Thursday, January 22, 2015

Winter of Content

Winter plods slowly on bringing the 2015 trout season ever nearer, although that particular watershed still feels a good way off right now. This is the time of year when my flyfishing customarily goes into semi-hibernation and I concentrate instead on the indoor pursuits of re-stocking fly boxes, cleaning lines and building leaders. In some ways the break can do a man some good. After all, there has to be a time to get the fishing bag tidied up - retrieve all the discarded chocolate bar wrappers and birdsnested tippet from its mouldering depths and restore some sort of order to the chaos which built up over the course of the previous year. I enjoy such tasks, but as soon as they are accomplished, I feel the draw of water again and the ensuing wait for days to lengthen feels almost unbearable. Winter does not suit me well.

A year ago, I managed to stem such feelings of frustration and misery by returning to grayling fishing with an enthusiasm I hadn't felt for the previous half dozen winters. What precipitated this sudden change in heart is difficult to pin down, but it surely helped that I fished in places known to hold zillions of the little blighters. Several outings were made, lots of grayling were caught, and the second half of winter eased by so much quicker as a result.

So perhaps it's no surprise that when the 2014 trout season came to a close and I assured my good lady that my angling activities would be 'toned right down' for the winter, my thoughts turned to grayling once more, making a liar out of me straightaway. I embarked on a concerted tying spree of technicolor shrimps and jig nymphs, joined an eight man grayling syndicate on a sought-after river in the Scottish Borders, and so completed the full circle journey back to what I left behind in the late noughties:long hours of searching big pools in cold weather for elusive shoals of winter grayling. I've loved every minute of it! The syndicate water has produced grayling fishing of quality I am unused to, with fish over 2lbs commonplace and the real possibility of something a whole lot bigger. When a day in December yielded close to twenty fish with four of them weighing between 2lb 2oz and 2lb 8oz, I started to question why I had ever become such a reluctant winter angler in the first place. The real treat however has been the quality and strength of the fish. I have never tussled with fish so strong as Borders grayling, ever. Whether the somewhat laminar flow over smooth gravel works to their advantage as they hold station with dorsal fin raised against the current, or they are just stronger than our soft southern versions, I don't know. What is fact is that a big one hooked in water of good depth and speed is almost immovable for long anxious minutes, no matter how much sidestrain is applied. It's heart-stopping stuff, exciting and at the same time tortuous  - the grayling bug has bitten once more and for now, I cannot get enough of it.

A particularly memorable outing came at the turn of the year when Stuart and I had a weekend jaunt in search of fishable water when most of the country was swimming. As is so often the case when you have a trip planned at this time of year, the weather conspired to throw a big wet spanner in the works. I recall a couple of years ago almost to the day, plans to head to the south coast and fish the Frome for its uncommonly large grayling. You may recall the state of the weather in the south of England around that time......well when a day or two beforehand, I logged on to a local webcam overlooking the river, I couldn't see any dry land at all save for the very tops of a line of willow trees which I took to be lining the 'bank' of the river. At such times the prospect of ever fishing the dry fly again feels very unlikely indeed.

That the rains were scheduled to arrive the very afternoon before we set off for the Borders came as no surprise to Stuart and I, and we deferred for a day in the hope of somewhere dropping into at least half-fishable ply. As it happened, nowhere really did and we ended up taking a punt and driving north anyway, spurred on by desperation as much as anything else, and with a venue in mind which might just have avoided the worst of the floods. Not that I was too bothered: up until recently, the domestic demands which come with a tired wife and pair of toddlers had made such overnight trips difficult to justify and for me the prospect of a full two days fishing in the company of a good friend was enough in itself. Grateful just for the opportunity, I resolved to happily toss tungsten into a mucky brown torrent if needs be, and any fish would be treated as a welcome surprise! 

In the end, we had rather a fine time of it. Yes the river was high and dirty and the fishing restricted to marginal soft spots, but sometimes approaching an unfamiliar water with an unbiased pair of eyes can reap rewards and we managed to find surprising sport on a beat which was all but abandoned by the local anglers. Coincidentally a couple of friends were the only other lads out and having fished the place before, Peter and Ken were generous enough to show us around and point out the places that should produce....or at least would produce when the river was a foot lower! 

The fishing was out of necessity uncomplicated - good old fashioned Czech nymphing with a team of three weighted nymphs led through under the rod tip. Quickly I realised how little I have used this method in recent years; in fact I found the downstream progression which is customary when Czech nymphing, completely alien at first, so long have I spent fishing purely upstream. It's strange how you get into habits; these days, even when fishing short I always move upstream and have my flies out of the water as soon as they are level with my position. I've probably missed a trick in all honesty, and when my first fish came at that point in the drift known well to all regular Czech nymphers - downstream of square, just as the flies begin to sweep away from the riverbed - it was like a long dormant lightbulb suddenly switched on in my brain! Yes I have neglected pure Czech nymphing I admit, and that is an oversight I aim to correct.

That first fish was a belter - 2lb 6oz and fit as a gundog - and it set the tone for the weekend. The grayling were prepared to feed and although location proved difficult, the ones we caught were of a good stamp, with a sprinkling of very impressive specimens amongst them. Stuart shows off one such below (his own photo - a great self timer job with the camera!):

Day one rewarded us with 15 fish up to 2lb 10oz. It was more than I could ever have hoped for.

The following morning dawned bright and cold and with the river falling, but considerably cleared, a challenging session was on the cards. We had formulated a plan over beer the night before, which involved getting off the beaten track and away from the other anglers we expected to be present, given that the river was just about coming into decent ply. How successful our strategy proved to be is open to interpretation - we covered nearly eight miles on foot and found precious little worth fishing in the prevailing conditions. Total time spent with flies in the water probably amounted to little over half an hour between us as we trudged the 4 miles or so downstream and back. However, time spent exploring new water is never wasted and we had seen enough the previous day to persuade us that a return visit would be very much worthwhile. That we can now discount certain areas will make future tactics easier to decide.

It was a low key day from a fishing point of view. Ironically though, it provided me with one very memorable moment. Midway through the morning we came upon a roily pool which didn't really feel like good grayling habitat, but had that look about it which suggested that while there might not be numbers of fish present, it might just be home to an odd 'souler'. We decided to quickly fish it through, and shortly after came a strange moment. A couple of minutes down the run and separated by maybe 20 yds, we both simultaneously felt that a fish was on the cards. Whether there was something about the atmosphere, quality of light, or just the way our flies were fishing, we both agreed afterwards that just for a moment, something had felt very right. It was during one such drift that I looked at my leader, muttered something under my breath along the lines of 'they're going through nicely', before the indicator ticked upwards and I lifted into the biggest grayling I've ever seen. Not that I saw it right away of course. In fact it was a good five minutes of typical stalemate before Stuart caught a glimpse beneath the surface and announced "that's huge!" Cue sweaty palms and thoughts of the 50 different ways in which you can lose a big fish...... 

In the net, it looked like a different species of fish altogether, than the grayling I'm used to catching: broad shouldered, deep, and with a sheen of turquoise along its flanks and dorsal fin that was just stunning. I've always suspected that a true 3lb grayling must be a hell of a sight, but never really expected to catch one. Social media these days would have you believe that they are ten-a-penny, but are they really? For sure there are rivers which are very capable of producing such specimens, but how many of the fish you see claimed as '3lb plus' are actually weighed? I've have had enough around the 2lb 8oz mark to know that a grayling of that calibre feels like a very big one indeed, and understand how easy it is to get carried away if a set of scales isn't close at hand. 

That was me done for the day; I honestly wasn't bothered if I had another offer all afternoon. Which is just as well because apart from one skerrit, I didn't!

The long drive home was spent reflecting upon what had been a fine weekend and making plans for future trips. There is something undeniably satisfying about taking a road trip to fish new water, using fairly specialised methods at a tough time of year, in unfavourable conditions....and managing to eke out some success. When that success is shared and comes as a result of combined effort and teamwork, well I don't think it gets much better than that. It has so far been a winter of content. 

 photos 3 and 4 courtesy of Stuart Minnikin.

Sunday, November 09, 2014


A friend of mine died at the end of this summer. I hadn't known Gary Hyde for even a year, yet such was the nature of the man that we had quickly become friends and when he finally lost his long battle against illness, I felt the loss greatly. Fellow anglers who had known Gary for a lot longer than I, were universally devastated; at once, I was reminded of the sense of community there exists within flyfishing circles as social networking sites became crowded with tributes to the man and condolences to his family.

I had a small tribute of my own in mind and finally saw it through last month. I visited one of Gary's favourite rivers and spent a few hours in quiet reflection, wading the pools I know he loved to fish, and to which he so generously introduced me at the start of the year. Those familiar with these pages might recall the circumstances in which we met during late December 2013 and how, unprompted, Gary invited me over to fish with him on some of the urban rivers of his native West Yorkshire. One polite enquiry as to where might be a good place to start on the Ryburn and Halifax AS waters of the River Calder, and shortly after at Gary's absolute insistence, I found myself in the passenger seat of his car, receiving a comprehensive tour of the area's flyfishing potential. A few days later we were back again, this time actually fishing. Gary eagerly pressed example after example of his beautifully tied grayling flies into my hand at every opportunity, patterns which went on to have a profound effect upon my hitherto conservative tying style. The fishing itself was a revelation and I made a number of return visits to the area before the trout season opened and I turned my attention to more familiar ground elsewhere.

When at last the opportunity arose, I returned in October to find the river in an entirely unfamiliar state: running clear and low enough to reveal a mouthwatering sequence of riffles and pools. Of course I had forgotten; back in the early days of my acquaintance I came each time to the river in various states of spate and thus came to know it only as a mucky torrent from which grayling could be plucked from slack water eddies and boil holes. But here was a bright, clean proposition entirely unlike that which my limited experience had revealed, its gritstone bones so dark that only stonebound accumulations of autumn leaves on the riverbed betrayed what would otherwise have appeared unfathomable depths. Slowly, I worked my way up the pools with a brace of nymphs, a short line and a heavy heart.

The fishing was stupendously good - it always is on Gary's river. There are many more such examples up and down the country. That such vigorous veins of life can thrive in the face of such pressure is nothing short of a miracle and a credit to all involved in urban river restoration. These streams exist on a perpetual knife edge, the ever-present threat of complete wipeout at the hand of industrial pollution incidents looming with a sense of inevitability that is heartbreaking. It would be easy to feel pessimistic about the future, more so when weighed down by thoughts of mortality....yet by the time I climbed from the river, a good mile or so upstream, I couldn't fail to be buoyed by the absolute magnificence of the sport. In a little over three hours I had returned exactly 80 fish, mostly grayling but despite best endeavors to avoid them, a good number of ravenous trout among them. I don't deserve any credit for that impressive tally - the fishing was easy and a rank novice would have filled his boots similarly. It is the river which deserves the credit, along with all the people and organisations involved in its improvement.

There is another story to be told here - one for another time. It concerns the flies I used that day: patterns of my own devising both, but as you might have guessed, patterns very much in the style of my late friend. The two flies remained in their respective positions on the cast for the whole session and would you believe me if I said that all but a couple of trout took the point fly (a small gold-headed jig nymph), whilst nearly every single grayling ate the dropper? One day I'll tell you about that dropper fly I promise......

I felt blessed as I made the drive home. This last year has changed my outlook as an angler, for a number of reasons, all of them positive; and whilst it would be wrong to credit a single individual with that, there is little doubt that one particular 'phone conversation back in the dying embers of 2013 proved to be the catalyst for some wholesale changes to my outlook on certain aspects of river fishing and fly tying.

Gary Hyde was a fine man; one of the most generous, kind-hearted blokes I've ever had the pleasure to meet. No trouble was too great if it meant helping a fellow angler, experienced or novice - something that I witnessed at first hand on a number of occasions and which instilled in me a deep respect for the man, and a desire to become a better person myself as a result. It was standing room only at his funeral as fellow anglers packed in to pay their respects, some of whom traveled out to the river afterwards for a few reflective casts. I wasn't able to make it that day; I hope that these few paragraphs go some way to making amends.

Thanks for everything Gary. We all miss you fella.

Wednesday, October 08, 2014

Curtain Drawn.

That's it then: the 2014 trout season has passed and I return to this blog a full two months after last posting - what a sad state of affairs! It's not been from a lack of trying, I can tell you - all sorts of other stuff has got in the way, such as fishing (hurrah!), and when I have had some keyboard time, a few bits of writing published elsewhere. I guess that makes me a little unfaithful to these pages, and yes I do feel bad. The great thing about keeping a blog is that you write purely for fun and on your own terms. Someone once said that if you haven't got anything interesting to say, don't say it; that's a maxim that the blogger can steadfastly live by - certainly I find myself more and more these days with just nothing interesting to say. Then one day you might be in the mood to have a waffle and off you go.....out comes a blog post. Whether anyone reads it or finds it interesting or worthwhile is a secondary consideration - the main thing is that you enjoyed doing it in the first place.

Commissioned writing is a different beast altogether. Take a subject you love and love to write about and it should be easy to knock an article out to order yes? Well no, not for me anyway; bung a deadline in front of something and it instantly becomes A Task. Over the last eight or so years, my motivation for writing has been purely internal and I've become accustomed to brief blasts at the keyboard when the mood takes - a stream of consciousness which either turns out acceptably, or gets consigned to the virtual trashcan, with no great drama either way. Recently however I've had to pore over every word, tie and then re-tie sample flies, self edit down to a more concise wordcount, process and re-size photos and then start again when I realised I hadn't removed a sensor speck from the top right hand corner....that sort of thing. Suddenly, what would have been a half hour exercise in freestyling, has absorbed hours of your already busy life! Yes, my poor little blog has suffered. The least I can do is make amends with an obligatory end of season round-up.

Where to begin though? I've been uncommonly lucky this time around and done more than my fair share of fishing on waters both running and still. The Eden has been kind once more and after a period of averaging high numbers of sub-2lb fish per session, I at last managed to get my timing right and rock up when a few bigger fish were on the go. Visits from early August onwards threw up a few 3-4lb trout although I needed to fish well into darkness to find them feeding off the surface to blue-winged olive duns and emerging caddis.

I had a play with the G16's auto-timer in an attempt to get a few 'selfies'. There is some way to go before I can match the efforts of Paul Procter and Jeff Hatt admittedly!

Then later in the season I had a few trips out to my favourite wild stillwater where luckily a boat partner was generally on hand to obtain something like a decent photo:

Ironically though, after a season which has proved to be consistently productive, my most memorable outing of the back end was an occasion when I fell flat on my be-wadered arse and failed miserably to catch much more than a handful of skezwees. It was a day when I was required to catch to order - the first time in my life such a bizarre circumstance has arisen. I had my photographer friend Peter with me and the brief was simple - catch a couple of good fish for some action shots and a couple of nice shallow-depth-of-field trout portraits. So I took him to my 'banker stretch', a bit of river that I know well, where I am always confident of catching plenty of decent trout. It might not be the place to go for the very biggest fish, but I was pretty sure I could extract at least one 2lb-er for the camera. The day was fine, the river refreshed slightly by an all too rare thunderstorm a couple of days earlier, and with each pool hereabouts typically producing at least a brace of decent fish all summer, all I had to do was turn up and fish right? Nope, 'fraid not.

By the time I had fished through three pools with only a couple of parr to show, I was becoming concerned. I mucked about with my nymph patterns and plugged away, safe in the knowledge that the fish hadn't gone anywhere and that I would connect eventually.......except I never did. Just as writing for oneself comes easily at times, but a whole lot harder when working to a brief, so the angling side had proved to be uncompromising when all I bloody well needed needed was one decent (and by decent, I would have settled for pound class), fish.....trout, grayling or bugger it, even a chub! I could sense Peter's resolve draining by the minute; the increasingly bright conditions making even the routine capturing of 'fishless angler going through the motions' shots, a far from straightforward affair. Eventually I returned a couple of 8 inch grayling and then dropped a somewhat better fish down the side of a pool head rapid. It was, truth be told, some way off being a satisfactory performance. Yet it was truly a memorable outing.......mainly because I haven't been allowed to forget it!

The last roll of the dice came a few weeks later when I met up with my good friend Dave Smith for a day on the Eden, in glorious late September weather of warm air and soft sunlight. Fishing with Dave is always an absolute pleasure: a relaxing, contemplative occasion where fish tend to come as a happy byproduct rather than the result of any concerted effort. We chewed the fat, made plans for next season, fished dry in the pool tails (Dave), fished wet in the pool heads (me), relaxed with a picnic of some quality and bottles of pale ale, then resumed fishing into the autumnal gloaming with spirits high for the moment, but hearts heavy at the passing of another season. 
No big trout showed themselves that evening, but the hours that preceded had yielded a good many fish with Dave expertly picking off risers (and non-risers) to small black patterns, and yours truly occasionally chipping in with small Leon-style nymphs in the very thinnest of the drought-shrunken riffles.The river is in rude health and Dave returned a good number of fish of this calibre, which bodes well for the coming couple of seasons.

Plenty of grayling continued to show too, which is encouraging as they seem to have been a little scarce on the Eden of late. Dozens of 8-10 inch fish tell a story of successful spawning in spring 2013 and as the season closed it seemed that every pool held a pocket of them. If we get a proper hard winter this time and they are encouraged to shoal, it might herald a return to those days when eventual location could lead to a return of 20 or more or more fish without moving your feet.
I have heard complaints this year. I can understand why: those who prefer to fish dry fly have had a hard time of it through no fault of their own. What is indisputable though, is that the head of fish is there - one or two fellow anglers I know have enjoyed something approaching their best ever season on the river. Local expert Geoff Johnston's latest blog post pretty much sums things up for me - it feels like the end of the season has come too soon!

Dave continued to fish with trademark elegance into the last knockings while I pootled about with my camera. Never one to pass up the opportunity for a cliche, I stood mid-river and took a series of shots of the sun dipping slowly behind the bankside trees, drawing the curtain on another trout season. What a privilege to have fished in the places I have fished, with the people I have fished with!

Wednesday, August 06, 2014


That there is more to flyfishing than flyfishing alone is a fact I was reminded of in spades last week. I fished on three separate occasions, each one a completely different experience to the one before, each one memorable in its own unique way.

Friday night found me on familiar territory and reveling in the comforts of a piece of river I know like the back of the proverbial. The week had been another blisteringly hot one and the river was desperately low, a full five inches below summer zero. Just how long a river can survive in the face of such a drought I've no idea - probably a lot longer than might seem possible - but at the time (the weather has since broken and we've seen some rain at last), the situation seemed dire and the shrunken pools, barely worth fishing.

I pinned my hopes on an evening rise and spent the hours between 6 and 9pm fishing a single tiny nymph into the foreshortened lively water at the pool heads. Using a long French leader with only a short length of fluo yellow Stren as an indicator, I crept about keeping as low a profile as possible whilst delivering the nymph into any pocket with enough depth to contain a fish. I didn't expect much response, but was pleasantly surprised to return a string of trout and grayling from spots which you would have thought too shallow to be worth fishing. There were some decent specimens among them - nothing huge, but a handful of trout around the pound mark such as the golden beauty at the top of this post. It was absorbing stuff; the kind of fishing the French leader was designed for, and I later wondered if I would have had the same rate of success a few years ago while plugging away with a conventional upstream nymph approach. A Tenkara angler would no doubt have been very much in his element......but that is a deviation too far for me.

Another thing which came as a surprise was the number of grayling I caught - seven bright little fish, all in the 10-12 inch bracket. Where have they been hiding for the last few months when the river seemed entirely devoid of them I wonder (I contacted ten of them again when I was out last night, outnumbered by trout only marginally).

The evening did have some dry fly sport in store although I had to wait until nearly 10pm. A mixed fall of BWO spinners and hatch of caddis resulted in a few fish nudging the surface in one broken glide, including the somewhat better specimen below. Then, once the light had gone altogether, I reverted to the downstream skated sedge - a contemporary version of the traditional Eden Bustard method I suppose, and one which results in explosive takes which seem incongruous in the low, quiet conditions of the drought stricken river. This tactic nobbled a last couple of trout before I started to get the night time heebie-geebies and headed back to the car with only bats for company. I'm some way off having the minerals for sea trout fishing, admittedly.



It's strange how our concept of time alters as we get older. My lad has finished school for the summer holidays and with several long weeks of freedom stretching out ahead of him it must feel, as it did for me when I was his age, like endless possibilities await. I can still vividly recall that same sense that the summer - real summer - had only just begun when I threw my school clothes in the wash for the last time. And yet when I walked the banks of the river last night, it felt like summer was as good as over, even the Ragwort coming to the end of its flowering, and the balsam pods ripe to burst. The songbirds are quiet and ducklings are no longer ducklings, but near full grown birds which career off noisily up through the pool I am about to fish, leaving me cursing their anatidine stupidity.

To George however, the world is all summertime exploration and adventure and time is not a concept worthy of consideration. I took him with me last weekend, to the Secret Forest Stream, and for a couple of hours my world weary resignation to the decay of all things living was forgotten in a riot of wide-eyed excitement.

I didn't have any waders for him, so it was just the welly-bobs and an unspoken understanding that he was going to get wet. In any case the weather was hot and even under the woodland canopy, the air was muggy and warm. We started at the first of many tiny pools (just scoops really, erosion pockets under tangled banks), and I showed him how to flick a single nymph into the deeper water and twitch it back enticingly. Trout soon followed and although the process of casting in tight spaces and then hooking the quick little buggers proved a task too far for the boy, he was content enough to reel in the ones I hooked and then slip them back into the tiny refuges they call home.

George soon got a handle on which type of water held the fish and went on upstream, scrambling about in the undergrowth and then returning to tell Daddy that there was a good looking pool just around the corner, with spots of foam and tree roots just like I'd said. He doesn't know it yet, but he has already begun the process of learning the 'read the river'.

We had a smashing couple of hours together. The fishing didn't amount to much, with maybe half a dozen little trout falling to the little pink-tailed nymph we showed them; but in many ways the fishing wasn't the important thing. Catching trout isn't really a serious least I don't think it should be. It's just that sometimes it becomes more serious to us grown-ups through obsession and the need to escape from the rigours of modern living. To George all the excitement of adventure awaits and each fish caught is greeted like some wondrous accident has occurred. It's a mindset I intend to try and rekindle for myself over the next few fishing trips.


If scrambling about on a tiny woodland stream constituted a great expedition to my little lad, then a day spent up on Cow Green Reservoir a few days later was mine - an enterprise of an altogether different kind, being a long and somewhat remote hike around the perimeter of one of England's most dauntingly wild stillwaters. It's a place I've written of before, a stunningly remote spot high up in the north Peninnes at the head of Teesdale; a place which might be considered as close to wilderness as this over-populated country can offer. I've fished it alone a handful of times in the past and the experience has always been atmospheric, eerie even - a communion with the wild. For whatever reason, it's been a few years since I last made the long drive. I was so excited the night before, I barely slept. 

This time I had the pleasure of company. Stuart Minnikin and I had planned the trip and set the date some weeks before. Like me, Stuart is no stranger to 'The Big Cow', his most recent foray being an overnight camp on the remote south west bank, some four miles from the car park (which in turn is a further three miles from the nearest meaningful civilisation at Langdon Beck). With a perimeter of some seven miles and the going underfoot ranging from loose boulders, to boggy peat hags, to tussocky moorland riven with drainage grips and potholes, this is a place to exercise great care and one for the hardcore flyfisher only. Stuart is about as dedicated as it gets when it comes to fishing wild places - I couldn't think of better company for the day.

We decided to fish the more remote south west bank. Perhaps this was always inevitable as the lure of a shoreline which barely sees a rod from one year to the next will always appeal to fishers like us. A check on wind direction at the car park sealed the deal though - a square westerly of maybe 20mph meant that the 'point and bay' topography of the far side would give a far better chance of comfortable angling. We set off around the dam wall with high hopes and a long day ahead.

In the end, we hiked the full perimeter. There came a point whilst leapfrogging each other westwards, where it was as easy to just keep going than retrace our steps. It would be a hell of a task for two anglers to actually fish the full water in a day, but we managed maybe 40% - from the dam end to the inlet of the infant River Tees which we arrived at gone 6:30pm and realised we had better be heading  back if we wanted to arrive home at a decent hour. 

The six hours preceding had provided cracking sport with Cow Green's trademark small, dark trout. Not silly numbers, but enough action to keep us both occupied. We returned about two dozen between us, with a ratio of maybe three missed offers to every one converted, so quick are these wild little fish. Most of the action came in the calmer, sheltered lee of points where a dark dry fly would be assaulted within seconds of touching the water. Strangely, the usual banker tactic of pulling a team of wet flies through bigger wave (which we had ample opportunity to do when rounding a point into the teeth of the wind), failed to produce more than an odd fish......apart from a brief spell in mid afternoon where the trout went potty for half an hour or so and wanted the flies twiddled back briskly through the ripple.

Fishing Cow Green Reservoir is so much more than just catching numerous little trout though. It's a different experience altogether and one which only a minority of mad keen anglers will ever understand. As much as the fishing itself, is the sense of location and of being lost amidst the bleak wildness of nature. Years ago I sought this feeling of isolation through hill walking alone, itself a rewarding undertaking. But by fishing in such places too, well that seems to add a new dimension of absorption into the environment which elevates the whole thing to something approaching a religious experience. The landscape is hardly untouched by man; after all, this is a reservoir which only came into existence with the completion of the dam wall as recently as 1971. It certainly doesn't feel that way; it's some paradox that a day on a man made lake can offer a feeling of detachment so complete, you might as well be angling on The Moon.

And so ended a week of great variety: wild trout caught from mere ounces up to well over 3lb, from water as diverse as the tiniest forest brook up to hundreds of acres of windswept reservoir, and with mood ranging from childlike adventure to comfortable familiarity, to awestruck respect. What a superb spectrum of experiences this wonderful sport is capable of providing. As happens more and more these days, I count myself a lucky man to have so much on his doorstep, and great friends with which to share it.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Struggling to find the words.

This blog has presented me with a problem of late. I desperately want to write something worthwhile, but somehow cannot find the words. A few things might be to blame for this, such as spending more time actually fishing than thinking and writing about it (A Good Thing); but perhaps the nature of my fishing has had the greatest effect. I've been lucky enough to get out very regularly and to a variety of different venues from stocked stillwater small and large, through upland wild tarn, to running water ranging from tiniest brook to large spate river. It's been a rare owd time for sure, but to keep updating this blog each time I return home would quickly read like a succession of soulless catch reports.

Better perhaps to post up a few photos which together sum up the last few weeks for me. Every image has its own story, each worthwhile in its own way, but I have neither the time nor the disposition to do justice to them here.

Stocks Reservoir: making good our embarkation in the Rob Denson Birthday Invitational Competition.

NCA Junior into his first fly caught fish - a special moment.

Small stream, big trout!

Small stream, tiny trout!

Grellin back in season

Flies for the High Place....

Stuart at the High Place.

Tony in deepest Ribblesdale.

A favourite bit of river back from the brink.

Saviour of the dog days - French leader and (my interpretation of) Leon style nymphs.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Fishing the water

What a peculiar course my trout fishing season has taken so far. With the cream of the year's sport supposedly now upon us I would have expected to be spending nearly all my time stalking individual rising trout, preferably large ones. Yet, as I write, midway through glorious June, I can count on a few digits the number of fish I've been able to approach in such a manner; and although I've caught good numbers of trout on each of my last few visits, the overwhelming majority have been on nymphs and a general MO of just 'fishing the water'.

Why this should be so is a question I've pondered to death recently. Unsurprisingly, the results of my ponderings have been inconclusive and as it stands, I've still no real idea what's going on. However the facts are stark and irrefutable: over the course of half a dozen sessions on various rivers in the last month or so I've returned somewhere in the region of 100 trout...and only a dozen or so have been to the dry fly. Of those dozen, maybe half came from blind prospecting, leaving a very modest number of actively rising fish successfully targeted and landed.

Whether I've just been unlucky and hit on a bad run of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or whether it's just turning out to be a very slow season surface sport wise, I don't know. A friend of mine has witnessed somewhat better dry fly sport in the upper reaches of a river I regularly fish (although a noticeable dearth of large trout); and one or two others who fish in different parts of the country have had superb dry fly sport from opening day. Yet whilst I cannot begin to describe my seasons so far as being poor, it has certainly been a whole lot different to how things normally pan out. I've been forced to reassess my expectations, focusing very heavily on the full range of nymphing methods to catch fish in good number....but all the while wondering what the hell happened to the rising fish.

"Whit's that in its mooth?"

So, fishing the water then. I have to admit that there have been times in recent years when that whole concept felt a bit unsatisfactory to me. I long since lost the urge to hare around trying to catch as many fish as I could on any given day. There was a time when I felt it imperative that I catch consistently for as much of the session as possible and set about learning all the different river techniques required in order to achieve that goal. Admittedly there is something satisfying about constantly adapting and tweaking one's approach in order to keep in touch with the river's signals. Inevitably though, I just got older - and maybe a touch lazier - and started to accept the fact that there are times when trout and grayling just don't respond....those periods when the driving force to their feeding - invertebrate availability - is just lacking and the result is a river sleeping. During such times you'll have been more likely to find me taking a kip in the grass while I wait for some decent fish to show.

These last few sessions have reversed that trend and I've forced myself to adopt a more proactive approach and the thorough searching of water I once found so compelling. It's been an interesting and rewarding exercise which has further added to the sense that this is a season which I hope to remember for its variety and experimentation. I've been lucky enough to get out quite a bit and fish with a number of different friends on many different waters. The net product of that might be that I've lost a bit of touch with my regular haunts, not been quite so 'in tune' with them as normal....but the trade-off has been worthwhile, not least because I've been able to get my eye back in to methods such as upstream nymphing, French leader, and the 'trio'.

After a couple of weeks away from the river, I made a trip over the Pennines to meet up with a friend of mine, Danny Gill. We fished the headwaters of his local spate stream and enjoyed a challenging but rewarding session which summed up a lot of what my season has been about. The river positively bristles with small trout and in the right conditions a proper cricket score can be achieved. Danny knows this and has tuned his approach to take maximum advantage by closely following the gauge station readings each week and selecting the best beat to fish. When it works out, some truly phenomenal numbers are on the cards; when it doesn't, well the fishing is still absorbing as we found out the other night.

It never ceases to amaze me how a river's moods can change so drastically. We fished a section where the week before, Danny had returned something like 125 trout during an afternoon session. Now, with the river over 4 inches lower and crystal clear, it was hard in places to imagine where fish might be hiding, such was the lack of depth and cover. We toiled away for an odd fish or two but it was difficult to progress without spooking small ones rising in the pool tails, which in turn seemed to put the entire pool down as they bolted off upstream (at one point I crept into the back end of one pool to tackle the three or four fish which were rising steadily in the eddy above, only for them all to go down the instant I extended a line!). A better bet proved to be bypassing the slower sections altogether and quietly drop in to the broken water at the head, where fish would come to small bead headed nymphs right enough.

I was reminded of the days of our north country forefathers where large baskets of trout were frequently described by the likes of Pritt and Walbran, generally achieved by fishing spider patterns in the 'fining down' water following a spate. Danny's neglected little river seems to me to exhibit such traits still, where most of our more famous northern spate streams have suffered terribly at the hands of predation land management and no longer hold such impressive numbers of game fish.

As the evening progressed the odds slowly began to tip in our favour. Lengthening shadows and the discovery of some deeper sections upstream, led to a steady increase in catch rate and fishing the water with either nymphs or dries brought regular interest from superb wild little trout up to about 10" in length. It was a lovely evening - the first such I've enjoyed this summer - warm and still and the air heavy with the scent of elderflower and freshly cut meadowgrass. At this time of year, there is nowhere in the world I would rather be.


Finally, I'm pleased to report that the July 2014 edition of Total Flyfisher magazine contains an article of mine. Pennies From Heaven is a discussion on the tactics and flies required to negotiate the Blue-Winged Olive spinner fall, which should be providing us with some electric evening dry fly sport any time around now. I hope it proves interesting to anyone who regularly buys the mag.