tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33082784812687234912024-02-18T19:22:48.056-08:00RiverFlyFishingDiaryAlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308278481268723491.post-55974191027983256632012-09-23T04:01:00.001-07:002012-09-23T04:03:45.703-07:00First Grayling trip of the season fast approaching. Here's an article I wrote almost a year ago to enter into a writing competition; I didn't win the competition, but rereading it has really wet my appetite for grayling fishing as I'm fishing the same stretch it's based upon in only a few weeks time:<br />
<br />
<b>The Perfect Grayling River</b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 0.58cm;">The
ontological argument as put forward by various philosophers
throughout history has been the source of much debate and
controversy, a paraphrased version of this argument goes as follows:
I can imagine a perfect being; therefore, because I can imagine it,
it must be real. I really fail to see how such an argument could be
used to explain the existence of a deity, but as Bernard Venables
once said “fishing is a philosophy”, therefore, perhaps this
philosophical line of argument could be adapted by fishermen.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Every
one of us has, in our mind's eye, the image of a perfect fishing
spot. If we are tench fishers then perhaps we dream of misty summer
dawns spent on secluded estate lakes overlooked by rustic manor
houses, filled with lily-pads, and overhung with willow in which
small birds sing noisily about the approaching sunrise. If we fish
for the salmon then perhaps we think of a river in early spring as it
pours down from the mountains, powerful and filled with leaping fish,
invariably one or two of which are 40lbers.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />For
me, I am spellbound by the grayling, when I think of the perfect
river my mind instantly departs south of my Berkshire home, for my
perfect spot must surely exist in Hampshire. I know not where in
Hampshire, only that when I think of grayling I think of
chalkstreams. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />This
river isn't too narrow, yet it certainly is still narrow enough to be
considered a stream. It's crystal clear and the gravel is pale; the
fish appear as if they are levitating, indeed there is a magical feel
to the place as my mind's eye peers over the old lichen clad bridge
that straddles the first pool. Whilst setting up my fly rod
with a long leader and a tiny nymph of my own creation, I pause to
take in the scenery before fishing. I am not alone, as how could I
possibly enjoy such perfection to the full if it isn't shared,
joining me today is a good friend and fishing partner, one of whom
I've fished in many places with, but none quite as lovely as this. I
can’t quite choose between a snowy winter's day and a colourful
autumnal dawn, either way, my imagined river is perfect regardless,
however, the season will have a direct bearing upon the scenery that
surrounds me during this description of my imaginary day on my
imaginary river.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />For
the sake of this description, it is mid October, the sky is clear and
the sweet smell of the river rises up, tantalising my senses, surely
no sweeter smell exists than that of this grayling stream. The
withering leaves hang in the river side trees and hedgerows, a
million patches of brown, red and gold, and indeed every shade in
between. The distant wood appears as if it were a masterpiece of
pointillism.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />I
walk down from the bridge, eager to start having spotted an
aggregation of dark shadows ghosting through the pool below. Moving
into position I simply cannot help but crumple the bank side water
mint, so ubiquitous with this idyllic setting is the refreshing smell
of this riverside herb as it intermingles with the sweet musky scent
of the river; it's remarkable how strong the imagination can be.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Crouching
down, I use the dense rushes for cover, creeping low, like a hunter
towards my quarry. Within range I strip a little line from the reel;
the rasp of the drag momentarily drowns out the gently gurgling of
the stream. Peering cautiously over the rushes, I flick my fly just
upstream of the nose of the lead grayling, watching it sink and drift
down, straight past his nose. Every fin twitch is visible; every
movement of the mouth, the occasional tilt, one of these brutes even
buries his nose into the silt, rummaging for grubs no doubt.</span></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46tLSbCq_ORKOTiEkK5gVpuJkLkraTgi4HjYX6dxc_EBxh98Q30njsCXIP8KLBos2BCJ4T9KUk828QERmMzexDp4-i6NQdho5K0nijIZ96oVt5VPxeRiL151nzOEfaEb9CzKaQUUc5Sxe/s1600/017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46tLSbCq_ORKOTiEkK5gVpuJkLkraTgi4HjYX6dxc_EBxh98Q30njsCXIP8KLBos2BCJ4T9KUk828QERmMzexDp4-i6NQdho5K0nijIZ96oVt5VPxeRiL151nzOEfaEb9CzKaQUUc5Sxe/s400/017.JPG" width="266" /></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They
do not know that I am here, watching their every move as I work my
fly slowly past them. I see a little quiver in jaw of the lead fish,
my tiny fly rod bends double and a great red dorsal is raised mid
stream. The fish fights hard in the flow, using its cunning and wiry
strength, but eventually, inescapably, it tires. In the river it
appeared smaller than it does now that it's in my net; it's put on at
least a pound since I hooked it, appearing far larger than any
grayling that I've hooked in real life. The hook is nestled in its
upper jaw, a pink creation, of my own tying.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="border: none; line-height: 0.58cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Imaginary
flies have no names, and unfortunately my imagination doesn't stretch
quite far enough to enable me to tie up a handful of this fly, which,
in keeping with the perfection of the day, is naturally the most
perfect fly that one could ever want for fooling a grayling. Being so
large a fish, I return him gently, his silver scales glinting in the
sunlight, his mottled pectorals twitching as he feels his way gently
from my nursing grip, swimming freely once more through the river
that meanders through an imaginary valley. If we were to really
indulge in philosophy, we could possibly conclude that this valley is
in fact just as real as any real valley that we remember seeing, for
we all have memories that are so vague as could have been dreamt.
Such is the way that knowledge is collected, the only reason we know
our waking life from dream worlds is simply the fact that there is
continuity in our waking life, and our dreams appear in no logical
order. The only way we can really know that our fishing dreams
haven't really occurred is perhaps therefore only due to the dryness
of our nets in the morning, or the lack of slime on the outfit that
we wore that day.</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My
imagined day will continue as it began, perhaps with a lull in the
sport around lunch time, which will of course be spent upon an ornate
waterside bench (no chalkstream is complete without the pretty
benches). It'll be spent discussing fishing and life with a good
friend and fishing partner, who I imagine could be catching less than
me, or, maybe he is being plagued by trout, or only catching younger
grayling. On this one occasion however I like to imagine that he is
actually doing somewhat better than I, as is usually the case, for,
after all, I am confident that I am letting him catch more out of the
kindness of my heart.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin69pUgH5ln1PvURgWKtUH4XV_vjfmY5efAEiAEIBN6JUX8ApnqpbMVCmSwYvA8un6wa1oj-uMwx84d8MzTVbWcqBrg6zUi_F9mzU8Q_DHxWDu_QWLeUjObpvO8R4BsxzRbzfPL3-PNGy_/s1600/018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin69pUgH5ln1PvURgWKtUH4XV_vjfmY5efAEiAEIBN6JUX8ApnqpbMVCmSwYvA8un6wa1oj-uMwx84d8MzTVbWcqBrg6zUi_F9mzU8Q_DHxWDu_QWLeUjObpvO8R4BsxzRbzfPL3-PNGy_/s400/018.JPG" width="400" /></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
sport picks up after lunch, and in seemingly no time at all we've
worked our way to the top of the beat. We've managed between us to
catch several fish over the two pound mark, but, there were many
smaller fish for every 2lber. I recall once hearing a famous fly
angler say that hell is a river in which every fish weighed two
pounds. My perfect river does contain fish of over two pounds, maybe
over three pounds and perhaps even over the magical four pound mark,
however, naturally they're hard to catch. I'm afraid my imagination
simply cannot stretch to grayling of such epic proportions, I
couldn't imagine catching one.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />At
the end of the beat is a house, a typical country house, one of the
prettiest I've set eyes upon, it's red bricks lit up in the gentle
evening light, it's well kept lawn merging with the manicured banks.
My perfect house backs onto my perfect river, what a life one could
have in such a desirable setting I think to myself as I feel my
imaginary world collapse, daydreams always appear longer than the
particularly dull A level chemistry lesson in which they're best
enjoyed.</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've
an entire lifetime ahead of me in which to explore the rivers and
streams of southern England, seemingly endless days in which to find
that one perfect stream. There are however only a precious few
streams that run through chalk landscapes, only a finite number of
fishing days per season, and only a finite number seasons in a
lifetime. Perhaps I will one day find the perfect stream, perhaps I
might one day even get to fish it, perhaps I will instead grow old,
too old to keep up my search and then I will die without the
satisfaction of even finding what it is that I look for. Alas, we
fishermen can conceive our perfect rivers, or perfect lakes, they
must therefore surely exist, if only in our daydreams.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7PCem7W_WKyf0-BB8EdYhyphenhyphenHrSh_TfDS4t-RkDw7ebTOVqziblADzngeinFFXQrImt7K1y2jH0PK2nIK3R9gHA_fwrFvkhG8VM4nyW8B6QtSmU6cPhfGuw34orVh7P8UpEs3nil4X754l/s1600/071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7PCem7W_WKyf0-BB8EdYhyphenhyphenHrSh_TfDS4t-RkDw7ebTOVqziblADzngeinFFXQrImt7K1y2jH0PK2nIK3R9gHA_fwrFvkhG8VM4nyW8B6QtSmU6cPhfGuw34orVh7P8UpEs3nil4X754l/s400/071.JPG" width="266" /></span></a></div>
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AlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308278481268723491.post-24147727761826868232012-09-20T12:22:00.001-07:002012-09-20T12:22:17.694-07:00A weekend of unsuccessful salmon fishing<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I spent the second weekend of September trying to catch salmon on the river Usk
on Saturday and the Wye on Sunday. I couldn't sleep on Friday night
in anticipation of fishing on these classic salmon rivers, and
amongst the best salmon rivers in Wales.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nick and I fished for Salmon on the middle Usk at Llanover, the
ghillie informed us that the height was perfect. Unfortunately the
day's weather wasn't conducive to fishing, bright blue skies and
glaring sunshine. We fished on regardless, covering the lovely pools
and enjoying the wading on the gravelly river bed. Later in the day
the Usk's trout managed to distract Nick and I, but with salmon on my
mind I seemed incapable of casting a dry fly upstream. Nick looked on
at what was “the worst display of casting” that he'd ever seen.
I'm curious if anyone else is incapable of casting to trout when they
should be salmon fishing? Needless to say I gave up, leaving the
trout to Nick, and returned to the salmon fishing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My tactics seemed rudimentary, and I'm not entirely sure how
effective I was fishing the beat for salmon given the time of year
and water conditions. As a novice salmon angler, lacking even a
double handed rod, I am always quite unsure as to how to actually
fish for salmon on the fly. I was casting a size 10/12 silver stoat
double with a floating line to the far bank at an angle of around
45-90degress (depending on pace) and then simply allowing it to swing
around whilst slowly retrieving using a figure of eight retrieve. I
managed to get the hang of the single spey cast using my single
handed rod (casting off of my right shoulder) and by the end of the
day I was throwing a nice line. It was the first time I've ever been
able to shoot a length of line with a roll cast. Even if the salmon
weren't playing ball I was certainly enjoying the casting and wading
enough to consider it a very good day's fishing! In the end I was
lucky to catch two small trout on my silver stoat in a rather riffly
glide of the river. No salmon were caught, or even seen by either of
us. Nick managed to catch quite a few nice trout on a small
nondescript terrestrial pattern during a hatch of flying ants.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We camped over night in a campsite right next to the upper Wye, a few
miles upstream of where we'd spend our Sunday fishing. After some
beer and a hearty camp dinner of sausage sandwiches and soup we
turned in for the night, slept soundly and dreamt of huge silver fish
leaping in the pools that flowed quietly beside us.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Wye at Gromain was much wider than I'd imagined. I found covering
the water with my 9ft 7# near enough impossible and my single handed
spey casting off of my left shoulder wasn't at all good. I
concentrated on fishing from the planks and concrete stands that
jutted out into some of the pools. These enabled me enough of a back
cast to throw out a decent line across the river and feel as if I was
covering fish. At first I was using the silver stoat from yesterday,
but soon switched to a heavier and larger williegun tube fly in order
to fish a little deeper. I did this on advice from the owner that we
saw fishing in the morning. I never felt the confidence on the Wye
that I had on the Usk. I simply couldn't cover the water. I fished
on, but towards afternoon I began to lose hope in catching a salmon.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
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I wondered off from the bank, up a track and to the Llanstephen
suspension bridge in order to enjoy the view of the river and valley
in the gentle light of the September sun. I peered Nick fishing in a
glide below, upstream of the bridge. Suddenly Nick disappeared! He
bobbed back up, a stumble and a wader full, perhaps the wading at
Gromain really is living up to it's name, although it's not been
atrocious so far. On the beat guide the wading on a section called
heron's run is described as “Truly awful!”. Enough scenery, back
to salmon fishing.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I stroll back down to the river filled with renewed confidence,
changing tactics and opting to fish a big heavy tube as slowly and
methodically as I could through the pools that offered a good back
cast. I fished hard through the afternoon and into evening, but
neither caught nor saw a salmon. I wonder will I ever catch a salmon.
I must endeavour to try and fish for salmon more next season.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nick had a dramatic end to the day whilst streamer fishing in a pool
that allegedly held monster trout; a fish hit into his streamer and
tore off with terrific force, he believed it a large trout, or a
salmon! And then all went limp, up came a pair of rubbery lips and he
landed a chub of around 3lbs. His first fish on a streamer and a
great end to a day spent in fantastic surroundings. </div>
AlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308278481268723491.post-42088296158679921932012-07-17T03:45:00.000-07:002012-07-17T03:45:18.844-07:00Summer Holiday in Ireland<br />
<br />
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I'd been looking
forward to this trip for a long time, 10 days of staying with family
and fly fishing in the picturesque setting of the west of Ireland.
The unusually wet summer unfortunately seriously affected the height
of the river local to where I was staying, the Clare. The river was
almost a meter higher than it had been on my last visit, and it's
water, which is usually as clear as tap water in the height of
summer, was peat stained, the colour of over brewed tea.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The river Clare has a
reasonable run of salmon and given the high water I concentrated on
trying to catch one. I've never before caught a salmon, and have
almost no experience salmon fishing. I fished for several evenings
using my single handed 9ft 7# rod, swinging an orange shrimp fly down
and across. I don't think I was fishing deep enough and I'm not even
sure that the fish could have seen my fly in the high and coloured
water. It's no surprise then that no salmon were caught during my
trip. That elusive first salmon will have to wait .</div>
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I tried my hand at
trout fishing in the swollen river, placing nymphs in pockets of
calmer water, in the slacks created by boulders and cowslips. I found
one rising fish in a large slack in a cowslip located behind a
section of stone wall that extended into the stream. I covered it
with various nymphs and dries, all to no avail.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
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On one of the days with
better weather I tried fly fishing in the sea, casting small shrimp
imitations into the waters of a beautiful sandy bay. No fish were
caught.
</div>
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I met up with a work
friend of my uncle's , who has a boat on Lough Derg. I spent the day
chasing trout on the fly. I was informed by him however that it was a
bad time of year for fly fishing for trout. Apparently the sport
wouldn't improve again until late august. The Lough was beautiful,
and the weather fantastic for being out on the water, albeit not
ideal for fishing. I saw what I believe to be a pine marten scurrying
along the wooded shore a sheltered bay as I stopped fishing for
lunch. At first I thought it was a mink until it proceeded to climb a
nearby tree.
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The highlight of the
trip was a day I had on Lough Corrib with a local guide, John
O'Malley. We spent the day fly fishing for pike, something I'd never
done before. The casting took a while to adjust to and wasn't helped
by a very strong wind. The fishing was great, I was getting hits from
pike almost as soon as I could cast the fly a decent distance. I soon
managed my first pike on the fly, a beautiful fish estimated to be
around 7-8lbs. The fight on the fly rod was incredible, I've never
had a pike fight so hard on spinning or bait gear. I went on to catch
two more pike that day, one of around 3lbs and another around 6lbs.
John managed to catch an impressive high double, around 17lbs in
weight, it fought ferociously; landing such a fish was a two man
effort as I had to pull in the drogue and assist in taking the fish
onto the boat. Both of us had a lot of hits that day, and hooked
several more fish. We were very unlucky not to have brought more fish
to the boat.
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</div>AlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308278481268723491.post-2909034153320617822012-06-15T06:00:00.000-07:002012-06-15T06:00:02.546-07:00A day out from revision.<br />
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Having worked flat out
for my up and coming A level exams I couldn't help but give myself
last saturday off when my fishing friend Nick offered a trip down to
a nice exclusive stretch of a local chalkstream. I did deserve a
break I thought, all those hours of work, besides, biology is a
subject that has as much relevance on the bank as it does in the
class room.</div>
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The weather was lovely,
albeit a little windy. The stream was up a little and flowing well
owing to the recent heavy rainfall in the south. Perhaps the river
held this much water prior to the days of abstraction, I'd bet it
held even more! The fishing was superb, both Nick and I fished the
duo with devastating effect. We entered the river by a bridge,
fishing our way upstream, and very quickly losing count of the number
of small trout and grayling we'd caught. The EA undertook significant
habitat work here around three years ago and the fish seem to be
thriving, spawning successfully on the newly put in gravels. The bulk
of the trout we caught were only a year or two old, reassuring proof
of successful spawning in the winters following the work.
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In one pool I managed
to capture my largest ever grayling on a dry fly, a fish that would
probably have made 1-1.5 pounds in it's autumn condition. Being out
of season and clearly recovering from spawning it was swiftly
unhooked in the water and released without weighing. The fish fell to
a klinkhammer expertly tied by Nick, a pattern I shall almost
certainly steal for future use.
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Many fish were caught
and much fun was had. With my last exams on tuesday and the coarse
fishing season beginning tomorrow I shall be spending my summer
trying to temp all manner of species with bait and flies and shall
hopefully have much more time to update this blog.
</div>
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<br />
</div>AlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308278481268723491.post-29272893904087716152012-05-16T06:26:00.001-07:002012-05-16T06:26:15.010-07:00My first seatrout and salmon flies.<br />
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I've been so busy with
school work that my fishing has unfortunately had to be put on the
back burner. I have however been obsessively fly tying, filling up my
fly box with various offerings that will hopefully one day tempt a
few sea trout or salmon. All are tied on size 14 partridge, wilson
hooks.
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Despite the mountains of revision for my final A level exams, I still find tine to tie a few. It makes a nice, refreshing revision break...</div>
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<br /></div>AlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308278481268723491.post-2443957419879786292012-05-15T12:22:00.002-07:002012-05-15T12:22:28.760-07:00River Taff and Rhondda<br />
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The only freestone rivers I'd fished until Sunday were a benign
stretch of the Monnow and a small tributary of it called the Honddu,
both of which were fairly tame. On sunday I fished the Taff and
Rhondda. This was my first time fishing and wading in such powerful
rivers; I was completely out of my depth.
</div>
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<br />
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Nick and I made the journey across the Severn bridge to fish with a
friend, Dan, who regularly fished the Taff. The river Taff was
enormous! Much larger than I had envisaged, and far more powerful
than I could possibly have imagined. Recent rain had swollen the
river, and although it was dropping it was still a foot or so above
normal levels. We started out fishing a beat where Dan and Nick had
experienced past success, however owing to the very powerful water it
proved impossible to access any of the good holding spots.
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<br />
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Enjoying no luck in the first section, we moved on, fishing a section
further up. Dan managed a nice, albeit out of season, grayling on a
nymph; the nymphs we were using were very heavy, 3-4mm tungsten
beads, my little 8ft 3# fly rod could barely cast them! Moving up
this beat I managed to find a few fish holding in a large slack,
catching 2 grayling and a small trout in successive casts. The
fishing I was told was not as good as it usually is, although before
we moved on once more I heard shouts from Nick coming from the
direction of the slack I'd found. He had hooked an enormous trout!
The fish went 2lb 6oz when landed, and was a beautiful cock fish,
with a handsomely kyped jaw and an iridescent blue sheen on gill
plate. The fish's tail had a notch worn out from spawning. It's good
to know that this attractive wild fish had been busy siring the next
generation of Taff trout. Nick has a knack of plundering the pools of
others, and Dan will probably quite willingly second me on that.
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<br />
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With the Taff not quite fishing as well as usual we decided to have a
go on one of its tributaries. The Rhondda, which is a significantly smaller river than the Taff, was in better shape after the recent rain. The entry to the river was interesting, jumping and clambering down miscellaneous old
industrial structures. (The Rhondda was once a very heavily
industrialised river, essentially an open industrial sewer.) The
current was equal in power to that of the Taff in
places, a very powerful river; thankfully only thigh-deep most of the
time. I really struggled with the wading and found the fishing to be
extremely difficult, having never come across “pocket water”
before, and having little idea at first of where exactly I should be
placing my nymphs. My short rod further restricted the areas I could
fish. Nick and Dan, being experienced pick pocketers and possessing
long rods and French leaders were quite happily fishing every inch of
slacker water. Dan managed an absolutely lovely trout of around 1 ¼
lbs from a pocket behind a boulder, it fought hard in the flow. Quite
possibly one of the prettiest fish I've seen. Shortly after this my
waders began to spring leaks, I felt a very uncomfortable cold
trickle coming in from a hole that had developed in the crotch. My
phone (which was snugly in the pocket of my jeans) soon died,
informing me of its plight by vibrating constantly until finally
giving up.
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After what seemed like an age of difficult fishing and wading I
managed my first Rhondda trout, a small but beautiful fish. The Rhondda
was a truly challenging river for me, being so unused to such
boisterous flows and tricky wading. There were times when crossing
the stream that Nick had to save me from falling to a watery death (a
slight exaggeration, but it was a perilous situation none the less) I
found it difficult to concentrate on wading and fishing at the same
time, I often stood too long in one spot for lack of confidence in my
ability to move safely a few steps upstream!
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<br />
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Towards the end of the day I thought that I was getting the hang of
the wading, although Nick informed me that I still looked like a
drunkard in the water. I managed one more fish that day, a lovely
brown trout of around ½ – ¾ of a pound.
</div>
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<br />
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By the end of the day my waders were so full of water that as we
walked back to the car spurts of water spewed from holes by the boot,
and I had to drain the boots, in the same vane as emptying out a full
wellington boot! There was a dodgy moment where I had to change into
dry clothing, using little more than a car door to save my dignity in
the middle of the very urban Pontypridd!</div>
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<br />
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In spite of being an extremely difficult and at times frustrating
day's fishing, it was extremely enjoyable and refreshing to fish on
rivers so different from anywhere I've ever fished before. It was a
real eye opener. Freestone rivers are fast becoming my favourite kind
of river, their varied nature, power, and changing character prove
captivating. The fishing itself was amongst the most challenging I've
yet to experience. </div>AlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308278481268723491.post-730080203718251842012-03-03T14:51:00.001-08:002012-03-03T14:53:42.161-08:00<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><b>A condensed season of Grayling fishing.</b></u></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">This season's Grayling fishing has been my best so far, with a number of productive outings and several large fish caught. Owing to the constraints of A levels, and a lack of fishing funds I've had less outings than I'd have liked, often going for months without casting a line. This however simply meant that those special occasions upon which I got to fish were savoured all the more. Each trip brought new challenges, and I feel that I've learned a lot as a fly fisher through my grayling outings. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My Grayling season got off to a flying start back in mid October with a trip to a prime tributary of the River Test. The river was perfect, it was everything a chalk stream should be, and the aroma of water mint permeated the bank side scene as it was crushed underfoot. The day was one of glorious sunshine, making fish spotting easy. Many large Grayling were drifting, ghost like on the pale chalk, and what's more, could be seen to be feeding. On several occasions I saw large Grayling tilt their snouts down, causing a small plume of silt to rise as they sucked in nymphs from the river bed. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJq0IdXB7a6Vyjnn2mHqVi-fAJMIVmScQQ95kq2t4dFS07TmHb-KG5mklw6sKVAsi_dhLu9FPD5U1tlaUT7oPdwyE8FXB58fTeX-9NxnM0Pi8lBpFpUFwFD9DHgBn4KQ6Yt0JalT7ySV1/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJq0IdXB7a6Vyjnn2mHqVi-fAJMIVmScQQ95kq2t4dFS07TmHb-KG5mklw6sKVAsi_dhLu9FPD5U1tlaUT7oPdwyE8FXB58fTeX-9NxnM0Pi8lBpFpUFwFD9DHgBn4KQ6Yt0JalT7ySV1/s640/004.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Nick opened the season with what was then the biggest Grayling I'd ever seen. It was a very dark fish, weighing in at 2lb 11oz! It was the first victim of the day to a fly that is now legendary within certain fly fishing circles: the killer orange beaded nymph. This fly, with it's visible bead, was to prove itself time and time again as the day went on, and I believe, I may not of course be correct, that every Grayling mentioned to be hooked or caught by Nick during this expansive blog entry was on one of these nymphs.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOvqygDIUtzcRbj_xAcP1XJsHqm9yFitpB8NbZNKUKczhV6mD-SMZdlyhx1WllluAOn-pQ9Kiru6Ml4Oz82wH7amMkTIdRcTJxUx9tmK6pWOYeUbpkrAe7IYbSSXbyy01wk-HvxkemsIlP/s1600/016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOvqygDIUtzcRbj_xAcP1XJsHqm9yFitpB8NbZNKUKczhV6mD-SMZdlyhx1WllluAOn-pQ9Kiru6Ml4Oz82wH7amMkTIdRcTJxUx9tmK6pWOYeUbpkrAe7IYbSSXbyy01wk-HvxkemsIlP/s640/016.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After this wonderful start, Nick spotted a couple of large Grayling feeding in the outside of a bend behind extensive rushes on our bank. Nick, having already had a good fish, gave me the privilege of casting to them. Crouching behind the rushes, I catapulted a pink bug of my own creation out to the fish, which to my great surprise took it straight away. I struck into it, causing it to bolt downstream, taking line! If memory serves me right it even jumped! Nick could see the other fish still feeding, seemingly undisturbed by it's partners swift exit. He flicked out his nymph, and in no time at all we were both playing good Grayling in the same glide, his fish bolted down as well, overtaking mine. We landed the fish at the around same time, mine weighed 2lbs, a new Pb, and Nick's was a little under 2lbs, a good fish.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgZGeZIEqzfReTgn4d7VkwDx7gXlBeYubm1lAY6q4-34ck0GCYzI0i9EIKIV9TJwzjkIpkRFPhlJJ2C2SFFdGg5jmPvXCnjHPvIR3tLmswfWkmCkvXSM7SW1-i7YpRDSK7lv2WnEgQqb9/s1600/018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgZGeZIEqzfReTgn4d7VkwDx7gXlBeYubm1lAY6q4-34ck0GCYzI0i9EIKIV9TJwzjkIpkRFPhlJJ2C2SFFdGg5jmPvXCnjHPvIR3tLmswfWkmCkvXSM7SW1-i7YpRDSK7lv2WnEgQqb9/s640/018.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The day carried on in this vein, Nick landing countless large Grayling on his killer nymph (which was fast becoming a classic) and I landed several more good fish, all being around a pound in weight.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrEau_M66pLxYsHwiXdZkYGTpjjujNa7X9o8ejM-vlXuuFcina5YoVjXFLtZheLKbYX_nEabRWBBXA5WLuGIF7liFVYwcCMj3KVqAKpnpQsjg7jSlm_PBmfZ5NWvqZsJELwWaIIqYZ4TJ/s1600/048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrEau_M66pLxYsHwiXdZkYGTpjjujNa7X9o8ejM-vlXuuFcina5YoVjXFLtZheLKbYX_nEabRWBBXA5WLuGIF7liFVYwcCMj3KVqAKpnpQsjg7jSlm_PBmfZ5NWvqZsJELwWaIIqYZ4TJ/s640/048.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The season thus opened in fine style, and it went on...</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My second and third trips of the season were to a stretch of the main River Test and the River Lambourn during a weekend in late November. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The Test was remarkably low, it was at least 1foot lower than it probably should have been for the time of year. The low water though probably made the fishing a little easier, the fish being that bit more shoaled up, and easier to spot. Both Nick and I made good catches on nymphs. Nick catching at least one 2lber and catastrophically losing a fish that may well have topped 3lbs; I caught a dozen or so Grayling of up to 1 3/4lbs on the duo.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRn40nmpDwFC4Md2U_S5QvAGv-cPklCHcnAMvxqOvVTTsQ4LMn4Zs5TVyTu40ki_qT5XVCVldMsd5w-V0-nnvtRYR5WdtyCZP-lkN731wyWHX7_YS21nWPTzAjLlC7vRKqo6vIF9NjQn0/s1600/999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRn40nmpDwFC4Md2U_S5QvAGv-cPklCHcnAMvxqOvVTTsQ4LMn4Zs5TVyTu40ki_qT5XVCVldMsd5w-V0-nnvtRYR5WdtyCZP-lkN731wyWHX7_YS21nWPTzAjLlC7vRKqo6vIF9NjQn0/s640/999.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">On the far bank, over a patch of clear gravel, we spotted a pair of what must've been salmon cutting their redds into the pale flinty gravels. It was a marvellous site, watching the fish tilt and kick, cleaning the gravels. We possibly even witnessing the spawning event itself. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Along with the subsurface action there was a reasonable hatch of small, pale up-winged flies, which as a keen naturalist and aspiring biologist I have to say, ashamedly, that I have no idea as to what species they were! I'm pleased to say that I managed to catch my largest Grayling on a dry fly, a fish of a pound and a quarter or so in weight. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWxKiX-YDMHkhTruO3Kj6YAZrc9AOZiaNCds8aeDF_wFV1nLKJwcfvgxpybLSQc2NIF11fY07PzacVt6U1NDuT6I_lIn_35CfuHH2j84Kk2hN-P2bBfFu0JBYAXqiLc2DPgTkBYjoC0x26/s1600/1004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWxKiX-YDMHkhTruO3Kj6YAZrc9AOZiaNCds8aeDF_wFV1nLKJwcfvgxpybLSQc2NIF11fY07PzacVt6U1NDuT6I_lIn_35CfuHH2j84Kk2hN-P2bBfFu0JBYAXqiLc2DPgTkBYjoC0x26/s640/1004.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In one pool, memorably, there was a large pod of out sized stocky brown trout rising lazily, head and tail, to these small upwings. In amongst them were several grayling, also rising. As I cast my small dry into the pool, chancing my luck at the Grayling, Nick laughingly said “There is no way that your fly won't get taken by one of these trout.” As he said it, by a strange coincidence, a very large brownie nonchalantly swam over to my fly, fully intent on casually taking it. Raising the tip of my rod caused my fly to skate an inch or two away from the fish's open mouth, leaving one very confused trout, which rose, it's back breaking the surface, only to find it's intended morsel had disappeared. The fly continued on it's drift and into the mouth of a very welcome half pound Grayling!</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
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</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The River Lambourn the next day was frightfully low, a comparison of pictures in the hut and the present water levels showed it to be at least 2 feet lower than it had been in the summer of 2007! The fish were extraordinarily sparse, and very difficult. Fishing the entire length of the fishery, which was a mile and a half if memory serves me well, we spotted precious few Grayling. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The ones sighted were big, but proved near impossible. Nick hooked and lost one in the first pool we came to, this along with the loss of a very large Grayling and the landing of several out of season brown trout proved to be the sum total of fish caught during our stealthy creep up the beat. We even failed to catch a Grayling in a very promising hatch pool in the middle of the beat. There were supposedly two or three hatch pools, but owing to disrepair and worryingly low water levels the other two appeared as nothing more than deep, stagnant, weed filled pools.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A dog walker in a field nearby came down for a chat with us, seemingly surprised that anyone would bother fishing the river in it's present state. This walker spoke of the river in the recent past, before much of the abstraction had occurred. He spoke of a fast, gurgling stream, several feet deep and with a channel far larger than today's, at present the channel being choked by encroaching marginal weeds. Back then this stretch supported good populations of brown trout, running, he reminisced, to over two pounds in weight. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">At the top of the fishery the river simply disappeared into an extensive marginal weed bed that appeared to dominate the entire channel from there on. Succession it seemed was moving on, bringing sharply to mind the fact that our chalk streams are not natural, quickly turning to marsh if left to their own devices. Neglect it seemed plagued this pretty little river, evident throughout in the rotting planks of the walkways and the hatches that were crumbling in disrepair. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The day almost over, and having reached the top end, we elected to fish the first pool once more, where we'd spotted the most Grayling on the way up. We took turns perching in a tree that overhung the pool, directing the other's casting to the fish, watching from the vantage point as the nymphs drifted past their targets.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lMKhO3fjmfmflJBkjHUTdobi03cbSeoNxFxOEC6i2fqLbS3hK4ao6QbRMQGQziQPYqK9y8Q6I26SZ3S-WgiEqk2NB-9SWISHD_HJU6m28hIv_QofD-5YWpY8qswyq5ql_J2ylcn7bXGS/s1600/1014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lMKhO3fjmfmflJBkjHUTdobi03cbSeoNxFxOEC6i2fqLbS3hK4ao6QbRMQGQziQPYqK9y8Q6I26SZ3S-WgiEqk2NB-9SWISHD_HJU6m28hIv_QofD-5YWpY8qswyq5ql_J2ylcn7bXGS/s640/1014.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I so happened to be lucky enough to hook and land one of these fish. It proved larger than I thought, weighing in at 1lb 14oz's, a monster from so small and slight a stream. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqKMt65gnmsqZ2IK9dSYrLvXg7MdCLMjEoE79dPPphrHQeDuqBwdTfc1wt2lT7gwzKwgjQ6ubgNG642jWFmtghdHrlMCfFCEKL6JlZv3xrfyokMOtf6GYPpAG_y_8t-UQ2ipwv_6zeba4/s1600/1020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqKMt65gnmsqZ2IK9dSYrLvXg7MdCLMjEoE79dPPphrHQeDuqBwdTfc1wt2lT7gwzKwgjQ6ubgNG642jWFmtghdHrlMCfFCEKL6JlZv3xrfyokMOtf6GYPpAG_y_8t-UQ2ipwv_6zeba4/s640/1020.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">From the tree I saw Nick's nymphs being taken numerous times, but failing to connect with the takes, Nick remained fishless that day. The fishing was ridiculously hard, the water barely flowing. The Grayling we managed to catch was the result of combined effort and team work, requiring every ounce of our collective experience, cunning and skill. I can now understand why the late Frank Sawyer always refused any invitations to fish for Grayling on the Lambourn, on the grounds that these fish are just “too darned hard to catch”.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Following the last trip, I was forced to put fishing aside for a few months and put in countless hours of work for my upcoming January exams. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The exams were over by early February, and I enthusiastically accepted Nick's offer to accompany him to fish on another, thankfully easier, stretch of the Lambourn. This stretch was downstream of the neglected reaches, having recently received significant habitat improvements from the EA.Grayling were plentiful, both Nick and I catching around thirty fish each! The average size was small however, the bulk of the fish being around the 4-6inch mark, but larger fish were had, I myself taking a couple of fish that, if we had weighed them, would probably have made a pound or so in weight.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Snow lay on the ground, and there was a frosty chill in the air. I distinctly remember silently cursing absolutely everything whilst trying, and failing, to tie a three turn water knot several times with cold hands. The frustration was indeed immense.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Hopefully I'll be able to get out in the trout season before being forced by necessity to try and forget about fishing once more and study. </div>AlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308278481268723491.post-67084098393229611032012-03-01T13:25:00.000-08:002012-03-01T13:25:53.352-08:00Big Chalkstream Grayling.<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Grayling are a seasonal favourite of mine and I delight in fishing for them in small, intimate chalk streams. This season I’ve had the pleasure to fish on some of the finest, and I have managed to beat my personal best twice, whilst witnessing my fishing companion and good friend Nick catch some truly monstrous fish indeed.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My most recent trip was to a lightly fished stretch of a small yet infamous chalk stream, one famous for it's monster Grayling. After an absurdly early start followed by a torturous time tailing a slow moving lorry on a single carriageway, Nick and I finally arrived at the fishery a little before 8am. We met John, the keeper, who kindly made for us a cup of tea and gave good discourse on fishing. Refreshed and eager to get going, throwing on waders, waistcoats etc. we beat a track down to the fishing hut. The hut was located directly downstream of a bridge that straddled the main channel at around the middle of the beat. The water cascaded under the bridge, pouring into a deep and mysterious pool. A monster grayling lay for certain in amongst the turbulent depths, jostling for position no doubt with mighty salmon, and large trout. I love deep pools like this one, especially when on a small chalk stream, in the gin clear water, one revels in the imaginations that not being able to see the bottom brings about. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Making our way up the top section of the beat we were first presented with what looked to be a fish, lying lazily on the gravels several yards upstream of the bridge, on closer inspection it turned out to be a rather fishy looking piece of weed, wafting tail like in the current. Nick and I tried our hands in several tempting pools and glides without success. As the sun rose ever higher behind us the pale gravels of the river bed were illuminated. Peering into the water we could clearly see that the pools we had fished were seemingly empty. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Walking, heron like, up the bank, keeping a low profile, we made our way up stream. Our combined gaze was directed into studying every nuance of the river bed. A few more fishy clumps of ranunculus were sited before, at last an object that must've been a fish. I stealthily manoeuvred into a position from which to cast to it whilst Nick, convinced I was seeing things, spouted reminiscence about the clump of very convincing weed that we had spotted earlier that morning. The object in question was located in a difficult spot to cast to, just downstream of some willow branches trailing in the river, and in a depression in the river bed. The branches made things difficult, the river here being lined by willow and alder, all eager to snatch at my fly. I managed several good presentations, a fly change, several more, and then a tangle resulting from my back cast snagging. I was about to give up and admit that Nick was right about the true identity of this instream anomaly. Just as I started to stand up I saw a flicker of red from the object as it raised a fin. I dropped down, uttering to Nick </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's a big grayling, that's no weed.” </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm still not entirely convinced, I'm 90% certain it's weed.” was Nick's casual reply. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I endeavoured to untangle my flies, but it was hopeless, so I let Nick have a few casts whilst I cut and tied up again. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Okay, maybe it is a fish” Nick proclaimed as he moved into the position previously occupied by myself. “but I don't think it's a grayling, it looks too dark, perhaps a sea trout, or a small salmon.” After a lot of effort, several turns each, and several fly changes, the mysterious fish finally succumbed. Nick pitched his nymph, and watched as it sank through the water. The only indication of the take was the disappearance of the orange bead of the nymph as it drifted past the fish. The fish didn't move a muscle, if a less visible fly had been used it would no doubt have spat out the fly without us even noticing it had been taken. Nick struck, and to our delight the object shook it's head and flared it's large dorsal fin in surprise. The fish fought well, and it was only when I netted it that it's full scale was realised. Never before had I seen so large a grayling. It barely fitted into my net, and one couldn't grasp a hold of it using one hand alone. This dwarfed all expectation, it was the fish of a lifetime. And to think, we could so easily have dismissed it as being a small clump of ranunculus. It weighed 3lb 2oz, a new personal best for Nick. After a few pictures the old fish was released, swimming strongly off to sulk in the shade of the far bank. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cRnVCLmYpyxbZPgEPKzYpqMdbntdu42oE2OzYIAXpvaPn_51EjpjDrwKFTYduzAJ6cYcUGveAT8spQCr1y9PhGniudZZu3IdBJXVwys62ZdLjsrbnLKxEu3w1I6irnecqZ2Tx56Nd9AV/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cRnVCLmYpyxbZPgEPKzYpqMdbntdu42oE2OzYIAXpvaPn_51EjpjDrwKFTYduzAJ6cYcUGveAT8spQCr1y9PhGniudZZu3IdBJXVwys62ZdLjsrbnLKxEu3w1I6irnecqZ2Tx56Nd9AV/s640/011.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Moving upstream, we came to the top pool of the fishery a little faster than anticipated. In the top pool were two large grayling, chasing one another around, exhibiting territorial behaviour, the likes of which I'd never before observed in grayling. I entered the river a little downstream and stealthily waded into a good position. Nick(who was content after having just caught is biggest grayling to give me exclusive rights to these fish)clambered into a bankside tree that over looked the pool, telling me when and where the fish settled during their short breaks before another chase began. Several chases later, the fish settled opposite Nick, I flicked out my nymph, and found my self connected to rather a large fish. A good fight ensued, resulting in Nick expertly netting my largest grayling to date, a fine specimen of 2lb 10oz. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiipRP4twvsHC44ETX5DU2uVykfLWnpkQyDdWSXhEodyAWbSnRGBWCCIeuBWPNxzvkmL8zygo0fsdzQT4tIhBnN2kighZLd2glhyO_HvHzLr7MRhkP2lpfjLCCaoRfFAkMh_AfUAnn_7UKI/s1600/047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiipRP4twvsHC44ETX5DU2uVykfLWnpkQyDdWSXhEodyAWbSnRGBWCCIeuBWPNxzvkmL8zygo0fsdzQT4tIhBnN2kighZLd2glhyO_HvHzLr7MRhkP2lpfjLCCaoRfFAkMh_AfUAnn_7UKI/s640/047.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4CUo3luUJ3CqRx2W7p_JhBtcj9-6QmioYXyewqft7_6OK2jjNOZFyiavzVC-YlToz03zsWtTDSrH566AAQQWScs1Mh93K2WIw9xmRZl6kfEfZjuhHr31kJpMuEnjjsds6mwI6QC5jCs3T/s1600/066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4CUo3luUJ3CqRx2W7p_JhBtcj9-6QmioYXyewqft7_6OK2jjNOZFyiavzVC-YlToz03zsWtTDSrH566AAQQWScs1Mh93K2WIw9xmRZl6kfEfZjuhHr31kJpMuEnjjsds6mwI6QC5jCs3T/s640/066.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Having both smashed our Pb's, we thought it a good time to retreat to the hut for lunch. Strolling back down the beat, both Nick and I were once more fooled by the aforementioned fishy looking weed! I've never had lunch in a hut that overlooked such a pretty pool, such mystery upon which to ponder whilst enjoying a good sandwich.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In the afternoon we worked our way up the lower section of the beat. It yielded no more fish; a very large grayling was sighted in a slow section above a small bridge, but couldn't be caught, casually swimming off into the obscurity of the increasing surface glare. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The evening came and we had the opportunity to fish a beat upstream of the one we'd been on. This beat was fantastically varied, with deep pools, glides and riffles. It looked to be ideal grayling habitat. Two more fish were caught, both by Nick, both from the same spot, and both taking him, with force, downstream. The first one, a fish a little under 2lbs jumped at least three or four times before succumbing to the skilful playing of my companion. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was a good end to a good grayling season, the details of which I shall attempt to condense into my next entry. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
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</div>AlanWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16363942125970096274noreply@blogger.com1