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.
