2021 in Review

Hello, is anybody still there? Can you still hear me? Has anyone ever been there…?

The air has taken on a distinctly chilly tinge, stabbing cold inflicts hands foolish enough now to forget cycling gloves on the morning cycle into the lab and the long darkness has slowed to allow a rhythm of rest. It’s during these months, addled by nostalgia and better rested, that I’m looking forward to penning a few tales, living vicariously through my since passed self until anticipation gives way to next year’s season. Given the paucity of updates over this year, I thought it fitting to give a (I’ll try to be brief!) summary of the year’s fishing into which these tales will slot. By no means my best season, there have at least been some notable days and steps in learning. So pop on a jumper, grab some autumnal apple crumble and enjoy!

Early season

Gauging myself by returning to a well-known beat, I got onto a tributary of the Exe in late March for my first trip of the fly season. Euronymphing in the deep pools returned half a dozen brownies to a fair size in a couple of hours over a lunchtime session. A few more trips over the next month returned some consistent sport from a number of rivers, from picturesque moorland clear waters to urban rivers where residents literally fling turds over their fence into the canalised waters. By April, some trips were made to the headwaters of moorland streams to seek eager brownies on rough dry flies. Truly refreshing fishing, with the most beautiful trout, albeit not the biggest specimens, throwing themselves at bushy dry flies in the tumbling clear waters. It became a game to seek out fish from as small a trib as possible, with the pinnacle being a stream of no more than a foot wide at any point and pools the size of a soup pot. Flicking dries on the leader, even these ecosystems in miniature brought delightful trout to over half the length of the river’s width. I tapped up some words for the Sane and Fable blog on fishing these rivers, you can find it here: Blue-Lining — Sane&Fable (saneandfable.com)

May brought rain, and more rain. When the heavens finally closed after just shy of forty days and forty nights, it was time to get the waders back on and dust off the switch rod. 04:30 alarm, cup of coffee and into the pool at dawn. The water was still high and just getting into position in the pool was a real challenge in the half light. Big flowy monkey tube, swung round on a fast sink tip. Step step, strip, set the anchor, send the loop across, repeat. Boom, no gentle touches but the line was tugged tight in my left hand. Was it a trolley? Crash, a silver springer lept in anger, it was certainly not a trolley. Brought to the net, it rushed away at the last minute and went head first into some reeds at my feet. Like Gollum, I lept desperate onto it and grabbed it by the tail wrist before cradling it into the net to recover in the water.

Easter day moorland brownie.

Summer

After the blowout weather of May and a poorly timed patch of ill health during the mayfly that left me housebound, I was quite keen to get back into some fish. Some bonus brownies from the Culm at 36 and 39cm, falling to French nymphing tactics in the absence of rising fish, was a welcome return. This is an odd river, never prolific in the reaches where I fish, with awful sedimentation issues arising from erosion from poor land management but still throwing up the odd nice sized fish for Devon. It was sad to see our modest club lose access to a beat that we had fished on this river where I spent many happy evenings last year, with dense ranunculus and more predictable rising fish, all due to an apparent misunderstanding between a tenant farmer and angler. Such is life though in a country with land access still lagging behind in the feudal system.

Second flick of the nymphs. 

The lure of the nocturnal returned and I was soon back out with the six weight in the midnight hours casting intuitively for sea trout. Frustratingly, despite the odd pull and second-long connection, many nights of effort, exhaustion and long drives near-asleep at the wheel, none of the elusive beasts were to slip my net yet.

The end of June saw my old man Neil make an appearance in the south west and we put a few days to good use. A couple of weeks prior we'd joined the ruling classes and had a day on a nicely overgrown beat of the Wylye. Lots of beautiful little wild trout and grayling, with a relative leviathan falling to a little aphid flicked under branches on the 7' three weight. The crocodile rolls that this fish gave were enough to cause palpitations, aware of my 7x tippet. This time, blown off the Tamar (that pesky agricultural erosion again!), we headed up to the middle Exe to fish with Gerald Spiers from the Devon School of Fly fishing. I spent most of the time worried that I would be soon chased off the beat, not used to such civilised water, generally reserved for respectable gentry, not hairy students. Having a play with some of Gerald’s single handed spey setups, I was instantly enamoured and could see the practical use for these shorter loading lines on what are often much narrower rivers with tight casts when chasing salmon in this part of the world. Besides, they’re also just pretty cool to cast! We fished the evening rise late, tying on bigger and bigger flies until we could no longer see even the most obvious of rises, and then a few more casts for good measure. A nice grayling and several fine trout put in an appearance under the crimson sky. A couple more days of fishing saw us hit some of the most picturesque streams on Dartmoor and return to old favourites on the upper Exe.

The gentlest sip from these gargantuan lips sucked down my cdc aphid before all hell broke loose.

Photo by Gerald Spiers.

Photo by Gerald Spiers.

Warming waters in July meant that bass were soon in sight. A trip was hatched with visiting angler Colin Bull, with the purpose of getting him into his first lure caught bass – which he achieved in style! Rough fizzed-up conditions with moderate onshore winds over shallow reef, casting the ever-faithful Patchinko surface lures, gobbled up by a 60cm bass. One mission successful, I then made a road trip up to North Wales to visit Joe Dawson (Northern Joe) to collect some PhD materials and look for more bass along the way. This time round, we were worked by the bass much harder, covering many miles of ground and limited by stiff wind. The last early morning session however saw us come good, with several fish each to small surface lures worked across the glassy calm. A 25 hour day saw me leave North Wales at sunset and arrive back home in Devon at sunrise, happy exhaustion.

More nights were spent dodging aggressive cattle, even resorting to walking along the trainline, with sea trout frustratingly jumping at but never nailing a small wake fly. Early morning silver chasing, euronymping, some nice trout to 14” in the urban epicentre on the appropriately dirty squirmy. Perfect humid evenings, waiting for it to go off, broken fan belts, some cheeky exploring for evening risers (watch this space on a piece on that one soon…). Some nice days out with company on the bank: snapping my net landing a bright silver leaping salmon attached on the other end to Gerald, taking Archie for his first Brownie up to Dartmoor for some midge-sipping, wet wading, dry fly perfection.

Soul fishing.

The end of July saw more time on the salt, covering the far corners of the South West in search of predatory fish on light lure tackle. A day spent sight fishing for wrasse with diminutive paddletails, a multitude of beautifully varied ballans to a crescendo of a 53cm fish that followed and followed before plucking the lure just at my feet and heading powerfully to the depths. Arriving for a couple of days afloat at midday, I encountered Stu and Tom asleep on the grass, wearied from a morning session and surrounded by empty cans of lager. Woken by my confusion, they sat up, rubbed their eyes and cracked open another couple of tinnies before preparing for the next session. Needless to say with such a start, the weekend was a good giggle with plenty of bassy action from the shallow reefs, near crashes and fried pasta (a revelation!). Tom had a blinder of a specimen, taunting Stu mercilessly for the rest of the weekend. Speed and power.

Double hook ups!

One on the topwater.

August, back to the rivers. A drop of rain, growing tides and a push of grilse to the lower river saw the salmon getting more excitable, with a fresh grilse, sea trout and, to round it off, a multi sea winter salmon smashing the fly at my feet in full sight. Superb fun for a couple of hours first thing with the single-handed spey setup. Thereafter more heavy rain, agriculture sediment blowing out all of the lower tributaries.

Keep them wet! She swam off strong and, I suspect, a little annoyed at me. I took a good soaking from a tail swish. 

The end of the month saw a trip to Ynys Enlli, the isle of tides, to visit Mari and Emyr and have some time off. With a variety of marine habitats and powerful currents encircling the island, the fishing possibilities seemed ripe for exploration. We fished every morning for a couple of hours, first light until breakfast, with a couple of extra afternoon excursions. The island left a lasting impression, feeling like we’d not even scratched the surface in our short time there. The pollock were plentiful, a fish a cast at times, with an average size of 3lbs, making you realise how the inshore populations in the South West have been floored by commercial pressure. Highlights included seeing Mari and Emyr catching their first island fish from the shore, Charlotte catching her first bass and I’d be remiss not to mention a 68cm pollock on 25g rated lure gear and, for my final cast on Enlli, a 67cm bass.

This year also saw a return to targeting bass on a fly, something that had initially enticed me into fly fishing years ago but had latterly been neglected. A sunny afternoon in a Cornish tourist destination saw a proper elbow fight to get through, clad in chest waders and stripping basket. Happily, trips up to fish with Darren and Richard who have been cracking their stretch of coastline saw less elbow fighting and more bass biting. Adventure style fishing, casting into shallow tidal lagoons, waist deep in the salt, until the line goes taught with a stop and a mass of angry silver and spikes thrashes at the surface. All the while, look over the shoulder, the tide waits for no man. Sprint with rod in hand and basket at waist before the kayak gets washed away. This isn’t a chalkstream, that’s for sure.

Late summer saw a return to the moor, meeting Jon from the Fly Culture team for 24 hours of bivvying, swapping casts on small streams, searching for fishy water and exchanging piscatorial tales. Seeing Jon’s car behind, waders flapping out the window to dry and rod strapped across the bonnet, there was certainly no losing him between spots. The season ended up here too, with a coolness in the air and sullenness from the fish that told you that the year was up regardless of what rules we might make for ourselves.

Wild stillwater brownie.

Jon picking casts on the ever-delightful Cherrybrook. 

September, fieldwork had been pushed back frustratingly to the prime month for fishing. Alas, the PhD comes first. Cramming a last push before several weeks on the road of electrofishing for trout, another grilse was encountered with a wee tube in low water at dawn, now starting to show hints of Autumn colours and a trip was lined up with James from the WRT team to seek out moorland sea trout under the cover of dark. Happily, at last, one stuck and the yellow peril brought a fine leaping treasure to the net. Back with samples in tow, an overnight late September spate called for exhaustion to be ignored and a hike made up to the moor in search of one last salmon. Much to my surprise, having enjoyed casting in picturesque surroundings but not expecting too much, the line stopped. A snag, but no, the snag was running upstream. Let’s not get too excited, it’s probably just a peal in the current. A bar of burnished bronze two and a half feet long leapt clear of the tannin stained foaming moorland spate water. It wasn’t a peal at all and, worst of all, it was driving hard upstream with a large boulder pinning a fallen tree between us. This can’t be happening, I can’t lose this fish, still not believing that I was connected to a moorland salmon. Throwing sensibilities to the wind, I rushed into the water deeper and deeper downstream, trying to gain an angle to pull the line clear of an untimely end to this experience. My boots skipped and slip on unseen boulders underfoot, water seeped over the top of my waders, but with rod at forty five degrees and held high above my head as I half waded, half paddled in an eddy of the spate water, the force relented and came back downstream away from danger. Net slid, a sigh of relief and a hint of admonishing myself for foolishly rushing into the dangerous river conditions but all was soon swept away. Look at her! A beautiful bar of Autumn coloured hen salmon laid in my net, gulping down oxygen rich water in the current. Seeing her swim off again into the copper water, a prayer of thanks, a fitting end to the season.  

One last salmon for the year. 

Team trout! Charlie, myself and Jamie (L to R) during our fieldworking in Ireland. 

The end of the salmonid season. Two sea trout, not as many as I’d have liked for the time committed and sleep sacrificed but more than made up for by the result of five salmon, only two of which being grilse. The rivers certainly smiled upon me and it was a comfort to have caught all of the fish, each a miracle in their extraordinary life history and persistence to run in the face of horrendous impact by man in every stage of their life, all from South West rivers, local and known to me. It seems quite credible that these fantastic animals may not run in these rivers within the next couple of decades, with even some nutcase anglers blaming in desperation and threatening legal action against the last efforts that are trying to prevent these fish finally falling over the edge of extinction vortex. A recent paper (Lennnox et al., 2021) in the ICES journal of marine science reviews the success of Atlantic salmon measures demonstrates clearly the value in maintaining populations, with restoration once lost far more costly and difficult – not to mention the unique locally adaptive genetic variation in each population lost. Pissing around the corners doesn’t seem an option here, tackling stressors at every level from talking sediments from agriculture that choke spawning gravels, improving in-river habitat for fry and parr, removing barriers to the downstream movement of smolts, having a serious look at the parasite burden driven by open pen salmon farming, increasing the biomass of marine prey fishes by reducing industrial fisheries that have raped our seas within an inch of their life, preventing outbreeding depression by not stocking fish unless absolutely necessary and reducing fisheries pressure (intentional and bycatch, looking at you gill-netters) on returning adults. With each salmon released and rushing back to continue running upstream, a glimmer of hope still shines for our native freshwater systems.

Autumn

Three weights and spey lines exchanged for bass rods, the cream of the saltwater season was still with us. A mission was hatched with climbing partner and chub-trotter, Lewis, to make a pilgrimage to West Cornwall across October’s big springs. Big swell hampered our first efforts, rocking up to steep granite rock marks under the shroud of night, booming swell sweeping up the steep ledges that dropped away under our precarious scrambles. Some good wrasse were a welcome catch against an otherwise dismal result of several small pollock and only the occasional (albeit rather large) mackerel. Demotivated, we found some psyche again with steep granite hand-jamming excellence during the midday lull before making an evening trip to an ever faithful mark. Alas, not faithful on this occasion, the bass were apparently absent and some nice wrasse were peppered in amongst otherwise small pollock and then a nocturnal plague of scad. The final dawn session at a deep rock mark to target pollock oddly yielded the only bass, at ~52cm but was otherwise quiet. Breakfast beer, freshly ground coffee from the van and tents packed, we left having had a laugh but certainly not the bounties that big autumn springs in Cornwall ordinarily promise.

Strangely hard to come across for Autumn in Cornwall. 

Lewis pulling a good pose.

Who needs tropical species when we have these? 

A trip made to visit my brother, Paddy, in Brighton gave a good excuse to take up my offer of a trip aboard Brighton Inshore Fishing that had been kindly gifted by Robin for my article in Hookpoint magazine. Slow going, it was interesting to see some different ground and fishing techniques suited to these grounds and the odd lure caught cod from the south coast. One last session fly fishing for bass, we had a slow session with just two fish between the three of us. It was perhaps a mistake to wet wade in my swimming shorts now into November! As the tide flooded hard, a dead stop gave way to aggressive shaking and an angry run as a bristling winter bass had engulfed the orange clouser. Sprinting, fly rod in one hand and line tray bouncing at waist, we just about caught the kayaks before the tide carried them away.

Cephalopods. They’re pretty damn cool and, with some calm weather and clear water, we’ve had the chance to target these autumn migrants. Not the best fighters but they certainly are tasty!

More recently, I’ve been trying to line up some grayling fishing. This is a fools game in the south west if at all tied to a working schedule, as I now find myself between lab working and PhD writing, with inevitable rain / wind / ploughing every Friday night to blow out chances every time hopes peak of getting back into the river. Perhaps I’ll let my hope grow again, I suspect I might leave the wonderful Thymallus be until they can be targeted again on an evening rise in late summer on tiny dries. A more realistic winter sporting fish on fly tackle, I’ve been swapping out the #22 hackles and fine wire hooks for CT1 silicone, plenty of flash and some tasteful ostrich herl in tying flies for pike. Getting the season going from an old favourite spot with a rascal of a little jack, some trips further afield with the toothy tamer, Danny Parkins, have happily seen my fingers getting line burns from larger pike making furious runs. There’s much yet to come with these crocs as the winter temperatures now plummet and the pike feed up in preparation of spring spawning, I’m looking forward to seeing where this different species takes us over the winter.

Danny enjoying some smaller offerings after having had a 20+lb pike on the fly that morning. 

Funky jumpers for funky fish.

So if you’re still with me, that’s me for the year. By no means an exclusive account of trips, it will hopefully put in context some more detailed tales that I hope to tap up over the dark winter months. It’s been a joy to share casts and the water with good friends and keen anglers this year, big thanks to my ever patient wife, Charlotte, old man, Neil, Stu Pudwell, Tom Ridgeon, Joe Dawson, Tom Newton, Tommy Day, Pete and Toby, Gerald Spiers, Sam Baycock, Lewis Flintham, Richard Eales, Darren Sherwood, James Christoforou, Mari and Emyr, Ellie, Jon Ogborne, Archie Symes, Robin Howard, Colin Bull, Danny Parkins and George Allen. You’ve kept the fun in fishing. Here’s hoping to hear everyone else’s tales, preferably over a pint, as we look forward to another season.

I've not been taken hostage, I'm just enjoying fishing!

 Unfortunately, in the chaotic midst of summer, when it seems that the cream of the sport for almost all species, now coinciding with a backlog of long-delayed social occasions with the relaxation of Covid restrictions, writing (and healthy sleep patterns) takes a natural back seat for a little time. I'm looking forward to sharing more tales of piscatorial pursuit and amusing antics along the way when the daylight hours wane once again, but now is the time for reaping and not sowing. I'm pleased to say however that I've had a few pieces of writing published in other mediums, should you be needing to scratch the itch vicariously. 

Hookpoint Fishing Magazine is a free to read online publication, taking a wide look at all things saltwater fishing from a UK base out towards global forays. With much of sea angling literature frankly deserving it's demise for lack of quality, poor fish handling and poor sporting attitude; the folks at Hookpoint have put a refreshing new voice into the arena, with an engaging mix of both modern technique ideas, conservation concerns and fun stories. I tapped up a little piece about the rhythms of shoulder season bass fishing on some new local ground to me - Bassackwards (cheers Kurt Vile for the title). You can find it in the June 2021 issue here: Bassackwards • HookPoint Fishing

Secondly, it's been a pleasure to keep contributing articles for the stunningly quality Fly Culture Magazine. My latest piece, Lotta Sea Lice (Again, thanks to Kurt and Courtney for an excellent album) features in the Spring 2021 quarterly issue. I'm quite pleased with how this piece came out, though still dwarfed by the fantastic pieces of the other contributors, and am glad that tapping up my musings on this blog has helped to learn to write slightly better after mildly traumatic failings in English at school. Printed on the highest quality paper, sustainable inks, with sleek graphic design and an immersive mix of contributors tackling everything from winter steelheading, cursing mullet on the fly and wanderings for wild trout in the distant highlands of Scotland. I was psyched when I first heard about this publication coming together and it really has surpassed expectation, telling the stories of how and why this whole fly fishing game seems to take over so many lives. You can order issues from their website here: Fly Culture Magazine.

That's all from me for now, hope everyone is enjoying summer and getting out a little too much! 

The Lessons of Spring

 You know how it goes; romantic notions of the birds singing anew, the smell of wild garlic carpeting river banks and crushed beneath your wader boots, that nervous excitement of wondering if you can still throw a decent loop, tying on one of the hundreds of flies that you have tied over the last few months… Spring trout fishing is full of cliché. It begs the question though, if enough people are coming to the same conclusion, maybe it’s for good reason? Since moving to Devon, I’ve been spoiled for choice for rivers to wax lyrical with the same cliché, throw some dodgy flies tied in the absence of time on the water and drifting further from their intended pattern, and maybe even snag a fish or two. Fortunately, between fighting to improve my computing to analyse trout genomes, I’ve found the time to get a few trips in between initial high-flows and latter east winds that have otherwise given a uninspiring start to the 2021 season.

On one such trip, nymphing deep through some pots I’d noted last season, I eyed up a few rises as the upper reaches of this river ran cold and clear off the moor, likely sipping the odd large dark olive or midge that were feebly coming through. Snipping the 4.5mm tungsten depth charges off the leader, a pair of small simple spiders were subbed in, the point with a little copper bead to anchor the rig. Crawling on my knees, eyes intent on where rings had formed a few minutes ago, willing another rise to confirm systematic feeding, I nearly jumped out of my waders where a voice hollered over, ‘Any luck, mate?’ I’ll not give the offender away, but by saying that they were male and middle-aged to elderly should suffice for a description whilst still including 99% of the club members. ‘Not yet’ I slyly replied, one eye still on the tail where the fish had been rising. With a shrug, they moved on and eyes were back onto the pool ahead, crawling up the riffle. Casting spiders on a French leader isn’t the easiest, but content that I was close enough, I waited for one more rise to confirm that I hadn’t spooked the source of the rises. Another dimpling of the surface and the spiders were slung over, rod raised high and a nice 11’’ fish was soon brought to hand.

The rest of that session was fairly quiet, though I expected the best of the water in the second half of the beat where I’d caught my best fish last season. You can imagine then my horror as not simply one but two generic middle-aged men had, having seen me fishing downstream, decided to wade and fish upstream of me, spooking the water that I’d anticipated. They smiled and walked over, consoling that there were no fish rising and that it was still too cold, expecting me, the scruffy junior, to agree. Apparently put back by this upstart, they boasted gladly of the 2lb brownies that they had previously caught on this beat and high on the moor, on the very same flies they had tried today. A car crash of a rig if I ever did see one too, barely 7ft of leader to a generic klinkhammer, with a large gold beaded hares ear tied with maybe even thicker mono only a few inches below. It seems that they expected the trout to bow before their angling egos, rise obviously and hang themselves on a blunt and dragging fly. Having my butt kicked more often than you’d like helps you to remember that you’ve got to bring something in your approach to the river and the trout owe you zilch, when you get a little too big for your wading boots. Perhaps I’m just bitter though…

The last year has had many of us thinking about making the most of what’s on our doorstep and fishing local, something that was once more of a necessity than a quirky notion. That spring a few years ago was a whole disaster bucket of stress; preparing for final university exams, trying to fundraise £50 000 for an plastics pollution project in the space of a couple of months and fighting the slugs off of my veg plot in the midnight hours. Sparse log book entries reveal the unsurprising fact that fishing had taken a back seat. With limited time and reliant on pedal and foot power for transport, it was a good opportunity to indulge in a game of, ‘find the tiniest stream nearby that you can catch trout from’, with a myriad of small coastal brooks feeding into the large rias of Cornwall to choose from. Strolling out on a sunny spring afternoon, donning wellies and a cheap 7ft fly rod in hand, I set out to scout one such spot. Tucked into a valley behind a large residential housing estate and draining off two large reservoirs, heavily culverted and canalised before meeting the sea, and narrow enough to jump across in almost all places; this had all the makings of an high-scoring location in the improbable trout stream game.

Picking between trollies and suspension springs, bow-and-arrow casts and squashed rolls were just enough to get a scruffy nymph into some tasty looking deeper pockets. To my amazement, time and time again, the yarn indicator would hesitate nervously, prompting a strike and a wonderful jewel of a trout would be revealed. Some fair fish too, up to 11.5’’ which is not to be sniffed at in the West Country. As it turns out, this little stream is a real pocket of refuge to wildlife in an otherwise built-up area, with a friend’s camera trap even managing to capture otters and water rail making use of this habitat. Walking here, I’d not expected much but to steal away a few hours for my own silly little game. I was happily gifted with more than one might catch from a big-name river on another day, adding a spring to the welly-clad stride on the 45 minute trudge back.

Fishing on a known river can take some of the joy out of this absurd game that we revere as fly fishing, expecting the river to deliver what it has before. The clichés tell the truth – the river is never the same one day to the next and yes, I’m afraid, even if you have shelled out for an expensive ticket, it really doesn’t owe you anything. Perhaps that is the joy of spring, as we all fall in love again with aquatic and riparian ecosystems bursting with life, seeing it all in high contrast after yet another monochrome winter, not falling into expectation for this trip to be the same as the last. You bet that I’ve got some big plans for the season ahead but for now at least, you’ll find me chuckling away at another humble brown trout and enjoying each gift from another overlooked stream.

 

We Sleep When We Are Dead

An icy breeze whistles through the window as I lower it a little more, straining over the steering wheel, praying to stay awake just a little longer. I know these lanes well, too well, as to drift absent-minded into auto-pilot and reawaken into consciousness minutes later, knowing that I could not have slept by virtue of still being at the wheel and yet not remembering any of the last 5 miles of road. Carbon blanks rattle in the back and a dry crusty feeling, a mixture of salt and scales, coat my hands. A speed sign catches my attention upon reaching the penultimate village, reminding me to check my speed and, disconcertingly, finding myself to be going well below the limit despite barely processing the road. Just get there, almost done. Stuart and Tommy were ahead, somewhere, or had they bailed off in exhaustion too? I resigned myself to having been picked up by those unjust average speed cameras through Trewennack, at this point making it back incident-free seemed the only thing to focus upon. This time next week I would be wed, a thought that kept me occupied until rolling late back into Falmouth.

It had been a fairly mad summer, getting the green light with mere weeks’ notice to plan a wedding ceremony of reduced capacity. Permission too had been granted to collect much needed tissue samples from the metal-impacted trout of Western Wales. Suddenly it seemed that a spring and summers’ worth of saved activity had to be crammed into the little remaining summer, and that’s not even mentioning the long-awaited chance to travel for fishing. Field working had involved sleeping on the crude bed platform on the border, being awoken by illicit transactions in the same car park late in the night, entering Wales in the small hours of the very morning that travel for work came legal there. We bashed out sampling on three catchments over those days before getting rained off, boxes of fin clips secured in the foot well and datasheets buried safe amongst my sleeping bag – these were worth an inordinate amount to my project. Wipers screeching, I made a call to a Devon farmer, ‘You have sea trout fishing, can I come tonight please?’ my conversational skills had apparently suffered months of reduced contact but there was a tidy window tonight before this low pressure system I was currently sat in reached the south west and I’d received a tip off that this farmer had access to some good water that might soothe my mania to grapple with nocturnal sea trout. By 3am, I was back home, dinner of ginger nuts washed down with whiskey infused tea, a celebration of my success in both making it home and having landed a fine 3lb sea trout on a wake fly.

Catching a break in the madness. 

Unpacking the field gear and repacking for a weekend of bass fishing in Cornwall, I had a message from Pete Tyjas inviting me to join him for a morning of salmon fishing on the Taw, an offer that I could never refuse. I met Pete at the Fox and Hounds hotel early the next morning, he later commented on my looking a little worse for wear, but I was soon bristling with anticipation as we looked upon a pair of fantastic looking pools, weariness washed away. ‘There’s more water we could fish’ said Pete, ‘but this is pretty much the best of it’. That it was, though tempered by the understanding that silver is just shy of mythical in the south west, every swing felt like the line could come tight with the writhing of one of those aquatic unicorns. On my third cast, the water boiled a few meters shy of the tip of my fly line with an undeniable bright flash. No pull though, I brought the fly to hand. Looking down the river towards Pete for affirmation, he was absorbed in making a slick snap T in his own pool, I stood a little straighter as I suddenly felt as though I were standing in the presence of royalty. A salmon, a real salmon looked at my fly. Alas, there was no further action that morning but it lit a spark that would consume me for the rest of that summer, culminating in my first salmon, on a fly and from my local river. Biding my energy, I took some time to admire Pete’s artistic anchor formation before lifting the line across the river to the far bank with pin point accuracy. I looked over to Monty, Pete’s black lab who had followed us diligently down the bank, as if to say, ‘your old man’s pretty good, eh?’.

Down to Cornwall, I found Joe and Tommy in the car park. Joe had been down in Cornwall for a little while already and his report of the recent fishing did not bode well for our odds, but the team was coming together, and anything seemed possible. Stu had made his way separately after work and we made plans to meet in the middle at a promising looking mark. In an effort not to give too much away though, it seems that we’d been a little vague in our description of the point and now could not locate the oracle of bass. Matters were made worse when, stood from a likely looking steep rock mark, our phones buzzed with a picture of a bass from Stu, the man nowhere to be seen and now not returning our calls. We made a run for it, laden with rucksacks and rods, knowing that he couldn’t be far. Finally, sweaty and panting, ankles nervous over the boulder beach, we found Stu casting over a patch of shallow reef. He gladly greeted us, giving way and urging us to cover the ground where there was obvious feeding activity. Over the next half hour, as the sun dipped behind us, I managed to land a couple of modest sized bass and a territorial wrasse, before all fell quiet. We tried to follow the coast along that eve in hope of bumping back in with the fish, but it transpired, after some thought the next day, that the bait fish had pushed in the opposite direction to us, and we had a quiet, albeit pleasant, evening. Fishing over for now, we caught up a little of how life was treating us, each having gone in different directions in the time since graduating.

Modest bass but nice to be catching back on home turf!

Joe with a healthy bend in the rod. 

Rods stashed, held from sliding too wildly into our heads on the makeshift rack of strung-up bootlaces and with bags on laps, it was approaching midnight when we dropped Joe off at his campsite, bidding him well for the rest of his stay as he planned a little mackerel bashing in the morning. Tommy, for some reason, assumed that we might go back for the night, though Stu and I had other thoughts. After rattling through some excuses, ‘I haven’t got anything to sleep in’ – I produced a spare sleeping bag and blanket, Tommy made a hostage-esque call to his girlfriend, telling her that he wouldn’t return that evening but was instead being taken to a beach by the bass maniacs. Stu and I chuckled in excitement as we laid out sleeping bags, alarm set in less than two hours to fish pre-dawn on this reliable beach. Tommy, apparently fearful at what he’d got himself into, produced a ransom of caramel shortbread, our dinner for the evening as we laid shivering under a brilliantly starry canvas, waves sweeping up the beach at an imperceptible distance. Chuckles petered out, hypnotised in awe of the milkyway, which spread from one horizon to another, detailed beyond our perception. It seemed the right time to say something profound, but we all just thought it instead and rustled for another shortbread as eyelids grew heavy.

Going to be a cold one!

I guess we must have slept a little, but we were soon awake and switching sleeping bags for paddletails. A couple of hours later, not a touch for any of us, dawn now ripe. If something would happen at this spot, it would have happened by now. A couple more caramel shortbreads, we trundle to a deep rock mark perhaps half an hour away by these little lanes. Here we found plentiful joey mackerel, stomachs full of little sprats, hitting metals and feathers. Following Stu’s success previously with such tactics, I opted to switch from casting soft plastics to livebait, one of these little mackerel for a predator lurking below the ball of smaller fish. As the heat of day arrived, the bait fish pushed further offshore and off the feed, my livebait unmolested save one tug and some mystery tooth marks. By 9am we’d already been up fishing for five hours, hit two different marks and felt like we’d given it a good bash. The decision was made for us as a mother and son pair arrived to our spot, placed themselves between us and proceeded to instruct us on feathering for mackerel – the apparent pinnacle of angling in their eyes, confused as to why we might be using light weedless lures to target wrasse on balanced lure tackle. They didn’t much like the taste of wrasse, so why bother catching them?

Early morning off the beach. Tommy gave Stu quite a lot of flack for the failed prediction of wild action guaranteed at this spot. 

Tommy supplying the livebaits! 

We took a few larger mackerel and returned to Tommy’s garden for some fried mackerel and a cup of tea. Hesitant at the prospect of using valuable fishing time for such frivolities as a cooked breakfast, I came round as Stu promised that we could look through his google earth for marks if we did so, a closely guarded database that would be well worth an hour or two. We basked happily in the sun, casual swigs of tea to wash down the greasy taste of our fried fishy breakfast, discussing options for the evening. Given the wind direction and tide times, our usual favoured marks wouldn’t be performing at their best on this occasion, so into the database of Stu’s google earth it was. I could swear that our faces shone as Moses after his divine revelation on Sinai at the secrets we viewed from Stuart’s pins and notes but, before we had time to inscribe them onto stone tablets, the laptop was closed and we had a game plan. On the falling tide, we’d head to some shallow, kelpy reef to target wrasse under the bright heat of the afternoon sun, before working further round to a point with close access to deep water where the tidal current should be working nice and close.

After a pit-stop at Anne’s pasties (I brought two so as to give one to Charlotte when returning to Devon, however both only lasted approximately 15 minutes) I pulled up in our chosen layby. Parking in this stretch is a real premium so, wary of the start of Cornwall’s busiest summer, lounged about reading in the remaining space to the disgust of hungry-eyed drivers until Stu and Tommy arrived in another car. Following the footpath along, we caught sight of a likely looking spot to bush-whack down onto the tidal golden granite platforms below. Stu rigged up with a small Texas rigged senko, whilst I opted for a larger 3 inch ‘creature’ style lure, with appendages suggestive of the claws found on much of wrasse’s natural diet. In the clear, calm water, we could clearly see wrasse tracking the lures back to our feet, making polarised glasses potentially as helpful here as on any classic trout stream. After a little while came the interesting pattern that, though the worm style baits certainly attracted interest from more wrasse, the larger ‘creature’ lures seemed to pick out aggressive slams from larger individuals. Whether the lures were being recognised as crustacean food items and the wrasse hunting as they might on crabs is hard to be sure on, with a possibility that these very territorial fish just wanted rid of potential competition. Indeed, many of my largest wrasse to date have come from large paddletail lures, perhaps invoking more of an aggressive response rather than an attempt to fill their bellies. More surprises waited from these brilliant, attitude filled fish later on…

Brilliant colours!

Golden.

Tommy got a good lesson in 'HRF' for wrasse. 

The wrasse fishing was excellent, with multiple fish occupying each kelpy bed or rocky shelf below our feet and we took to sight fishing under the rod tip, leapfrogging each other and making short underarm flicks towards likely looking habitat patches. Double hook-ups were aplenty! Importantly, we were able to collect some fin clips from the wrasse we captured (with the hardy fish returned unharmed!) to contribute towards the genetic samples of a fellow PhD researcher at Exeter, examining the population connectivity and structure of ballan wrasse to better inform management of the controversial live wrasse fishery around the south west coastline.

As the tide slackened, action quietened down as did the, now quite tired, boys. We tried picking out some spider crabs with a landing net, having not brought a snorkel, and pestered the odd remaining wrasse. A brightly coloured orange and green black minnow 90mm with a light head worked well to this end, sneaking up to ledges and then jigging along under the rod tip. There were more follows than takes but it eeked out the afternoon before we were due to make a move, and a few more boisterous wrasse made powerful, strong dives against the tight creaking drag. In this dirty, hook, hold on and pray style of fishing, a short, fast-actioned rod is a good bet in delivering the light lures but also having enough grunt to hold the wrasse during their powerful first run. I could scarcely remember fishing ever having been so much fun. Looking around to show Tommy and Stu my latest catch, I found Tommy settling down for a nap on the rocks and Stu already far gone, at peace, cap over his face. He was laid to rest in his happy place. Alas, no peace as, in my immaturity, I dangled a lure over his face, jigging it over his mouth. Stu often talks of trying to think like the bass and, during a period of obsession and sleep deprivation a couple of years previously, Stu boasted of how he understood the bass, knew what they were doing, had become one with the fish. In this vein I wondered if, occupying the psyche of a bass, he would snap at a lure dangled in his face. Sadly, it transpired that he didn’t but was simply quite confused, probably called me a tit in more polite language, before starting thinking about our next mark.

Double hook ups!

Bright lure, bright wrasse. 

Dreaming of bass, or being the bass? 

Traversing along the coast, hopping over boulders and rockpools now crusty with salt under the baking summer sun, we made our way towards a steep granite tower of a headland. Rods were passed between us as we scrambled downwards from a high point, the sun now masked by the wall of golden rock behind us. Large, sharp crystals give excellent grip smearing walking boots down sodden, wave eroded fissures in the rock but also bite hard on wet hands, giving a smattering of cuts to admire during the working week to reassure that the trip hadn’t just been a dream after all. We laid down our gear on a sloping ledge and stood afoot a broad platform, arriving as per our planned time. The location immediately proved its quality, with glimmering shoals of sprats holding themselves in tight balls just a few meters from shore, telling of the anxiety of nearby predators. Racing to rig up, we were all soon into mackerel and pollock, hooking up close in and below the bait shoals. After seeing to a supply of mackerel for supper, it was apparent that a change of tack was required to get into more quality fish with such an abundance of mackerel and average pollock.

By now, a literal wave was being created as a line of mackerel swam like a Roman legion into the baitfish, with bigger predators below picking off the mackerel. Whilst Stu and Tommy opted for larger lures, I tried my luck at dropping a livebaited mackerel into the fray. Excitement was running high and reeling in just half a mackerel, bloodied and absent from the pectoral fins below, was enough to have us all exclaiming wildly. Bass and pollock don’t bite mackerel in half and leave such a bloody mess, what could it have been? Whilst pondering this and rigging up another livebait, we saw a great form breach out of the water a couple of hundred yards out. We debated the identity, it was certainly a predatory fish from the tail silhouetted, but seemed on the small side for a Bluefin – perhaps another tuna species. The warm seas in SW Cornwall have thrown up their fair share of more southerly species over the years and, with warming seas, this seems set to continue. Before we had time to say much more, my livebait was twitching erratically and, reeling into rather than striking to set the circle hook, I was soon into a powerful fish at my feet, pulling braid from the spool despite a tight drag. When brought to the surface we couldn’t believe it – another ballan, and a plump one at that! Wrasse are not often known to take fish baits, preferring instead a crunchy diet of crustaceans and molluscs, and I’ve certainly not heard of them taking a full sized mackerel live before. However, it was not a coincidence, the local population of wrasse must have clocked into this opportunity for a glut of protein as the mackerel were feeding too hard to realise their perilous position, tight to shore, allowing the wrasse to dart upwards and snap with their ugly molars – the apparent cause of the bloodied half mackerel earlier. Not only one wrasse was captured this way but another, just as fat, followed in quick succession. Utter madness! I begged a photo as the others were also tight into frantic action, too excited and eager to get another lure out to compose myself and the wrasse properly, whole mackerel still hanging from the corner of its mouth.

Proof of the absurdity.

Lots of pollock around this stamp, kept this one for the pot and (no surprises) the stomach was packed with sprats!

It was soon Stu’s time to shine, having been diligently casting a large enough paddletail into the fray that it had been ignored by the mackerel and small pollock, and holding out for a larger prize. He got his reward as his rod bent double into a fine bass, giving him some good stick as it thrashed its head about. There was some anxiety as the fish neared the sharp ledges by our feet – a quick burst of energy here could easily sever the line and lose the bass, which we could now see was a lovely dark, deep-set individual. Happily though, it was soon within the landing net to much relief! Measuring 55cm, it was a better stamp of bass than those the previous evening and we were all made up for Stu, even posing for a chaotic selfie with the three of us, and bass, in the midst of the action.

Dark wrasse from deep ground.

By now the whitebait had been broken up by many waves of predators and we took to casting at more distance, with action less frantic. We still picked up some pollock up to 3lb and a few wrasse, glowing in the experience of one of our most surreal shore fishing sessions to date but as the sun was setting things were surely slowing down. Seeking out remaining patches of activity and retreating as the tide rose, Tommy and I climbed over a couple of car-sized granite blocks to reach a bay behind us. To our surprise, tight to the rocky shelf were yet tens of thousands of sprats, the water black with them. Utilising my landing net, we took turns to swipe whilst the other held open a carrier bag, the mesh of the net being too wide and a rain of whitebait sprinkling our feet before being emptied into the bag. Stu’s face soon poked around the corner, probably curious as to the source of our cackling, finding Tommy to be saying, ‘That’s probably enough don’t you think?’ as I continued to swipe at the sprats, a wild lust in my eyes. ‘Now I understand why commercial fishermen are so greedy’ I let slip, a quote that was recited a week later in Stu’s best man speech. I was coaxed away from the poor sprats after a few minutes, with a morbid carrier bag full of 3-4kg of fresh, sustainable fish.

In our degraded inshore marine ecosystems, plagued by destructive fisheries techniques and overexploitation, bygone tales of such feeding frenzies seem fanciful at best. This though had given us a glimpse of the richness of life that once existed in our seas and might yet return with more progressive regulation and protection. For tonight, we were satisfied and, laden with our scale-covered gear and bag of a few choice mackerel, pollock and whitebait, made a drudge back towards the cars in last haze of evening light. Happily, we all survived the drive back into Falmouth and, cracking out my gas stove in Tommy’s garden, we stayed up late frying whitebait in a Trangia pan of bubbling oil, dousing them in enough salt and lemon to make a doctor shudder. We spoke about rising early the next morning to do it all again but, truthfully, we all knew that we’d be giving the morning session a miss, savouring instead what had been.

Until the next time! 

Butterwell Special

 My hands are numb, I can taste the mist. The noise of the river over my right shoulder shrouds all clarity and tiredness only turns the overdrive up to distort it further. I’m not sure of the time anymore, maybe 1, maybe 2? I’ve staggered my way through all the pools that I noted earlier with only a half-hearted pull to mockingly raise hope. Running my tippet through my hands, I can just about make out a couple of kinks in the 15lb mono. Maybe knots for disorientated casting, perhaps damage from casting into one too many clutching trees. Defeated, I trudge back up the woodland path. Though it is thick and dark, I’m unnerved by the coolness of the soft night time breeze and damp, not the hazy, sticky midsummers nights that gentlemen of old would wax lyrical about for sea trout (called peal in these parts) before the runs declined. This isn’t quite how I expected life to look just two days into marriage.

This year has been a pretty mad one for everyone. In the absence of a government announcement on plans for restrictions over the year, Charlotte (my fiancé) and I had to hold all ideas up in the air for wedding during July and subsequent honeymoon, our original intent for a road trip around Scotland being a long-time dream for both of us. Fortunately the wedding was still able to happen, albeit in a much different way to how we had imagined, and we got to make our vows in front of a small group of close family and friends. Scotland however was sadly off, so, in search of something to look forward to in amongst the uncertainty, I mentioned a place that I had surveyed for lampreys during my masters research. Butterwell Farm sits nestled in the Camel valley, feeling like the end of nowhere, in spite of being only just between the relatively well built up towns of Wadebridge and Bodmin in East Cornwall. Most importantly, the self-catering accommodation looks over some prime pools of the river Camel, home to my obsession for this year: sea trout. Much to my surprise, Charlotte thought that the whole affair sounded quite lovely for a honeymoon, so a week was booked before she had time to fully consider the implications of having such good fishing on the doorstep.

No sooner had we arrived, had a cup of tea and unpacked our bags when we took a stroll down the beat for the evening with Sam. Whilst the size of this modest river is familiar, the clarity and quality of the undisturbed pools seemed far beyond such a peasant as I, with peal seen flicking lazily in almost all the pools, compared to the puzzle of turbid waters that I have otherwise been cutting my teeth on. As Sam pointed out the opportune spots to access the river, where the fish tend to lie, notable catches from each pool over the year, success seemed guaranteed and I was buzzing. A few hours later however, reality kicked in. Fly fishing small streams at night is a real challenge, and I was due a kicking. I’d cast into too many trees, spent too long trying to visualise each pool from earlier memory and best access, bumbling instead into scaring an otter by the bank and, when the air turned cold, it was just the excuse to let my own ineptitude off the hook. This night-time sea trout fishing requires a real process of preparation, familiarity and the right head space for all the elements to come together and I just wasn’t quite there on this occasion.

Fishing every other night allowed a little time for consideration however and, a couple of days later, after trad climbing on the Culm Coast, the evening approached with much improved resolve. Having walked the pools again with Sam in the evening, creeping softly through the long tussocked grass and peering behind stands of bracken which line the banks and offer a thin veil from these nervous fish, one pool in particular got us fired up. As we got our eyes zeroed in, it became apparent that there was a sea trout there, and another behind, and further back another pair which were themselves flanked by yet more. Laughing and smiling as a pair of boys, we decide that this pool must be fished well, with an added spring as we finished the rounds of the water available. Sitting out with a BBQ and glass of prosecco, surveying the water for the evening, it was quite apparent that the dirtbag was not only dead, but had been buried deep into the earth. Such thoughts of reverse class shame were soon drowned out by the realisation that the evening was coming together just lovely. Really lovely. Too lovely in fact, where was that cloud that was due to appear over the evening? Alas, at least we had an excuse in the bag if the fish decided not to bite again.  

Sea trout pools are like pancakes, you always want to have one or two as you get going that you can screw up. Swinging in one of the less promising runs, going through the motions at 22:30, a firm pluck shuddered up from the inch-long silver and black tube fly, along the slack fly line to my fumbling hands. Bugger, a positive take and I’d given just enough slack for the fish to stick two fins up to me and run. Resting the tree-lined run for 10 minutes before covering the lie again brought no returned interest. A chance was had and, I scolded myself, it had been blown. Strolling up the bank with my five weight (casts here are short and the river small, using much heavier lines might risk spooking the inhabitants with heavy slaps), a few searching casts were made along other noted water. Nothing. It’s okay, I console myself with the same conspiring self-belief as the manic gambler, this run of losses is just part of the game, killing time whilst it’s not quite right, my luck will turn when I need it to.

Having bided my time long enough, it was time to hit up Upper Denby Pool. The fast head was covered first with a heavier fly, more as a matter of process than a belief that the fish would lie there. The savoured water of this pool would be found in the smooth middle to tail, fish edging out into these easy lies under the shelter of night, the shallow clear water giving every opportunity for the dim silhouette of the fly to be seen by fish. Soon enough it was time to work down to the expected taking zone, now in tune with the gear to, by some unknown instinct, know exactly where the fly was swimming in the run, how much line I had out of the rod tip and how far to shoot my line. The latter of these points is addressed by shooting as much line as feels sensible, then stripping another yard or two from the reel to make the same cast, the fly drifting a little further down the run, until the fly can be heard clipping the branches. Stout tippet aids greatly in this process, and I’d rather not fish anything below 12lb on anything but the lightest on nights, with line-shyness really not bearing any real risk in comparison with the menacing jaws of the ‘tree-fish’. Working with a fast figure of eight retrieve almost parallel in the slow water, the night is quiet. The mind drifts a little to focus in on the trickle at the head of the run, the cool air on my bare hands, the now familiar shrieks of foxes. Bang! The line goes taught and I strip into it by reflex, lifting the rod to absorb the shock as the line goes slack again. Panic and confusion take over for a minute, stripping as fast as I can manage within the second’s moment, before the fish landed back down with a crash, revealing the source of the slack to be his airbourne streak. My unseen company is now taking for a turn of tact, pulling hard for the tail of the run, gaining back coils of fly line and back onto the reel. It’s surreal, in spite of this moment being the focus of such devotion, now that it has come I can’t quite manage to process what’s going on. A voice scolds me back to the moment, ‘focus, you tit, don’t you dare lose him. Keep him tight, don’t let him go too hard for those sunken branches, but don’t pull that hook!’. With relief, the fish turns and, perhaps out of habit, returns to his lie parallel with me, allowing side strain to be applied and knock him off balance into my dangling net. All of this is, of course, applied without the use of artificial light - I’m feeling greedy, there are more fish in this pool that I might yet target if I can avoid dazzling them. A moment is taken to give the fish a breather, before lifting him briefly within the net up to the riffle above, where I might switch the lights on from a safe distance of the run.

A fresh silver sea trout sat in the net, perplexed, the single hook perched in the side of his jaw and the black tube slid a short way up the leader. A moment is taken to admire the silver flanks, small black mottling and large, keen eyes, before slipping him back on his way through the riffle. Another follows in quite the same way, albeit a little smaller, from the same spot. After unhooking and releasing, a whistle from the path catches my attention, it’s Sam. ‘How’s it going’ he asked, ‘yeah good thanks, had a couple of fish from Denby, missed one earlier too’. He congratulated me on the share of success, turning then to discuss strategy. I’d had a few missed snatches from the run and knew that something was awry, in spite of the measured luck. A surface lure had done me well on previous forays and, now that it was past midnight, the trailing wake might just be enough to wake the fish up into a more wholehearted slam.

After covering the whole run however, all had gone quiet, not a plop where I’d previously experienced a snatch every few swings. Weird. The surface lure can totally save a noodle-busting night when the fish are active but reluctant to bite but sometimes it just seems that they’re not in the mood. I’ve developed a habit of gripping my red LED bike light between my teeth to change flies and tie knots, it’s just about bright enough for the task at hand. It’s not every day that you get to fish water like this and, with that in mind, I’d again opted to break my dirtbag ethic and invest in some professionally tied patterns to fish with confidence. One such costly dressing sat in my fly box, sticking out as the next option, a ‘Yellow Peril’ as tied by the Welsh expert, Steffan Jones (I’ve since devoured his excellent book and would thoroughly recommend it as a clear modern authority on sea trout fishing in the UK). The dressing was less the object of focus, but instead the hook arrangement, with a single wide-gape stinger pointing upwards in the tail of the hook. Perhaps this could do the business, fishing much like a wet tube but catching those tricky nipping fish. Quite happily, proof of theory was quickly given, with four more sea trout gracing the net, bringing the night’s total to a proud sum of six fish between a pound and two.

Most interesting to me however was how these latter four fish were hooked; all had the single stinger lodged firmly in the top jaw. In theory, sea trout take large wet flies at night from below, seeing the silhouette drifting against the flow in a life-like manner. As I struck into these fish, snatching below and then turning back downwards, the upturned angle of the single hook seemed to be working well against the movement of the fish to catch in the upper jaw. I can’t pretend that I’d done a conclusive comparison with a stinger pointing the other way up, but it certainly reduced the number of nips that didn’t convert to hook-ups in comparison with a tube fly, also using a large single hook in the tail end. Other stinger arrangements are frequent in sea trout flies, some resembling medieval torture weapons with the density of hook points surrounding the fly, with a small treble (from my observation) being the most popular. From my own experience of lure fishing for bass and pollock, I’ve got much more trust in the security that a single hook provides in comparison with a treble and, even if trebles do hook more fish (which doesn’t seem the case), the risk of pricking and then losing a fish, leaving it spooked, on a marginal treble hook-hold seems a pretty raw deal. Worth thinking about, my faith in the single-hook stinger arrangement is reflected by the number of such patterns I have subsequently tied up. But, satisfied on this occasion, I called it quits at 2am, a shot of whiskey warming my tea, as prescribed by Falkus, as I unwind from the evening’s events.

The final evening was upon us and, having recounted the wonderful success of my previous attempt, I managed to persuade Charlotte out to witness that I don’t, as Stuart suggested during his speech at our wedding, ‘google pictures of fish and claim them as my own’. In one of the more tree covered pools, early success was wrought in half light, on the yellow peril stinger once again, with a typical Camel fish of a little over a pound. Over the day, as drizzle turned with more resolve to rain, I’d watched as the target pool for the night emptied from a dozen to just the odd fish by the evening. The sea trout could feel the low pressure and they were on a mission, get back to their natal tributaries and spawning redds whilst they could. Happily though, one fish remained and gave a dogged battle, stubborn to hold just out of reach of the net, jumping flippantly just to screw with my nerves, before at last, with a little bullying, resigning to the net. A nicer peal of two and a half pounds gazed back from the net, sharing a moment as we gazed into an appreciation of one another, before slipping her back to complete her spawning pilgrimage. Making an early departure the following morning (almost scuppered by my car’s exhaust falling off during the day), we called it quits at a rather civilised time of midnight. Sure, there might have been more fish about, but what would flogging it out prove? We’d managed what we’d hoped for and the river had been very kind to us. Not only the river, but Butterwell too, with Sam gifting us a ‘Butterwell Special’ fly, with a soft arctic fox tail and silver body, as a wedding gift. The fly now sits lodged in the ceiling of my car as a memory, not daring to cast and lose it in a tree.