly when evocative photos and videos are thrown into the mix. When I encounter a piece by the likes of Paul Proctor, Matt Eastham, Derek Grzelewski or any number of our great fishermen and storytellers, I soon find myself mentally packing a rucksack for that next unknown adventure. But until that next trip, here’s what’s made 2013 a year to remember.
Catching my first wild trout on a river
My first ever wild brown trout!
It was April 25th on the River Eamont up in the Lakes. The weather had been horrible - it’d been tipping it down the day before and all through the night, but by midday the rain had stopped and the stiff breeze was doing a good job of occasionally sweeping the clouds aside to provoke sporadic hatches of Large Dark Olives. Following a couple of botched attempts earlier in the day, we stopped for lunch and I spotted a rising fish on the opposite bank:
“I wade almost halfway across and a little downstream, and try to be calm as a Hindu cow. My first cast is too short, but I let it ride out until it’s way downstream of my quarry, so as not to arise suspicion. I follow up with a relaxed longer “reach cast” that lands a fair few feet above his nose. Again, I track my fly transfixed as it quickly approaches the kill zone, when pop, he goes for it! But this time he misses and not me! I thought I was the only one able to make mistakes. So I let the cast ride out as I hope he knows he fluffed that one. A couple more casts but nothing. Then I pitch my CDC Olive Stackwing Dun again a little further upstream to give him more of a view of it. Seconds later, up he comes, slurping it down. Time slows down, I know he’s taken it, but I count to three. The longest three seconds imaginable, then I lift high and feel my line tighten and the tip of rod bend in satisfaction. Fish on!”
Read the full encounter here >>
I was so excited I took this short video just after I’d caught and released it:
I frequently think back to that pivotal moment. It was the day that I properly fell in love with river fishing. Experiencing everything coming together as I’d hoped it would at some point was such a rush. And it remains an incredible feeling every time it happens. Never the same, and never getting old.
Witnessing my son catch his first trout
Ben with his first ever trout
My dad introduced me to fly fishing when I was eight years-old, so it was such a thrill to be able to do the same for my boy not long after his eighth birthday. Seeing his face when he realised a feisty trout was hooked firmly at the other end of the line was priceless, as was his reaction on landing his first and second trout, which I’m delighted I managed to capture on film here:
He’s now super keen to get back to the waterside, so I’m hoping to take him on his first river fishing trip this coming season. Some back garden casting practise is in order, but at this stage all we really need is that energy and excitement. Everything else will fall into place in good time.
Embarking on my first fishing trips
Whilst I love fishing a stretch of river on my lonesome, there’s something about fishing with a buddy that can’t be bettered. I’m lucky to have a great friend, Mark, with whom to go on fishing adventures. As well as my dad… when there’s no wading required.
This is the first year I’ve ever been on a fishing trip, and have since discovered that the planning and build-up is almost as exciting as the fishing itself. My first trip was to the incredible Eden system, where I caught my first wild trout on the Eamont. And I’ve since had the pleasure of exploring the beautiful River Monnow on the Welsh border, the legendary Dove up in Derbyshire, as well as quintessential English chalk streams in the shape of the Wylye and the Lower Itchen.
Needless to say I can’t wait for 2014, and am already sketching out a few trips to new destinations in my mind’s eye.
Catching fish on flies I’ve tied
A selection of some of my favourite patterns this season
It was around this time last year that I purchased a vice and a few bags of fluff and feathers. Once I had everything I needed to get started I gazed at this bamboozling menagerie of fine materials and surgical-like contraptions, and questioned whether I’d really be able to create an artificial fly that might tempt a less scrupulous trout to take. It was Charlie Craven’s brilliant book, Basic Fly Tying , that helped me quickly overcome any doubt and get stuck in. Charlie’s approach to helping you steadily build up your arsenal of techniques with increasingly complex patterns is fantastic, coupled with that most valuable of communication skills - making the complicated simple.
I’ve still not made it all the way through all the patterns in the book, but throughout the year I’ve tied a couple of hundred flies and progressed from being able to tie a simple copper Brassie to stacking hair and wrapping hackles on a Stimulator, and sculpting silicone for a Soft Touch Shrimp. They mightn’t be perfect works of art, but they deceive fish. My first catch on a pattern I’d tied was on a stillwater in Kent with a Gold Ribbed Hares Ear (GHRE). I couldn’t quite believe it when I felt the line tighten, and was even more surprised when it didn’t turn out to be a fluke, with three more fish landed on the same fly within a couple of hours.
It’s great to have books like Charlie’s out there for beginners, and I’ve since been amazed with the fantastic array of fly tying videos out there on Vimeo and YouTube which continue to prove an invaluable resource. So to all those folk who take the time to freely share their fly tying expertise on film with others, I salute you!
The ‘Brotherhood of the Angle’ is real!
Mark plays an energetic Eden brownie
Many will contest that this notion of a ‘Brotherhood of the Angle’ is a myth, but in my brief experience I’ve found it to be a charming reality. I guess it matters who you encounter on your journey, and on what terms. I’m frequently surprised at the good nature of my fellow anglers. As a relative newcomer to the sport I still rely heavily on the experience, advice and direction of others, and can only really offer gratitude, friendship and a few laughs in exchange at this stage. But hopefully I’ll be able to return the favour and help other newbies in the years to come, once I have a few more years experience under my belt.
There’ve been loads of people I’ve met or had the pleasure of speaking to over the past year, most of whom have made my angling life that little bit richer as a result, whether it’s been by the riverside, in tackle shops, in the pub or online. And to all of those good eggs, I thank you and I sincerely hope our paths continue to cross over the coming year and beyond.
Learning to fish a nymph North Country style
Immediate of the effectiveness of the North Country style of nymphing
Reading about how to do something and applying that knowledge effectively on the water are very different things. I’d never really understood what needed to be done, or quite how, when it came to nymphing on a spate river. So when I met up with the ever gracious Matt Eastham this summer I was chuffed to receive an impromptu schooling on the basics of how to fish the nymph North Country style. To Matt it’s clearly second-nature, but this brief show-and-tell session was a real eye-opener, and has since equipped me with another skill that I’ve managed to use, and adapt, to catch some cracking trout and grayling in the latter half of this season.
Read the full story of my nymphing education on the Eden >>
And then there were grayling
I’d read a great deal about this curious lady of the stream in books by Frank Sawyer, Oliver Kite and co., but had never really contemplated fishing for this fine fish until this season. And I’m so pleased to have had my horizons broadened by the enjoyment that can be had nymphing for grayling. I’ve yet to tempt one of proper size to the dry fly - a challenge I’m setting myself for next season - but had a blast plucking a number of good fish from the Wylye this season on a two-day trip for my dad’s 70th birthday. I never wrote about this mini adventure in mid September, but it was blast… Literally, with 25mph winds, short lines and tungsten headed GRHEs plopped into the narrowest channels no more than six feet wide where the biggest grayling were holding. I managed to land a dozen or so that weekend, including some handsome and hefty ladies including this trio:
A few of the impressive grayling that inhabit the Wylye
Another highlight of the year was during our family summer holiday. While we were away it was my birthday, and I was treated to a surprise picnic on the bank of the River Dove. As we were scoffing sarnies and Bakewell tarts it was clear there was some activity beneath the water nearby - we watched motionless and entranced as a few massive grayling repeatedly slid out from beneath the shelter of ranunculus to feed. Luckily I had the camera at the ready…
If only I had my rod… and permission to have a go at this giant Dove grayling
Doing a Dr. Dolittle
I’ve not been whispering to water rats or arguing with otters, but I have seen more British wildlife this year than in my previous 35. Being so still and silent by the water’s edge, I’ve had kingfishers dart in front of me and witnessed that trademark blue flash a bunch of times. I’ve seen otter paw prints, but no otter yet, had close encounters with snakes, snuck up on deer, seen cormorants snaffling my quarry, and observed countless other amazing native creatures. Then there’s the insects. I’m no entomologist, but I have learned to tell my Mayfly from my Large Dark Olive and can identify a number of other prime suspects on the wild trout menu, which is a buzz in itself. Particularly when it means I’ve got a greater chance of matching the hatch with a pattern that might induce a take.
Growing up and living in the suburbs of Greater London, I’d never had much exposure to nature, and I have fly fishing to thank for amplifying my connection with nature. Next year I’ll be on the look out for that elusive otter!
Learning how to cast
Still a lot of work to be done, but getting there!
I’ve still got a long way to go before I’d class myself as a decent caster of a fly line, but I can get a few rod-length’s worth of line out there and broadly where it needs to be without to much of a pantomime presentation. That’s mostly thanks to a single fly casting lesson I had at the beginning of the year. I’m pretty sure I’ve got worse since then, as bad habits nearly always begin to form with time, so I’m planning to get a casting MOT if nothing else in the new year. Here’s what I learned in my first lesson in preparation for my first river encounter on the Eden…
“It was early February and barely above freezing that I spent two hours with the brilliant Steve Kemp casting onto The Thames in Richmond. A qualified AAPGAI instructor, and thoroughly nice bloke, Steve helped improve my casting no end in an incredibly short space of time, and taught me a bunch of techniques to help adapt to all sorts of river-based scenarios. Most useful was leaning how to “reach cast” where you point the tip of your rod horizontally out to the side once you’ve cast as the line and it’s nearing touchdown on the water, in order to put some slack into the line when casting upstream to avoid drag. This would prove an invaluable lesson! You can contact Steve via email (stevekemp1 at me.com) to arrange a one-to-one session, and if like me you’re a river novice, I highly recommend it.” Read the full story here >>
Reintroducing my dad to fly fishing
Dad casts to what soon becomes his first ever grayling
My dad fly fished a lot when he was a young man living in Strathdon, Aberdeenshire, mostly swinging wet flies on stretches of the River Don. But since then, he’d fished only a handful of times, including when he introduced me to the sport as a youngster up on the wee Nochty that feeds into the Don. So it’s been a real pleasure to see his passion for fly fishing rekindled through mine - we’ve been out a few times together this year, and I’m sure we’ll chuck our gear in the boot and hit the road for a few more trout-hunting jaunts in 2014.
Embracing the spirit of adventure
Beware the pigs of doom on the Wylye!
One of the things I love about fly fishing is the lengths we go to in order to get into position for a good fish, or the obstacles we’re willing to overcome to get to the water in the first place. Obstacles both physical and psychological. But the former are arguably more interesting and easy to measure. For example, I’d never have thought I’d risk being devoured by giant pigs in order to reach a tantalising glide. Or scramble on my belly under hawthorns and wade unchartered waters up to my armpits to reach what might be a rising fish. I’ve been dunked in the drink a handful of times, as Matt had the pleasure of witnessing, got stuck in the mud repeatedly, and tumbled down steep inclines on separate occasions, all in pursuit of a flash of gold. And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
Happy New Year folks, and here’s to an exciting and memorable season in 2014.
Pimp my shrimp… Glen Pointon style
You've clearly fallen head first down the rabbit hole when you find yourself drying silicone shrimps on a Lilliputian washing line at your fly tying desk. But such eccentric behaviour is entirely worthwhile when the end product is such an incredibly natural looking (and feeling) shrimp pattern. An artificial that is known to send grayling gaga. Coined the Soft Touch Shrimp by its creator, Glen Pointon, this creative wee crustacean isn't as tough to tie as I'd imagined it would be. Actually it's more like building a bite-size silicone sculpture than tying a fly in the traditional sense. I've fashioned around a dozen so far (see photos further down), and can't wait to put them in the firing line in early January, when I'm hoping to get a day or two's grayling fishing in.
If you've not visited Glen's blog yet, I highly recommend you head over there as it's filled with cracking stories, insights and friendly guidance. Not to mention his top-drawer podcasts. He's also posted an invaluable written tutorial and video on how to tie his Soft Touch Shrimp. You can get the fish-safe silicone, hooks and other bits from the folk over at Fish On Productions, launched by John Tyzack and co - I ordered a bunch of stuff from there and was really pleased with the quality of their materials and service. As for the silicone, Glen's spot on about the fact that the colour matches the natural brilliantly, amusingly describing in his video how it's "got a good milky tinge to it". Not a phrase you hear that often.
Here's his step-by-step video for reference…
As for how to fish the Soft Touch Shrimp, Glen offered me some simple and sage advice that I plan to put into action: "Get em down deep with a heavy bomb and hold on tight!!" Sounds like a plan.
Here are some photos of my efforts, dangled on my makeshift mini washing line…
Introducing kids to fly fishing
Ben's painting of a monster wild brown trout
In the not so famous words of Oprah Winfrey, "Passion is energy". The latter being an ingredient of which most kids have a near-endless supply. Although at times it can feel as if this bottomless pit of exuberance is solely focussed on annoying siblings, breaking things, making silly noises and stretching our patience to its elastic limit.
Truth is, kids get bored easy. Hell, I know I did. But when their energies become laser focussed on something they find interesting they can lose themselves, achieve brilliant things, and feel inspired to go deeper and discover more.
I'm blessed that my two, Ben who's eight, and five-year old Sofia, are both passionate little souls with deep interests - Ben's been bonkers for dinosaurs since he could gurgle and Sofia has always been an evangelist for imaginative play. And this year they've each developed a blossoming curiosity in my fly fishing exploits, actively (and very sweetly) encouraging me on my adventures. I'd even go so far as to say they're getting interested in fly fishing.
Of course, nothing would make me happier than to see their fascination with matters piscatorial balloons at the same unstoppable rate as they seems to grow out of clothes. I have visions of going on wild trips with them both in years to come that will see us explore unchartered streams, with Ben taking a spirited scientific approach to expertly plucking big browns from impossible spots whilst Sofia invents patterns the likes of which the world has never seen, coercing trout through the most imaginative techniques. Reality is, they mightn't give a hoot in years to come, but if they can experience even a fraction of the joy I get from fly fishing in their childhood, my job is done. The rest will develop and flourish of its own accord.
I'm evidence that an early passion for fly fishing can lie dormant for many years, but what I do know is that it was my fond memories of going fly fishing with my dad when I was eight years old that provoked me to rekindle my relationship with angling as an adult. These years are the golden times to capture their imaginations.
Enjoying the river: Exploring and hunting for nymphs.
Fly fishing is a fiddly old thing, and when you're starting out it can feel like you're faced with a tsunami of stuff to remember. All the gear, a myriad of theories, delicate techniques and whatnot. When you can barely tie your shoelaces the challenge of tying a Clinch Knot is a pretty tall order.
So when you're considering introducing your kids to fly fishing I believe the key is to keep things super simple and engaging. Overshoot on the technicalities and your tiddlers will radially spiral into a boredom black hole. Fun breeds positive energy, so let's not take it too seriously.
Granted, tacit knowledge gained through experience at the water's edge is more valuable than explicit knowledge absorbed through being told something. But if, like our family, you live an hour or more away from your nearest river or lake, I've discovered there are stacks of activities we can take part in that will nurture interest, fuel their excitement for the sport and ultimately trigger that feeling of wonderful anticipation for when you do finally get to go fishing together.
I'm sure there are many, many fly fishing fathers with stacks of useful tips for encouraging youngsters (please share any tips and schemes in the comments below), but here are eight activities that I've found my kids really enjoy. It's by no means intended to be a definitive list, and I imagine I'll be revisiting this theme over the coming months and years. But it's a start.
1. Turn casting practise into a game Ideal age: 5+
Kids and sharp hooks rarely mix well. Plus, it's unlikely you want your nippers swishing your prize wand through the air. So investing in a short practise rod with a bit of fluff on the end is a great way to get them started. I managed to pick up a Redington Form Game Rod on a visit to the States last year for about 30 quid, and it's perfect for the kids to play "catch the fishy" casting games. The game couldn't be more straightforward: Put a simple and obvious target in the garden or in the park (a cardboard picture of a trout that they've painted and cut out works great), and let them take turns to try and hit it with the bright fluff at the end of the line. While they're aiming for their quarry impart some gentle advice on how to best cast the line in terms they'll understand. And when they're really little, like Sofia in the video below, expect some wild wand-waving akin to Indiana Jones with his whip…
2. Playing their first fish Ideal age: 7+
Victorious, Ben strikes a pose with his first trout
Brian Clarke wrote a great article in the Times last year about introducing kids to fishing, and what I took most from it was how important it is to let our kids experience the sensation of hooking a fish. In my experience it's fine for you to do the casting, but then hand over the the rod and let them watch for a take or feel the fish. If they hook one on their own, fantastic. If it's taking a long, long time and they're getting tired, it's fine if you hook one without telling them (if possible) and quickly hand them the rod - it's at this moment that they light up and they're energy becomes utterly focussed on the strain and head-shaking at the other end of the line.
As they play their first trout, talk them through how to hold the rod high, and keeping tension on the line. Don't take control of the rod. Let them experience playing it from bite to net. If it shakes free, that's fine, and congratulate them on tricking their first trout, and tell them this is a big moment. And when they do finally land their first fish, make a big deal of it and shower them with praise - you won't need to ham it up, as you'll be bursting with pride. This is one of those moments they may hold with them for a lifetime, so cherish it. Here's a quick video of my son Ben on the day he caught his very first trout at Lakedown, a small stillwater in Kent.
3. Imagining incredible encounters on YouTube Ideal age: 3+
Whether you're three or ninety three it's hard not to get a real buzz when you witness someone else's excitement. YouTube and Vimeo are awash with fly fishing videos of this nature, and many in the most incredible settings and with fishermen tussling with the fish of a lifetime. It doesn't matter that many of these fishing experiences are the stuff of legends and dreams - in fact that's precisely what you want to get them to witness. You want them to dream, and imagine that could be them someday. We sometimes spend ages watching the multitude of videos I've favourited over the past couple of years. They love this one, particularly Ben. It's one I featured in a previous article about the best videos of fly fishing for wild brown trout (which reminds me I must do a sequel to this story as I've found heaps of great new videos since then).
4. Spot the difference: Rainbow or Brown Ideal age: 3+
This might sound ridiculous, but kids really enjoy playing this most simple spot the difference game. Grab a few fishing books off the shelf or go online and find images of rainbow trout and brown trout, and ask them to see if they can tell which is which. And then get them to spot the differences between the two. If they get really good at it, extend the game to further include brook trout, cuthroat trout and the many other members of the trout and salmon family. This is a great way to get them interested in the basic anatomy of fish and their amazing colours, and gives you an opportunity to talk to them about how trout move in the water - how their bodies are perfectly designed for suspending themselves facing upstream in rivers and how they tilt their pelvic fins like rudders to lift their bodies up and down to enable them to gobble up flies at the surface, and how their pectoral fins are used to steer left and right amongst other things.
Distinguishing the unique colours and marking are an ideal way to begin identifying different fish
5. Painting and drawing Ideal age: 3+
Sofia's painting of me into a big trout
I'm biased towards painting and drawing as it was my go-to activity as a child, and the place I found most escapism (when I wasn't watching Star Wars or Clash of the Titans). Whether it's wild scribbles or detailed observation, in my experience I think most kids enter a state of flow when they're creating art, either under enthusiastic grown-up guidance or of their own volition. I simply believe this to be because committing felt-tip to paper enables them to bring their ideas to life in a way that is far more accessible, immediate, expressive and comprehensive than is possible in other media. From around the age of three years and upwards they begin to construct scenarios in their drawings, so it's rarely just a drawing of "a fish" - they'll paint "massive fish living in a big river" or "me and daddy fishing on the lake with butterflies and the sun shining". They're imagining exciting events, and picturing their dreams. Not to mention creating pictures you may treasure for a lifetime.
6. Tell a good story Ideal age: 3+
"And then, just as I was about to cast to the biggest trout I'd ever seen, a huge black Cormorant flew under the bridge towards me like a dragon. It landed about a bus-length away, disappeared underwater and moments later appeared at the surface with only a giant tail poking out of it's enormous hooked beak. It was my fish! But now it was his!" Ok, so that never happened but you get the idea. Kids love a great yarn, and when you come back from the riverside tell them about the fun or frustration you had in a way that will spark their imagination. Storytelling and angling are inseparable bedfellows, and a good story makes you want to hear more and experience these sorts of adventures for yourself one day. It doesn't all have to be tall tales and dramatic endings. If you saw a kingfisher, describe it to them and how it darted across the water, or if you spotted a water rat, explain how they swim and suddenly dive down in panic at the sound of a velcro pocket being opened.
The silent beast that rose from the depths to swallow my fly
7. Tying flying assistant Ideal age: 5+
The kids gather round to discover how to attach materials to the hook shank
I remember looking in my dad's fly box when I was a little boy, and studying these curious creatures with absolutely no idea of what they were or why they were all so different. It was a bamboozling collection of fluff - all I knew was that if dad put one on the end of his line he might just catch a fish.
28 years later I'm tying my own collection of fluff, and the kids find it fascinating to watch and get involved - passing materials, stroking squirrel fur and generally quizzing me on what I'm doing. They sometimes ask questions and at other times simply observe this most unusual act of fashioning fake flies from sharp hooks, fur and feathers. But what I have found is that they find the flies nice to look at, and the process of making them quite interesting. So as they pass me the odd pheasant tail or unusual material it gives me a chance to explain what each particular fly is meant to represent. So for example I might tell them something like: "This fly is pretending to be what's called a Large Dark Olive [and show them a picture of the real thing from John Goddard's Waterside Guide] - they start their lives under water and grow up to look more like a bug without wings [show another picture]. Then, a little bit like how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly, they change from a bug into something that flies. This change happens on top of the water, and once they hatch they end up looking like little sailboats floating down the river. Trout love eating them, so that's why I'm making a fly that looks like one. So when I cast it onto the water where I can see a trout feeding on these little flies, it might think my one is the real thing. If it does I might just catch him!… What's this I'm using to make it? That's CDC feather, or the feather from a duck's bum [giggles ensue]! I use this because it floats really well and when you tie it onto the hook like this [demonstrate] it looks like the wings of the Large Dark Olive fly."
This weekend I even got them sat at the vice with me and taught them the anatomy of a hook (which they were surprisingly animated about), and how to attach thread to the shank, and wind on materials. They each created a basic Brassie with only a moderate amount of assistance, Ben's in copper and Sofia's in bright pink, naturally. Delighted with their efforts, and rightly so, they each decided they wanted to create a box where they can keep their little treasures.
8. Explore rivers and lakes Ideal age: 5+
I hope you'll excuse me stating what might be considered the obvious, but just being near water and going on family walks where there are streams to cross and lakes to walk by can be a massive inspiration. It's an adventure to go rock-hopping, and stone-turning for nymphs. Take a picnic and simply spend some time hanging out to the sound of flowing water. We did that a lot this summer and the kids have never been happier.
Meditations on the River Monnow
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.
Education on the Eden: Nymphing, black-gnatting and unplanned bathing
It's late August and I'm off work and off-grid for a couple of weeks for our family summer holiday. A road trip through the Peak District and the Lakes, stopping off a few nights here and there in handsomely haunted youth hostels, charming B&Bs and even a hotel with its very own cave.
Having spent many a marooned day in a rain-battered 'tent' whilst holidaying in England, we know it's a gamble, but this year we've been dealt a royal flush of perfect weather. For the most part we find ourselves under a canopy of blue sky, broken only by trout-shaped clouds shifting unhurriedly by a polite breeze. Under these conditions I maintain we live in one of the most beautiful and interesting islands in the world... And by some further good fortune a place that can be a fly fisherman's paradise, given the diversity, accessibility and attractiveness of the rivers and streams embroidered across the majority of the British landscape, coupled with the tricky temperaments of the wild browns resident within.
This is not a fishing holiday, yet my rod and waders have earned a spot in a corner of the boot of the S-Max. Far from contraband, this is fully legit cargo. Some very grown up pre-arranged tit-for-tat sees Lucy going on a one-day wood carving workshop up near Greystoke while I take the kids on a day trip to Ullswater, earning me a day on the Eden in return. In reality, my dear wife (she reads this waffle), had given me a guilt-free pass (as she so often does) to enjoy a day's fishing on our holiday (which turned out to be more) no strings attached long before any such reciprocal arrangement was made*.
In the weeks leading up to our trip I contact Matt Eastham, North Country Angler, Eden expert and incredibly nice bloke, to see if he's free to meet up. Matt is the guy who was so generous with his time, and patient with his advise, in the face of a barrage of questions through debut episode on the Eden, so I'm delighted that Matt is free to meet in person and willing to show me the ropes on some of his favourite parts of the river up around Appleby. The prospect of new friendship, new water and new techniques fuels my anticipation.
Matt stealthily closes in on his quarry
Back to school: Wednesday, 22 August 2013
We're staying in the lovely little village of Ravenstonedale at the Black Swan Hotel, which turns out to be pub of the year. I'm as smitten with their black pudding as I am their local ales, but it's too early for a pint so I fill up on the delicious fried blood cake and poached eggs as I know there's not going to be time for lunch if I'm to eke the absolute most from today's Eden encounter with Matt. We plan to meet at 9am and have until just before 3pm when we need to finish up, and that includes driving there, driving back, tackling up and tackling down, so around 4-5 hours of fishing before I turn back into a pumpkin. To Muggles that probably sounds like a long time. But if you're anything like me, you enter a perverse timewarp that performs reverse alchemy, transforming hours into minutes and minutes into seconds from the very moment you spy the water's edge.
Lucy and the kids drop me off at a nearby truck stop at Tebay, where we meet Matt. When you're meeting someone for the first time it's a relief to have your impressions confirmed that they are indeed a very nice person who's unlikely to murder you out in the wilderness. Likewise I hope Matt felt reassured that I wasn't some Southern loony cruising fishing forums for my next victim.
Despite the unshakeably good weather we've been having, inevitably this morning is cloudy, breezy and drizzly. My anxiety is quickly quelled when Matt calmly explains that Tebay is an unusual and somewhat bleak spot, and that it'll be fine when we get down to Appleby. True enough, as we approach the drizzle lifts and we're greeted with a light grey sky, very little wind, and generally ideal fishing conditions.
Wadered-up we stride with purpose to the bottom of the beat, where I'm treated to an impromptu north-country-style nymphing masterclass. I attempt to contain myself, as this is a real treat for an apprentice like me. Plus, I'm getting to enjoy it on a marvellous stretch of water unlike anything I've fished before on the Eden, or anywhere else for that matter. Ideally I'd have a slightly longer rod for nymphing - I'm on my trusty 8ft 4wt Trout Bum - but again I'm reassured it's fine and get straight into it. I learn that I'm better switching to a level profile leader of only around 8-9ft on this occasion given the length of my wand and because the wind is calm. Using a level leader means it cuts through the water more uniformly, so ideal for nymphing. I'd never thought about how a tapered leader wouldn't penetrate the water as cleanly or evenly along its entire length. A simple, but one of many valuable lessons I learn today.
Right on cue a solid grayling is guided into the net
I pop on a weighted #14 Gold Ribbed Hare's Ear (GRHE) and wade out across slippery undercut rocks behind Matt into a spot approaching the head of stellar pool just below a lovely riffle. The riffle joins the pool in a handsome arc and we fish up towards it with Matt taking the lead and demonstrating the required technique, which is promptly validated with a plucky grayling. It's my turn, so I do my best to remember everything I've just been told and shown. Rod held highish off the water at around 45 degrees with a relatively short line, I'm in close contact with my fly and keep my eye on the tip of my line for any signs of a draw or check. Sure enough, within a few casts up and across, I notice the line check momentarily and lift to be met with slightest resistance. A tiny silver bullet breaks the surface and flutters across the rippled glass momentarily before wiggling free. We think it might've been a wee grayling. Shortly after there's another draw and I'm into a wild brown trout parr. Between casts we wade up towards the riffle covering the water efficiently, enjoyably and fruitfully. This is another great lesson, as without this guidance, and if I'd been faced with tackling this same stretch of water solo, I probably would have flogged it for a good half hour plus, instead of the 5-10 minutes we spend on it. But before we reach the top of the pool I go to recast and lift my line out as if tightening into a fish. Matt tells me this induced movement will often catch you a fish at the moment when your cast has run its course and is drifting parallel with you. He's right. This time my rod bends and I'm greeted with a handsome half-pounder - hardly worth noting by many folks' standards, but I'm chuffed to bits. This is the first proper wild brown trout I've ever caught on a nymph in a river.
We try a couple of other spots that scream "nymph me", but no joy. The great thing is that we've only spent a small amount of time in each stretch, and a few olives are now beginning to appear so it looks like some dry fly action could be on the cards.
This little stone-clinger does its best to scuttle up my sleeve
The night before I'd visited Warcop with Lucy and the kids to share with them the spot where I'd landed my first Eden brown, and turned over a few stones to see if I could find some nymphs. Something I've never done before, and I'm amazed that every stone is brimming with life and scuttling nymphs. One of which is a stone-clinger, and Matt tells me it's the nymph of a yellow olive that flutters close by us today. We wade across to stunning glide, and on the way I slip on a rock and I'm shoulder-deep in the drink. Luckily I prop myself up with one arm so water doesn't slide into my chest waders. I feel like a right clumsy plonker and just hope I haven't frightened off the rising fish up ahead. Luckily we're far enough away that my clownish tumble hasn't put them down.
I stick on a CDC Stackwing Olive Dun, but it's not cutting the mustard. Matt snaffles a small brown up ahead, but isn't convinced they're feeding on olives. We move on to another enchanting run and notice a thin cloud of black gnats hovering above our heads. As we carefully wade up, I slip again and get a second Eden bath of the day. It's a subtle prat-fall so thankfully the browns remain ignorant of the ham-footed angler approaching them. As I attempt to wring the sleeves of my fleece dry we look at the foam lanes and sure enough there are quite a few black gnats on the water so I switch to a Griffiths Gnat and cast to a regularly rising brown that promptly glucks down my grizzle and peacock construction without hesitation. A short tussle later and I'm holding another beautiful half-pound Eden brown.
Matt generously works hard to spot a better-sized fish that he can put me onto, as he's keen I experience the pleasure of deceiving and playing a proper Eden brown. He spies one feeding up ahead and can tell from the rise that it's a good size, probably a couple of pounds. As we wade gently upstream he notices a rise no further than five yards from where we're standing, just below where he is and parallel with where I'm standing. He reckons it's a small one but for fun just drifts a dry over it to see what'll happen. I watch mesmerised as a gorgeous and stout brown glides up to reveal itself before lifting its nose to gobble Matt's fly. A gentle lift and he's into a proper fish! It doesn't matter that it's his fish, as to witness the deception and Matt's surprise at both its size, and the fact that it took at all, is a pleasure in itself. We laugh and Matt is almost embarrassed having caught such an 'easy' fish, but this is a testament to his modesty as if I'd have been able to deceive it, set the hook and land it as confidently as he does, I'd be grinning ear to ear for hours.
Matt nobbles a cracking brownie over his shoulder
Following our close encounter I get a shot at a few good-sized fish. They're clearly still feeding on the large fall of black gnats that are filling the foam lanes so the Griffiths Gnat keeps its place. I manage to land a cast to my first aquatic adversary, tricking it, but I lift too soon, pricking it and putting it down for good. In the past I'd have tried it again and again, but Matt wisely tells me we should move on, as when you feel a fish the chances of it coming back for seconds is slim at best. Something I've experienced first hand in the past, but have been too stubborn to put one and one together.
As we wade across and up towards and other fine flat stretch of water I extoll the virtues of the studs I've added to my wading boots, and explain that despite my earlier slips the addition of these have really helped as my last Eden adventure had resulted in me slipping on every second rock. No sooner have I finished prattling on and I take my biggest tumble of the day, tripping on an undercut boulder that sends me swimming up to my neck. I roll on my back and point my feet down-river (as I've read you should do) and quickly find my feet. Matt can't disguise his amusement any more. I'm soaked through, but am having a great enough time to ignore my soggy undergarments, and get on with the business of pursuing buttery browns.
My next attempt to bag a proper Eden brownie goes pear-shaped, as having deceived it, I recover some slack line and lift my rod high, only to be met with the twang of a break-off. We've only got a few more minutes before we have to head back to the car and I've got one final shot on another pool where a decent-sized fish rises regularly. Matt sits on the bank watching. No pressure. History repeats itself, with a take and then the brown breaking me off at the fly.
Final cast: I have a pop at good fish, but sadly get broken off
A little despondent I ask Matt if he noticed me doing anything wrong. He kindly tells me he thinks I've just been unlucky, but I nudge him for criticism and he shares a great final lesson. He tells me that he thinks I'm so focussed on trying to see my fly (which I am) that I don't give my line control as much attention (which he's very right about), meaning that I often have too much slack line between myself and my fly when fishing dry (which I do). This results in me having to recover a bit of slack line and lifting perhaps more sharply than I'm aware of, which could result in too much force when tightening into a fish. I need to stay in better contact with my fly, and that's certainly something I'm planning to practise on my next outing. I learn I should never need to do more than simply lift my rod steadily and deliberately whilst simultaneously drawing my line with a single smooth pull of my left hand.
There's a lot to think about and lots to of things to do at the same time, but I'm assured that it does become second nature with enough practise and experience. I'm discovering this as I develop as a fly fisherman, and absolutely love the process of learning and finding myself doing things that I never imagined I'd been able to do a year ago, such as even deceive a few proper Eden browns to take a fly I'd tied myself and to catch a couple of half pounders all in a single day. And what a great day it's been. I've learned so much, I've made a great new friend, I've caught a few fish and the season is nowhere near over.
* Disclaimer: Any sucking up to my wife in this article is integral to the ongoing wellbeing of the author.
For some bona fide top-drawer insight on fishing northern rivers such as the Eden, and for a jolly good read, visit Matt Eastham's blog North Country Angler. Matt also took the photo above, which makes me look like I vaguely know what I'm doing. Read Matt's great write-up of our outing, with an equally great headline, Much ado about gnatting.
For chatter and updates on the Eden system I recommend visiting this thread on the Fly Fishing Forums.
Mayfly madness, mad pigs and madder misses on the River Wylye
Just a couple of weeks after having so perfectly popped my river fishing cherry on the Eden I'm already getting itchy feet and an even itchier casting arm. Soon I'm aching for that sustained high-note of excitement and imagining the sensation of reentering that pure state of flow that engulfs when in pursuit of plucky wild browns. This time I'm keen to taste the fruits of another river, and I've got a decent motive to support my indecent trout lust. My dad's 70th birthday is fast approaching in July, and I've already told him that I'm planning to take him on a chalk stream fishing weekend as a gift in mid-September. Naturally we need to carry out some reconnaissance of the river well in advance of September (in June no less) to get a feel for the place and familiarise ourselves with the buttery-bellied locals.
Echoing my Eden experience, this latest adventure would mark another series of firsts. It would to be the first time I'd fish a chalk stream, the first time I'd fish a river with my father since I was eight years-old, and maybe, just maybe the first time I'd experience that most renowned period in any trout fisherman's calendar… Mayfly madness.
Living in Kent most of the magnificent southern chalk streams of England are only a couple of hours out of reach. Sadly the vast majority are also a couple of hundred pounds out of my budget. But with countless pastoral images and chalk stream tales etched into my daydreams thanks to Oliver Kite, G.E.M Skues, Frank Sawyer, John Goddard, Brian Clarke and co., I'm compelled to discover an accessible and affordable option on a day ticket.
In a moment of serendipity our future destination breaks the surface and stakes a claim on my attention in early May. I'm indoors sat at my fly tying desk, watching the golden light set against the tall evergreens in the far corner of the garden. As dusk evaporates I shift my concentration back to tying an Olive CDC stackwing pattern when a neon pink Post-it note furtively catches the corner of my eye, poking its head out from within a copy of Trout & Salmon magazine. I pull it off the shelf and open it to rediscover a great article by Jon Beer about a previous Mayfly fishing experience he'd had on the River Wylye in Wiltshire (pronounced 'Wily' as in the coyote). I'd flagged the page precisely for such an occasion - £60 a day ticket, advance booking necessary. Not cheap by any means, but it's the old man's 70th and by chalk stream standards sixty quid is a welcome change from the three-figure fees I'd repeatedly encountered when researching elsewhere.
With that, I tell dad we're booked in and all set for 10th June. Countdown begins.
Sunday, June 9, 2013 - The night before
Eager to get an early start the following morning, we pootle west across to Wiltshire and touch down at our B&B in Warminster just as the sun begins to bow, soften and bathe gentle poppy-peppered fields in warm light. We're starving, but I easily convince dad that dinner can wait so we can recce the river that we'll be facing tomorrow.
My first glimpse of English chalk stream gem, the River Wylye
We pull up in a lay-by near a tiny bridge on a stretch of the Wylye that's little more than a rod-length wide. As I wander to the waterside I'm knocked sideways by how beautiful this ranunculus-ribboned chalk stream truly is, as I gaze upstream greeted by Mayfly Spinners lightly dancing above the clear water and scything the surface to lay eggs, with feisty small browns rising freely and frequently intercepting them. A moving postcard of fly fishing perfection and a vision of chalk stream life, even better than I'd imagined it. I attempt to briefly capture the atmosphere on my camera phone, although my footage does the moment little justice:
Early evening Mayfly on the River Wylye
I'm wishing I had my rod (and permission) to cast above the feasting fish, but seeing and studying the action before my eyes is reward enough. I'm so engrossed in the ballet of Mayflies pirouetting above the hypnotically gentle current that my growling belly and hunger pangs slide to the very bottom of the pecking order of sensations I'm experiencing. It doesn't get better than this, so if tomorrow produces even a fraction of the action I've witnessed this evening, well, that'd be something.
Monday, June 10, 2013 - Fishing the Wylye
I'm a little bleary eyed, having spent the night sleeping in a makeshift nest of towels and blankets on the bathroom tiles of our en-suite. I should've remembered that sharing a twin room with my dad (a.k.a. World Snoring Champion 1977-2013) would mean I'd need to evacuate my comfy bed for the sanctuary of another room. No amount pillow throwing or harrumphing could silence the beast, but who needs sleep when you're riding the high of anticipation of fishing your first chalk stream?! One full english breakfast later and I'm raring to get down to the waterside.
Entering the lower Eastleigh beat near Norton Bavant
We whip round to pick up our day tickets from Roz Walker at Eastleigh Farm, who has a few miles of fishing on the upper and lower Wylye. At this time of year it's dry fly, upstream only. As chalk stream virgins we ask for some advice and Roz kindly makes her recommendations on which stretches of water are more accessible, given there's no wading. We decide to try the lower Eastleigh beat in the morning, and she tells us to give her a call at lunch so she can guide us to the upper beat as getting there means negotiating a spaghetti of backroads. We're all set and it's only 7:30am. Half an hour later I'm stood on a bridge made of old railway sleepers straddling the lower Wylye, with my trusty 8ft 4wt 'Trout Bum' in hand and hope tingling in my gut.
There's plenty of cover as I creep upstream scouring the water and wild flowers for signs of fly life. There are a few Grannom clinging and fluttering awkwardly around the tall grasses, but there are none over the water and there's nothing showing at the surface for the first couple of hours as I fixate on likely lies, scanning the channels running between thick beds of ranunculus riding high in the water. A few regal damselflies rest nearby, and I'm amazed by their startling iridescence. Later, when I'm back home, I try to identify them - I think what they're female Banded Demoiselle (Calopteryx Splendens). But back in the moment there's no movement, despite perfect conditions - the air temperature is pleasant and not too warm, the water's cool and there's a very light breeze. Last night's Mayfly bonanza feels an age away, yet I'm still optimistic and enjoy every second and speculative cast as I try to tempt a take at the surface with a Deer Hair Emerger (DHE) in case the Grannom are a sign of what's on the menu. No joy. Then I try a Griffiths Gnat given there area few wee black beasties here and there. Again nothing stirs, but I've read that activity on rivers at this time of year typically only begins (if you're lucky) at around 11am, so I'm in no way hurried or restless. I'm too busy soaking it all up.
Being a novice I find the mixture of wonderfully overgrown bank-side vegetation and thick ranunculus a real challenge, and have to pick my casts wisely so as not to snag on every throw. I've lost a pair of dries in the first couple of hours, but luckily I've tied with a plentiful subs-bench to account for my inevitable losses. The tricky casting conditions force me to be extremely considered and concentrate hard, a state of mind I enjoy greatly. It's at these times that I notice my presentation and accuracy are forced to improve, incrementally, and I just hope that my muscle memory is taking note so I don't have to entirely reeducate my body on what to do next time when casting in such conditions.
CDC Haystack Emerger
I stay low and shuffle a little further up to a nice spot that looks promising - even more so because I've got a some rare space for a decent back cast. I sit hidden behind a clump of tall grass and stare into the channels below, attempting to look through the water for signs of the gentle rocking of a tail or some other clue, when the surface shatters with a bold rise. I'd spotted a single rogue Mayfly a few minutes ago on my approach, so decide to switch from the DHE and Griffiths Gnat tactics to try the only Mayfly pattern I have in my fly box - it was the only one I managed to teach myself to tie in time for our visit, and the only one I had most of the materials for. A stackwing CDC Haystack Emerger recommended by Paul Proctor in T&S, I try to tie it on patiently but the sight of a rising wild brown on this lovely chalk stream has got me pleasantly flustered and I'm all fingers and thumbs. I've tied half a dozen for our trip, so hopefully my nerves won't cause me to need that many.
I kneel up and watch to see if it rises again. Sure enough, it does and it's joined every minute or two by another hungry little mouth a few yards in front of it. I can't see what they're feeding on, but it's not Mayfly as I can't see any others coming off the water. Perhaps I should put on the Griffiths Gnat again, as it looks like they're on the small stuff? Nah, I'll give the CDC a bash, if nothing else to see what happens.
Accurate casting is needed to avoid snagging on the ranunculus
I work out a couple of rod-length's of line and drop a cast a few yards behind the trout at the rear to get my eye in. Time to go for it. I throw it a little further and it lands a yard ahead of my quarry. With a splash its little jaws come up and pluck at my fly, at which point I stupidly lift and tighten to find myself met with a slack line and a thumping heart-rate. I whisper colourful words to the sniggering water rats resting nearby. I try again a few times but I've clearly put the little toffee prince down. At least he liked the look of my Mayfly imitation. I decide to try his friend further up and on the far side who's rising regularly, but in a trickier spot. I can see I'm going to have a little issue with drag, so try to work out the puzzle of the currents and restrictions of the ranunculus to see what I can do. A few practise casts below him, and a few snags and drag-compensating adjustments later, and I think I might have it sussed. That is if I can keep my cool. I roll cast into another false cast, then jab my final throw forward, and what d'ya know, it lands broadly where it's meant to. Bang, he takes! I suck in one deep breath and wait for his jaws to vanish from view and imagine him closing his mouth beneath the surface, then I lift and experience that satisfying elastic resistance as my line straightens and my rod bows respectfully to the river in gratitude. He turns about face and hightails it downstream, but I manage to put on the brakes and quickly play him at the surface and into the net. My first ever chalk stream wild brown trout, and a handsome little soul. Amazing.
Say hello to my little friend
As I put him back and hold him in the water to regain his strength he moves to a small rock nearby and I marvel at how closely he hugs it, virtually vanishing from plain sight within a few feet of me. I'd never have seen him if I didn't know he was there.
I move up to another likely spot in lots of shade. There's nothing showing, but I cast my Mayfly deceiver over an interesting flow. Once, no. Twice, uh-uh. Thrice… yes, I'm in! They really do like the look of this pattern, even though there aren't any of the real articles to be seen. We tussle for a good ten seconds, then a little leap accompanied by a rattling head-shake and she's off. A brief encounter, but a feisty and enjoyable one nonetheless.
We're meeting Roz shortly, so I find dad and we make our way back to the car. He's yet to land one (this is very different from his fishing days on the Don before I was born), but he tells me he's having lots of fun, has received some interest and the day is still young. So we head into Warminster in good spirits to pick up some lunch. All this excitement has made me hungry, so I find a place that sells prawn baguettes the size of a fire extinguishers, while dad wrestles with a chicken focaccia as big as his head.
Upper Eastleigh beat on the River Wylye
Back at Eastleigh Farm Roz leads us through a labyrinth of small roads and through the back of the wardrobe into the intense green Narnia that is the upper beat. On arrival Roz points out an impressive resident grayling that performs a couple of swift shuttle-runs up and down the lovely gravel shallows soon after. It must weigh a good couple of pounds - they're known to get up to three pounds in these parts! This particular lady of the stream is very safe, because not only have I never had the pleasure or experience of catching a grayling, but this one is downstream at the bottom end of the beat (upstream only remember!), and even were I allowed to go for it I'd need to perform a herculean roll-cast to get my fly near her, and the steep overgrown bank would offer no way to land this leviathan. That said there must be a way, but she's one for a far better angler than my abilities can conjure.
It's another beautiful stretch of river, and even lusher than this morning's beat - it'll require a side-casting approach over the water from here on in, and done so very carefully if I'm to avoid being ensnared by my quintessential surroundings.
I work my way up and clumsily try casting in a few tight spots where I notice a fish or two rising, but their awkward lies make it impossible for me to reach them no matter how hard I try. I so wish wading were allowed here - delicate fairy-footed wading, of course - as it would offer so many more opportunities for casting to some difficult and interesting lies that to my mind are otherwise off limits to mere mortal fishermen.
Having rescued my fly from the shackles of a nearby overhanging tree I move on and turn a corner to find myself introduced to a bewitching bend in the stream that screams trout. It's mid-afternoon now and an occasional Mayfly begins to float into view, but only a fraction of the number we witnessed yesterday. Despite the slender pickings, the calm surface of the slow-flowing bend cracks with a small rippling crater as a trout gulps one down. A few minutes later and a pock mark briefly blemishes the liquid mirror as another rise breaks the surface a few yards away. Same fish? Could be, then two rise at the same time. And a third further ahead.
Here's where I experience unrequited love
I kneel and ready myself with my CDC Haystack Emerger still primed at the business end. I cast to the rearmost fish, and within a few chucks there's a quick splashy take. I pause until it's vanished from view, breathe and lift, but my line is slack. Missed! I leave it for five minutes or so, then try again. Another take from the same fish, but this time I prick it with the line tightening momentarily before pinging back towards me empty. The same thing happens a third time so I check my hook. It looks fine and feels incredibly sharp. Head-scratching time. What am I doing wrong? This little blighter ceases to feed, so I try his buddy up ahead. I manage to land my fly broadly in front of him, then splosh! Another take, but again I fail to hook him. I stop for a while, then try again. This time my fly is taken with a gentle head and tail rise, but hold on! This isn't a trout, it's charcoal dark and there's a tinge of red on the dorsal. It must be a grayling, and it looks like a good size! I don't think about this at the time, but on reflection, as I miss another take. This repeats one more time, then again with the third trout feeding in this lovely corner of the Wylye. Seven mildly maddening misses in a row! My confidence knocked, I try to console myself in the knowledge that the presentation and pattern were good enough to deceive, and think that maybe they missed my fly a couple of times too, and perhaps I didn't entirely mistime all my 'strikes'. Although, in hindsight I think it was my failing and not theirs. Dazzled by my ineptitude the trio stop feeding, clearly to compare notes about the buffoon up above in the cover of the weeds. So having been camped there for a couple of hours I decide to shift my efforts elsewhere with a view to perhaps returning for another pop later on.
Further up I'm quickly into another fish, and delight in the knowledge that I'm still able to hook a fish, but despite having my rod held high and retaining tension throughout, within a few seconds of the fight my pint-size opponent shakes the hook and is gone for good.
?
Beware the hogs of doom!
I fish my way up past a discreet sewage works and under an overpass towards the top end of the beat. As I trundle along admiring yet another marvellous coiled ribbon of water I hear an unusual snort, and out of nowhere three scarily large pigs start running towards me from the woodland behind. They're only stopped in their tracks by a pathetic knee-high fence made out of three pieces of string that look suspiciously like they might be electric. I'm not going to touch them to find out, and instead pick up pace to escape the menacing glare of these mad farmed hogs. I do quite fancy a bacon sandwich though.
Despite seeing and casting to a few rising fish, the charms of my CDC Mayfly appear to have worn off entirely with no enquiries for a couple of hours as the sun begins to kiss the horizon.
I walk back to where I last saw dad fishing and catch sight of him on the same bend I'd failed at earlier. As I approach he gives me the sign that he got one, and shows me the snap he took before popping him back right where I was camped. Even though it's a real little 'un, I'm delighted for him. And he's pretty chuffed too. So much so that he asks me to pop a picture into my article. So here's the tricksy culprit in all his glory.
Tiddler caught on the bend by my dad
I ask him what he caught it on. "Um, that thing you gave me", he replies referring the the exact same CDC Haystack Emerger I'd been using. I've since read that trout such as these - small ones that hurriedly snap at your dry fly - sometimes require you to lift into them without delay, which might partially account for my eight misses. I'm not sure to be honest, but as reconnoissance missions go I learned a whole bunch of stuff, and can't wait to get back for round two on the Wylye in mid-September when I'm sure I'll encounter, as ever, another heap of completely different challenges. I'll also get an opportunity to pitch a nymph which I'm really looking forward to, as that'll be permitted then.
I've only landed one wild brown, but I leave the Wylye with a great sense of satisfaction and serenity. The surroundings and conditions were perfect, there were triumphs, dramas and conundrums. Memories made and shared. It reminds me that I'm incredibly lucky that my father sparked an early love of fly fishing in me, even though the passion lay dormant for many years until the fire was re-ignited last year. And for this I'm dearly thankful. Whilst I adore the solitude and being lost in the moment and exploring the water solo, it's the companionship and reflection on shared experiences with family and friends that makes fly fishing such a special thing. I refuse to label it a sport, as it's much more than that to me. Fly fishing now feels a deep part of me, shapes my outlook on the world, and I believe it brings out something better in me, both when I'm at the waterside or anywhere else. I hope I can inspire my children to feel something similar to how I feel one day.
April adventure on the River Eden: Into the wild browns (part 2 of 2)
I'm as prepared as I'll ever be. Countdown begins to my debut adventure on The River Eden. In the week leading up to E-Day I hawkishly check the BBC 10-day weather forecast online for signs of improvement, but quickly and optimistically come to terms with the fact that it's going to be a real challenge. No excuses though. I keep telling myself, as I have done since I started fly fishing, "the harder you try, the luckier you get". With this ringing in my ears, I set myself a challenge (well actually my little boy Ben does) to catch two wild brown trout on my four-day trip. Granted, a modest target by most people's standards, but that's a gold medal in my book. Or two! So with high excitement and measured expectations I prepare to test my mettle against the might of the River Eden in high winds, low temperatures, heavy rain and even hail. But this is England, so there's always a glimmer of hope when it comes to the weather. Even as far North as Penrith.
April 24, 2013 - Day one
Mark pulls up at 5:30am to pick me up, striding up the path with a knowing look of, "how did we pull this one off". We'd managed to wangle four full days away from our respective (and incredible) wives and kids to go on a dream adventure fishing The River Eden. Jammy gits. So with the boot of the S-Max lightly dusted with only essential gear we hit the road and headed North, leaving Kent for another of England's magnificent gardens. Fuelled by the mandatory Sausage 'n' Egg McMuffin breakfast we hit cruise control and headed North. Approaching The Lakes by early afternoon the temperature started to hit an encouraging 12 degrees, with the sky simultaneously darkening and joined by car-wobbling winds. It's the turning for Penrith. Not long now.
No time for checking into hotels or any of that nonsense. Time to buy our Penrith Angler's Association day ticket. What?! The shop in Penrith that sells them is closed… until early May! But, hold on, I check my print-outs (preparation, see) and there's a Post Office shop in the nearby village of Langwathby about 10 minutes away. Permitted up to our eyeballs we get back in the car and head to the Bolton Willows stretch of the River Eden that I'd been recommended by Andrew Dixon, the extremely helpful Honorary Secretary of the Penrith AA. Ideal for newcomers. With the OS map clumsily spread across the dashboard, I called out instructions as Mark snaked the S-Max through country lanes, until we arrived at Ousenstand Bridge straddling the Eden. This was it. Engine off, we stared from inside down onto the water, with only the sound of the wind blowing outside. We're here!
Finally we arrive at The Eden by Ousenstand Bridge
Wadered-up to my chest and clutching my 8-foot #4 weight rod by my side we slowly and silently approach the water's edge. Mark wanders a little further upstream, and I pick a spot just upstream of the bridge to throw a few practise casts, purely with a view to loosening up and feeling what it's like to land a line on flowing water, having only ever fished stillwaters in my adult life. It's an alien experience, but one I'm mentally prepared having played it through in my head hundreds of times. I stand facing upstream, with the weight of the water pleasantly pressing my waders tightly to my thighs, and practise the "reach cast" that my fly casting instructor Steve had taught me back in February. It's not easy, but I'm getting there, and am absolutely loving every moment of it. And I'm not even really fishing yet.
The spot where I first try some proper full-blown wading
An hour or so later we're walking along a steep cutaway bank and Mark spots a rise on our side just ahead of a triplet of large rocks that peeking their heads above a moderate flow. I see nothing, but Mark's got a good eye for a rise and this is the first sign of life we've seen. There's no fly life stirring - still too cold and windy it seems. He gestures "you have it". This means wading across downstream. I've read about wading, but stupidly I'd left my wading staff in the car, and I'm regretting it half way across as the water picks up pace and I feel my boots skidding on the rocks below as I walk across and down trying to make my body as streamline as possible. I make it across and walk up to get in position, wading back in around 15 yards behind my targeted quarry. With the wind in my face, the current pushing me harder than I'd anticipated, and Mark and another fisherman now gazing down in my blind-spot, I'm feeling the pressure. My heart is pummelling my ribcage. I then proceed to hook my back (twice), and when I finally do manage to cast a line it falls way too short, and in my effort to pitch my fly a few feet in front of his nose I succeed in splashing my line on the water and depositing a bird's nest of leader close enough to put it down for good. Time to move on.
The rest of the afternoon gradually improves as we work our way close to where Trout Beck joins the Eden, and it's a lot of fun… even though it's a fishless affair. My copper head Pheasant Tail gets a knock as I cast to a deep undercut bank, some black midges appear and we tie on Griffiths Gnats to tempt a pair of repeat risers, but a combination of clumsy casting and worsening weather conditions conspire against us. We both blank, but it doesn't matter in the slightest. See, it's day one, and what's a first day for if not for shaking off the nerves, expelling all your bad casts from your body, and getting excited by the prospect of tomorrow being "the one".
April 25, 2013 - Day two
It's been raining all night, and it's still tipping it down. I remember Matt (North Country Angler) recommending to try the Eamont that feeds into the Eden in this sort of scenario, so we do exactly that. Armed with maps of the different beats available to us, but having no clue what any of them are like, we jump in the car and head to the nearest stretch, Whinfell Park, to have a look. It's pouring down as we trundle up a hill and across a field to investigate, when it quickly becomes clear that casting a line here is going to be incredibly tricky - the river performs a beautiful wide arcing turn, it's outer flanks overlooked by an enormously steep and tree-peppered hill that'd make Bear Grylls think twice. So we shimmy our way back down to the car through a minefield of sheep turds and move on to the Wesmorland Holme stretch just off the A66. The deafening growl of passing trucks, a close encounter with an excited dog that jumps on my rod as I detangle a nymph from a tree, and a conversation with the dog's owner who proceeds to tell us she's "never seen anyone fish here in 25 years… and I walk here every day" tells us it's time to hit the road again. It's still only midday, so plenty of fishing time left.
The Pokey Dub stretch. A rather special place
Far from the hum of the A66, and down a peaceful country lane, we arrive at the Pokey Dub stretch. It's still windy, but the rain has stopped, it's getting warmer and there's flecks of blue up above. Walking down a narrow path to the waterside I'm getting butterflies. We turn a corner and the view opens up where I'm met by a most beautiful scene, the sort I've dreamed of in imagining this adventure - a charming tree-lined river in the belly of a snug valley, surrounded by silence except for the calming boil of water dropping off the weir up ahead. Upstream of the weir there's a run that looks promising, with a steep undercut bank on the far side and a collection of merging currents. The air has changed ever so slightly, warming up with a few regular openings of sunshine.
Down here among the trees the wind dies down, and I spot an awkward looking fly, body vertical and pale, taking off and flapping downstream. I think it's a Large Dark Olive Dun… it is! I look down and notice a sparse armada of of LDOs floating down a conveyer belt down the centre of the river, then snap! The jaws of a wild brown appear and take one under. 30 seconds later as another LDO waits for its wings to dry before liftoff it gets gulped down. I try to be calm as still as I tie on my size 14 CDC Olive Stackwing Dun, double check my knot and degrease my tippet. I gently cast eight feet or so upstream of where the rise appeared, remembering from what I'd read that trout hold further upstream than where you see the rise, gliding back a little as they point their snouts up to take what's on the surface. I don't dare to blink, tracking my fly keenly as it rides proudly and drag-free down the centre of the river. A moment later, there's movement and it swigs my fly! Without hesitation I lift, as I catch a glimpse of a toffee flank, but I've missed. I stuck too soon in my eagerness. My heart's about ready to explode with excitement. I'd deceived wild quarry. I try again, and a few casts later he gulps my fly, but I make the same mistake again and put him down for good! I then remember what I'd read about fishing dries on rivers and counting to three before lifting into the fish to give time for the fly to enter it's mouth properly so the hook will set neatly (unlike nymph fishing where I remember the key is lifting without a moment's delay). I kick myself, but this is real progress.
Bellies grumbling we decide to call lunch, and sit with our legs dangling in the water as we work our way through half a pasty each, an amazing steak and stilton pie, some treacle tart and a welcome bottle of ale. As we sit there watching the spot where I'd received two takes, a plop in the distance, just below the undercut bank opposite, catches our eye. Moments later there it is again. We're not the only ones feeding. We wait and count time between rises. Like a metronome, he appears at the surface, sucking down Olives every minute. We wrap up lunch, and Mark leaves me to try for it. I wade almost halfway across and a little downstream, and try to be calm as a Hindu cow. My first cast is too short, but I let it ride out until it's way downstream of my quarry, so as not to arise suspicion. I follow up with a relaxed longer "reach cast" that lands a fair few feet above his nose. Again, I track my fly transfixed as it quickly approaches the kill zone, when pop, he goes for it! But this time he misses and not me! I thought I was the only one able to make mistakes. So I let the cast ride out as I hope he knows he fluffed that one. A couple more casts but nothing. Then I pitch my CDC Olive Stackwing Dun again a little further upstream to give him more of a view of it. Seconds later, up he comes, slurping it down. Time slows down, I know he's taken it, but I count to three. The longest three seconds imaginable, then I lift high and feel my line tighten and the tip of rod bend in satisfaction. Fish on! In the dappled sunlight I catch full sight of my first hooked wild brown trout as it leaps and skitters across the surface, spraying shards of light all around. I'm up to my waist and I don't have a net, so I wade carefully towards the bank as I play this wonderful fish towards me. Fishing barbless I keep my rod as high as I can, and following a few nervous moments, and near misses, I gently grab the leader and work my hand down to meet my first wild brown trout. In a moment of celebration I place him briefly on the grassy bank to quickly slip out the hook and take a photo. I'm bewitched by it's large spritely eyes, buttery sheen and vibrant red spots, entirely blown away by what I've achieved. A true milestone of a moment. In hindsight, I know I shouldn't have put him on the grass, but I know better for next time. I handle him delicately under the belly and hold him facing upstream to let water flow over his gills. Off he slips, holding majestically in the water before gliding sideways and disappearing. It doesn't get better than this.
I meet up with Mark, who's landed a grayling half a kilometre downstream just minutes earlier on one of my CDC Olives. My smile says it all as I approach, and he's delighted for me. The rest of the afternoon I spend in a relaxed haze, throwing an occasional cast in likely spots, but most of my time is spent reliving that moment. Day two: three takes, one hooked and landed, and a memory for a lifetime.
My first ever wild brown trout!
Reliving the moment shortly after on video
April 26, 2013 - Day three
This being a fishing adventure n'all, we're eager to explore different beats, although the temptation to return to Pokey Dub is intense. Instead we decide to try the Kirkby (pronounced "Kur-bee") Stephen Angling Association water, against the recommendation of the folk in John Norris who say it's super tough down there. Even for the England fly fishing team! It's been raining all night, but with confidence running high, and our sense of adventure on full throttle, we head off in the biting cold (5 degrees), wind (15mph) and rain (the wettest variety) and head to Blandsworth Bridge.
We fish our way upstream this picturesque stretch, battling the elements and plopping nymphs deep into likely lies. The blue arrow of a Kingfisher shoots downstream in a desperate hurry. Does he know something we don't? Despite being flush with effort, we're trout-poor, and nothing knocks, tweaks or tugs. I stop on a small bridge connecting two plots of farmland in order to jealously observe a couple of cormorants feeding upstream. I peer down into the water and double-take at what first looks like a sleeping poodle. It's a dead lamb. I check the map to see how much ground we've covered, and soon realise we're fishing the wrong way, and illegally. At that moment the hail kicks in. The unbroken grey sky peppers and stings our necks with heavy frozen peas as we head back to the car for shelter and sustenance - more of the same baked pasty action as yesterday, but today we mix things up with a game pie, some banana cake and a bottle of "Angler's Reward" ale (hey, confidence was running high first thing when we bought our packed lunch).
Sat in the warmth of the car, and stomachs full, we decide to head for the Ploughlands beat, starting at the bridge at Warcop. It's still stinking weather, but at least the hail has turned to rain. Walking along the road to the bridge I'm met by a gruesome trio of dead moles hanging from a barbed wire fence by their snouts. Mark tells me it's something to do with an old wive's tale of farmers or gamekeepers deterring other moles from entering that area. Considering moles are virtually blind and incapable of cognitive reasoning, it seems a rather bizarre and brutal ceremonial response. As off-putting as it is, I'm here on trout business so I head over the stone steps by the bridge and carry out a recce of the run up ahead. It looks to be an ideal spot, but with the weather making it virtually unfishable we decide to hunker down in a sheltered overhanging grassy bank and carry out an impromptu stake-out until it subsides a little. Miraculously, within 15 minutes the high wind drops to a light breeze, the rain stops and patches of blue sky and flecks of sunshine break through.
The Eden by Warcop in its full panoramic glory
Every time there's a change in the weather we've noticed flies begin to hatch, and true to form Large Dark Olives start to emerge as we wander along. Stopping to inspect a promising pool, I catch a glimpse of movement in my peripheral vision. I look left and stare down at a spot just ahead of what's clearly a shelf lower down in the water, kicking up a consistent swell on the surface. Sure enough, there's a sporadic flotilla of LDOs making their way downstream and one gets intercepted by the jaws of a hungry trout. I refrain from blinking to see if this was a one-off. A few minutes later, up she comes again. Having pinpointed my quarry I circle out and walk downstream, before wading back up from below. It's time for my CDC Olive Stackwing Dun to take centre stage. I manage to drop it roughly where it needs to be, and after a few casts up she comes and chomps on my fly. I wait, count, and lift. I'm in! My heart's in my mouth. This feels like a bigger trout than yesterday! It swims towards me faster than I anticipate, so I try to gather some line and keep tension as I hold my rod high and walk backwards towards the shingle, but the line goes slack for a second as I try to adjust, but it's too late. Gone. Gutted.
Gurning with delight with my second wild brown
I desperately try to rise her again from the depths for another 30 minutes, but she's savvy to me by now, as I should've recognised from the moment I lost her. This is a promising pool though, so I decide to inch upstream to fish the head of it maybe 20 to 30 yards away. There's still a smattering of LDOs making an appearance, but not enough it seems to trigger a fish to rise. Be that as it may, I'm going to stick with my CDC as it's deceived on four occasions now, so I arc it onto a patch of slack water behind a heavy riffle. I tell myself I'll give it five more casts. I'm on my second to last cast, concentrating but low on expectation, when my artificial disappears in a tiny splash. Being caught off guard it takes me a second or two to lift into the fish, but when I do I feel the hook set securely and the line stretch brilliantly as it takes off and darts past me and downstream. This time I'm ready for the fight, and do my best to keep a cool head as we jostle each other for the upper hand. A couple of minutes later and he's within arm's reach. I take hold of the leader in the inch-deep water against a shallow shingle background. The barbless hook prematurely slips free from the scissors of his jaws, so I leap down and after quick scramble manage to gently secure him in my hands. Amazing! Another enchanting wild brown, bigger than my first love from the day before. Mark takes a shot of me proudly cradling my catch (excuse the stupid face - I'm somewhat chuffed), and I release him. He bolts into cover in a flash.
A beautifully full-finned wild brown trout
As quickly as this patch of better weather appears, it disappears and turns into more rain that soon transforms again to hail. We drive to Kirkby Stephen for an ale at The Black Bull, and then a portion of chips a few doors down, to give the hail storm a chance to subside. By 7pm it's died down, and we decide to give the Warcop stretch another blast until 8pm, but there's nothing happening so we call it a day. Yet what a day it's been.
April 26, 2013 - Day four
There's the inevitable promise of showers, but by all accounts the fishing gods are gazing down kindly on us today - it's warm enough for short-sleeves, there's a dusting of cloud cover and just a gentle breeze. Experience tells us that sudden bi-polar transitions from sprinklings of rain to sunshine in this unpredictable microclimate seem to trigger hatches of life, so we're hopeful of some action. It's our last day, and following his feisty grayling on day two, Mark's keen to land a wild brown. So we head off to Kirkby Stephen, pick up our day tickets from the nice lady in the newsagents, and head to Musgrave Bridge, another stretch of water that unquestionably earns its Eden moniker.
We tag-team casts above the weir to a rising fish, with our backs facing an overgrown disused railway line that blends into the rolling green mounds behind us. Despite the hatch-happy conditions there are only a few midges around, and we fear our little friend perched ahead of the weir is taking buzzers (neither of us are buzzer men… not through lack of want, but rather lack of ability). We try to trigger a response with a CDC Olive, a little green klink and finally a Griffiths Gnat, but each to no avail. We move on.
Rusty cars at Musgrave
I work my way down and fish up from to a spot where some rusty old cars have been dug in to support the banks, sunken wrecks with a purpose. Nothing doing on nymph nor dry, so I wade my way up and under Musgrave Bridge, and cast a little shrimp to a couple of light dimples that I now think were most likely fry. I whisper to myself boyishly to create an echo in the arch of the bridge, troll-like as imaginary goats trip-trap above. Still no joy, so I clamber up the bank and as we're about to leave Mark spots a good size fish as it slinks sideways into a dark crevice beneath the bridge, a few metres to the right of where I'd been standing. He uses my lighter 8-foot rod and #4 weight line to throw a few well-placed and delicate casts with the CDC, but can't rise him. We make a mental note of the exact lie, and tuck it away in the filing cabinets of or minds (alongside the many others we've discovered on our trip) to try next year.
Mark switches to a Grey Wulff and is immediately into a fish
There are still a few fishing hours left in the day, so rather than try somewhere new, we finally decide to retread familiar ground and revisit one of our favourite stretches at Warcop.
We've only seen a handful of LDOs all day, and there's no sign of any more as I retry yesterday's spot where I hooked and lost a good size fish. Mark is further downstream, and as I look up between casts I can see him standing bolt upright with his rod lifted skywards and the tip saluting water in a welcome arc as he plays a fish. He's got his brown, and I'm chuffed to bits for him. "Grey Wulff!" he calls over to me, his voice tinged with satisfaction and relief. No sooner has Mark landed and released his buttery little buddy and I watch my Olive artificial get snapped at by what has to be yesterday's fish. I wait the ceremonial wait, but my line doesn't tighten. Either he missed or I did. I'll never know, but I do know I'll be back next year to try again.
It's been hard fishing these four days, but phenomenal fun, and an experience that's served to firmly cement the motto I've come to live by: "the harder you try, the luckier you get". It's fair to say I've fallen for The Eden and her sister The Eamont, and I already miss them dearly. The pair of them popped my river-fishing cherry, and awarded me with a pair of gold medals I'll treasure and be forever grateful for. So here's to great friendship, difficult fish and no excuses.
Read all about my preparation for this trip on The Eden in part 1 of 2.
Looking into the clear water from the bridge at Warcop
April adventure on the River Eden: Preparation (part 1 of 2)
Late April on the River Eden. It doesn't get much better than that. Last week I had the pleasure of stalking the banks of the Eden and the Eamont for four days straight on a fishing adventure that marked a series of firsts. It was the first time I'd fished the Eden System, it was my first fishing trip, and it's the first river I've fished since my introduction to fly fishing on The Nochty 27 years ago at the age of eight. Needless to say, in the run up to my trip I was suitably excited, and wondered whether Lady Eden would like the cut of my jib and tease the business end of my tippet with hungry wild brown trout. To stand the best chance of success I knew I needed to do some serious preparation, and get some real expert advice and guidance. Before I recount my blow-by-blow encounter (read part two), here's what I did to get Eden-ready™.
Who do I ask for help and where should I fish?
Luckily the wise men of the River Eden don't reside in unmarked mossy hidey-holes. Instead, a number of these rare sages inhabit a far more public and accessible space, and even luckier for us they're exceptionally generous with their time, offering advice and feedback on all things Eden. You guessed it. Fly Fishing Forums, one of the most welcoming and productive online angling lodges out there. It was here that I started my journey of discovery in pursuit of some simple pointers about fishing the Eden System. I simply began by having a nose around for any Eden-related chatter, and came across this useful thread - Cumbrian Eden System - and posted a note asking for some general advice. By that evening I'd had a couple of responses from a chap called Terry (jada0406) and Matt (North Country Angler, and the guy who started the thread way back in April 2009). Encouraged by these quick responses I decided to direct message each of them and quickly realised these guys seriously know their onions. Over the past few months, Matt has proved an incredible source of expert advice on everything from must-try patterns to the best waters to fish on a day ticket (Appleby Anglers Association, Penrith Anglers Association, Kirkby Stephen and District Angling Association). I plagued him for answers, and again and again I was met with real gems of actionable insight to apply at the waterside. If you're looking for a great place to start, be sure to check out this thread and Matt's blog North Country Angler.
Which dry flies and nymphs should I take?
I didn't want to go armed with a smorgasbord of flies for fear of being overwhelmed, so I posed Matt a question: "If you could only take a handful of dry fly patterns in late April, what would they be?" And here's the fantastic four he kindly recommended: 1. CDC Olive Stackwing Dun #14 2. Olive para emerger - Klinks type things #14-16 3. Deer Hair Emerger (DHE) #14 4. Griffiths Gnat #16-20 So in the months leading up to my trip I set to work at the vice to tie a collection of these tiny critters (except for the klinks or paras as I ran out of time!). I'm a novice, so tackling these patterns was real test of my thumbs and perseverance, but I got there in the end. Toughest of all was the CDC Olive Stackwing Dun - I used these instructions, and tried to replicate Matt's version, and used the Petitjean Magic Tool to help bring it all together. Stacking the CDC wings required heaps of practise, but it's a real buzz when you nail it. Here's a few shots of my dry line-up…
CDC Olive Stackwing Dun
Deer Hair Emerger (DHE)
Griffiths Gnat
As for nymphs I went equipped with some copper bead-head Pheasant Tail Nymphs (PTN) that I'd tied previously (Charlie Craven style), weighted with around 6-8 turns of lead, and a bunch of Gold Ribbed Hare's Ear nymphs (GRHE). Heres' a couple of pics of the sub-surface recruits…
Pheasant Tail Nymph (PTN)
Gold Ribbed Hare's Ear (GRHE)
How do I fish a river?
Having only previously fished stillwaters I was keen to get some pointers, so I buried my head in books and watched loads of YouTube videos (including some appetite-whetting ones like these. Particularly helpful books were Peter Lapsley's River Fly-fishing: The Complete Guide, Brian Clarke and the late John Goddard's The Trout and the Fly, Frank Sawyer's Nymphs and the Trout, and Oliver Kite's Nymph Fishing in Practice. Having read and reread these legendary works I knew I needed more than pure written insight, particularly concerning certain key issues I'd read about related to dry fly fishing, such as the dreaded "drag". So I decided to get a couple of hours of fly casting instruction from an expert fly casting instructor. It was early February and barely above freezing that I spent two hours with the brilliant Steve Kemp casting onto The Thames in Richmond. A qualified AAPGAI instructor, and thoroughly nice bloke, Steve helped improve my casting no end in an incredibly short space of time, and taught me a bunch of techniques to help adapt to all sorts of river-based scenarios. Most useful was leaning how to "reach cast" where you point the tip of your rod horizontally out to the side once you've cast as the line and it's nearing touchdown on the water, in order to put some slack into the line when casting upstream to avoid drag. This would prove an invaluable lesson! You can contact Steve via email (stevekemp1 at me.com) to arrange a one-to-one session, and if like me you're a river novice, I highly recommend it.
What about wading and making sure I don't drown?
I'd never waded before, so I knew I'd need to fork out on some clobber and equip myself with some knowledge so I didn't drown on my debut. In terms of buying gear, the only advice I can give is to try on plenty of pairs of waders, and don't buy them if they're not comfortable or don't fit correctly. I finally went for a pair of Simms stocking foot waders that I managed to get 60% off in the January sales, and got them altered to have a larger set of stocking feet fitted, organised by the good folk at Farlows in Piccadilly. And make sure you buy boots that are at least a size larger than your regular fit to make room for the neoprene stocking foot and a couple of pairs of thick socks. Once kitted out I made sure I tested them, but I couldn't face sitting in the bath and pretending I was casting to an imaginary rise. Instead I took them on a trip to Bushyleaze Trout Fishery in late March. A few burly rainbows later, I was still bone dry. At 35 years old, I'm still a reasonably strong chap and steady on my feet, but I didn't want to take any chances as I fancied seeing my lovely wife and kids again after my trip, so I researched a wading staff. There are so many ridiculously expensive, and to my mind, dangerous options. I'd read too many horror stories of telescopic and collapsible wading staffs letting people down to go that route, so I knew it needed to be a one-piece deal (with only a single point of failure… if it snaps). I tried a few in a couple of shops, but they were all way too heavy for my liking. Then on a day trip to Brighton I popped into one of those outdoorsy stores that sells mountaineering and ski stuff, and managed to pick up a pair of long ski poles in a matt black finish for under 20 quid, which means I've now got a spare!
No excuses
I'd done my homework, but I knew catching a spooky wild brown trout on the Eden System would be difficult, particularly with the forecast predicting lots of rain, hail and consistent winds in excess of 15mph. But I love a challenge, so I set myself a goal. In fact, it was my eight year-old son Ben who set it. Here's how the conversation went:
Me (thinking he's going to say "one"): "How many fish do you think I should try to catch when I go away on my fishing trip?"
Ben (without thinking): "Um… 20?"
Me (shocked face): "20?!"
Ben (sensing my fear): "Um… Two? I think if you catch two that would be amazing, dad."
Me (proud): "Ok, I'll try for two."
And that was that. I'd try and catch a couple of wild brown trout. No pressure.
To find out how I got on, read part two.
Best videos of fly fishing for wild brown trout
UPDATE! Watch part two - Difficult fish!
THE LEVIATHAN AWAKES Video title: Matt Heron Reels in a Gigantic Brown Trout Made by: Filmed In Tahoe What it's about: Fishing guide Matt Heron wrestles with the fish of a lifetime, taken on a tiny Mayfly. Best moments: 0m 15s and 1m 21s Best quote: "He is huge! Oh my god! This fish is so much bigger than I thought! Holy crap!"
AT PEACE ON THE RIVER Video title: Father and Son Made by: William J. Meyer What it's about: A touching tribute to a father, who's church was the river. Best moments: 0m 40s and 2m 05s
CLOSE-QUARTERS SPLIT-CANING Video title: Overgrown I & II - Fly fishing for wild brown Trout on an English Stream Made by: rawsonandperrin What it's about: Some brilliant and intimate early evening fly fishing on a beautiful English stream, with a super delicate 4' 8" split cane rod and a handful of mayfly patterns. It's all about the silence and being cocooned in the perfect surroundings. Best moment: Overgrown I: 0m 35s, 1m 26s and 1m 43s / Overgrown II: 1m 38s Overgrown I
Overgrown II
ROCK CREEK CATCH Video title: Spring Bound Made by: Montana Wild What's it about: Awesome clip on Rock Creek that captures the moment the dry is sucked down by a greedy wild toffee brownie. Watch it played and released, with some great underwater footage at the end to wrap things up. Best moment: 0m 34s
BIG BROWNS ON SALMON TERRITORY Video title: Home For Salmon - Big Trout Made by: Danica Film AS / Kristian Topp What it's about: Taken from a chapter from the full-length film Home for Salmon this 10-minute video showcases the incredible wild brown trout of the Atlantic Salmon Reserve. Best moment: 3m 55s Best quote: "I've been fishing for this fish for two and a half days now… This is the best brown trout fishing in the world!"
FIRST-PERSON TAKE Video title: GoPro HD Hero 2 Fly Fishing - 18" Current River Brown Trout Made by: BruteFish83 What it's about: Shot with the smart GoPro HD Hero 2 video camera on a chest mount harness, this 3-minute clip puts you right in the action as a buttery wild brown is deceived and played to the net. Best moment: 0m 09s
LEGENDS AT WORK Video title: The Educated Trout Uploaded by: mrbilly356 What it's about: Fly fishing pioneers Brian Clarke and the late John Goddard show us how it's done. The four videos that follow are all part of a single episode entitled The Educated Trout, for a series called The World About us, that was created to showcase some of the ground-breaking work the pair uncovered in their book The Trout and the Fly. This hour long episode is packed with great observations and insights, plus some rare underwater footage of wild brown trout in their habitat and taking food on the surface and beneath. Best moments: Video one: 4m 06s and 13m 26s / Video two: 1m 29s / Video three: 8m 40s / Video four: 1m 06s and 2m 28s Best quote: "Come on little chap, nobody's going to hurt you." And, "a perfect cast has to combine the timing of a golf swing with the accuracy of an archer hitting gold." Part 1 of 4
Part 2 of 4
Part 3 of 4
Part 4 of 4
Are there any more brilliant online videos of fly fishing for wild brown trout that are missing from this list? If so please share links in the comments section below and I'll update the post with any more amazing videos that've been cruising beneath the surface. Feeling inspired? What are your plans for the new season? Scribble down your thoughts and messages below.
DON'T MISS PART TWO! Difficult fish!