River Taff and Rhondda

 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.