Matching the Hatch

'Well, I'm back'. The closing words of Sam, having returned to the Shire at the end of Tolkien's epic. Simple words, and yet carrying so much weight with them, as the reader has journeyed 1300 emotional pages to hell and back again is his company. Unremarkable such words might be, were it not for this journey that we've been on. And with a similar feeling can it be said, 'well, we're back'.

I've laid low, not saying too much too publicly, only close confidence with those who might understand. Maybe that's an unfair slur, maybe folks are more sympathetic than I give credit for, yet fear of proof to the opposite perhaps being true holds me back. We've come a long way in the past few months and I'm sure that we've still a long way to go. It feels a mockery when grief is still all too real. Lost people, lost security, lost plans and insufficient experience of the like to process it all. It's less than two months till I was due to be married, the happiest day of your life so I hear. And yet now we can't quite be certain of where we will be in two weeks time. And yet, as I wrote about in the last post, angling and its wild places offer just the refuge, the escape to process, that I'm sure so many people need right now. And with that I bring this rambling introduction to a close: The return to fishing is a sweet thing and all the sweeter for the bitterness of late.

I've missed country lanes. Scooting along, half asleep, woken periodically by a patch of loose gravel or blind corner, driven through the gloaming half light of dawn by the thought of fish. Maybe they're already on the feed, maybe we've missed the tide? This early in the season such concerns are largely without merit, the fishing is rarely as dramatic as activity towards late summer. But such sessions early in the season prove a valuable learning experience, finding the marks that might prove fruitful later in the year without wasting that precious window. On this particular morning, Stuart and I planned to check out a headland new to both of us. Without any reliable information online, we were left to spend the first 45 minutes or so simply working out access routes to a rocky platform below. We're beaten back on many of our first attempts, the schist proving too snappy and steep, or small blobs of windswept grass crumbling away from their poor foundation of thin soil upon rock. Happily, an access route is eventually beaten, though requiring some slab traversing on thin pockets above deep water - less easy with a rod in hand.

'I think we have grown soft', Stuart concedes to my suggestion as, to my surprise, he's the first to buckle to sitting a little while out of the bite of the penetrating east wind. As suspected the fishing isn't easy, with just a couple of small pollock to myself and a foul hooked sandeel for Stuart (quite a remarkable catch really) but it's nice to catch up and be back on the exposed SW coastline. We traverse back as the tide rises, mindful not to lose our barnacle encrusted route to the lapping waves, giving a shallow bay a try for a wrasse. Happily, one such fellow obliges and gives my natural black minnow a smash as it was drawn perpendicular to a kelpy shelf. The donkey-like teeth of ballan wrasse generally make short work of such a soft bodied (and expensive!) lure, but this always seems to outperform other soft plastics in locating wrasse at a new mark. After a short scout around coast path for any more likely looking spots to check out next time, we call it a day and part ways. Or at least Stuart calls it a day, I've still got the whole afternoon on my hands...

Give us a kiss... incredible blue and green rubbery lips give way to crab crunching molars.

It's quite amazing how quickly litter can accumulate in my car: empty engine oil bottles, CD cases, half chopped leaders, custard cream packets. After a brief rummage, an OS map is located. Crunching down yet more custard cremes, I trace the blue veins of the rivers of South Devon, stretching upwards into the depths of Dartmoor. The lower reaches of these waters are prized, lorded over by gluttonous clubs asking ticket prices in excess of my budget to feed myself, let alone cast a line. One particular square of this map is located however where no such barrier is to be found, where the river is so narrow that it can be jumped in many spots and tangled branches reach across the whole way. I follow a hunch and make my way up there, it's kind of on the way back anyway I justify.

Little to my knowledge, it seems that everyone else has had the same idea. Pulling up towards the car park, I notice a lady sneer from her Range Rover at the occupied parking bays before skulking away. I manage to back my wearied campercar up onto a grass verge, making sure to keep the front wheels clear of loose gravel so as to allow my escape later. I soon realise that perhaps not everyone has had the same idea and start to get the distinct feeling of being a zoo animal, as families passing with picnic mats and tugging cries of children suggest a very different purpose for their being here, young children staring at my uncouth waders to their parents embarrassment. No matter, I'll keep off the busy highway of the footpath through my own path of the riverbed.

I stop for a moment to photograph a mayfly upon my wing mirror. The first I've seen this year and a sure sign of the season and with it the good things to come. Getting to the river, the clutter of buggie wheels are drowned out over the soft rumble of this clear, low river. A canopy of oak and sycamore filter the heat and brightness of the mid-afternoon sun, encapsulating a damp, dappled-green tunnel. Large mossy boulders offer cover from which to cast in the thin water, whilst long fallen trees bridge the stream and offer vantage points. Black gnats buzz and in thick clouds over the fast water at the heads of pockets, and a small black klinkhammer is tied on to try to best match. It might seem an absurdity to an onlooker to try to get inside the mind of a fish, the brain being perhaps the size of a pea at best and yet such is the central dogma of much of fly fishing. In fairness, behavioural ecology models do suggest that it can be energetically beneficial to an organism to lock on selectively to a small food item and ignore rare more calorific food items when such small items are encountered frequently enough, so forgoing a large (and less agonising to see!) mayfly in favour of a pathetic tiny black imitation does have some sense. The trout however disagree, as pool after pool is fished through without the usual suicidal approach of Dartmoor's diminutive brownies.

They're not always big in size but wild Dartmoor browns certainly lack nothing in character. 

Having fished through one particularly deep slot in the gorge, with only a half-hearted inspection by one unimpressed fish, I looked ahead to the next pool. A cursed golden retriever came bounding through into the shallows, followed by owners. Disappointment is hidden best as possible beneath beard, cap and polarised glasses, as the couple hold a phone aloft to take a picture of this real-life, wild, free-range adolescent fishing dirtbag, spooked trout skittering behind unbeknownst to them. I take a moment to sit and think, or more realistically sulk, this is quite a pleasant river but the fish really aren't having it. As I do so, a young child walks along the path above chattering happily to their mother about looking for tadpoles, bucket in hand. I crack-up into a smile, remembering being that very kid except I, unlike most, never seemed to grown up from seeking out the wild squishy beasties of the outdoors. Who knows, maybe this kid will grow up into an unwashed obsessive angler too.

But it sparked a moment of thought too. If you were to read much into the fly selection of lots of aesthetic traditional fly fishermen you might think that the humble brown trout has the weightwatcher's own slimming club diet, only picking at the dainty little insects that float. But if you look into the real diet of brown trout, particularly in nutrient-poor acidic rivers, bigger individuals need to be stomaching much more substantial items in order to hold any weight up, the biggest fish often even becoming cannibalistic. Here comes the potentially controversial bit: matching the hatch, a phrase often tied up in the aesthetic world of select dry flies, should then often lead you to try to imitate the fatter more nutritious items than just little midges or even (dare I say it) fishing mayfly patterns for the sake of tradition (I recently made an appearance of Fly Culture's podcast with Pete Tyjas, touching during that time on that very matter. It was an absolute blast and honour, and you can listen to it here: https://www.buzzsprout.com/402997).

Looking down into a shallow eddy, I spied those little black squirming figures that made up many a childhood escapade. Surely a tadpole must make a pretty nutritious and welcome meal for the desperate trout of Dartmoor? It certainly doesn't come with the awkward chitinous packaging that most arthropods that they're used to do. Nipping off my klinkhammer, I delve into my fly box for a likely imitation. Perhaps were it not for so many hours in the flat, sinking deeper into madness late at night and into the peeping hours of the new day, I might not have tied up some of the less orthodox patterns in there. I thank my moments of madness on this occasion, as I pick out a heavy tungsten weighted jig hook, dressed with black dubbing and a short black marabou tail. Perfect, as tadpole as tadpoles come. The pool here looks as though it reaches depths of perhaps 4-6 feet, though hard to tell in the crashing white water. Clambering above, it's possible to flick the fly into the churning undercurrent and hold it deep on merely the leader and a foot of fly line outside the tip of the rod.

Tadpoles and my little tadpole imitation.

The drift stops, flicking the tip upwards to free the fly of some snag, only to find the snag pulsating and throbbing in the strong current. It worked! In such a manner, a handful of otherwise elusive brownies are brought to hand, including a very nice fish for these parts of 10.5". Slipping the barbless hook from the upper lip, my fingers graze some sharp teeth. Such teeth surely can't be for sipping little insects and, save sexual selection, nature is rarely superfluous. Here's the noodle bending bit, was this capture an excellent exercise in matching the targeted food item, or merely exploiting the aggressive tendencies of trout towards an easy meal. Might it not equally be said though that to fish a dry over the water, even a mayfly, when the trout are not feeding on such is not matching the hatch but instead just inducing the aggression of trout towards surface food items?

That's like a real sized trout! Quite a specimen compared to Dartmoor's usual standard. 

I catch plenty more trout as the afternoon wears on, just shy of 30 and the majority on elk hair and CDC caddis in shallower glides. No caddis hatch was seen, but such a fly is buoyant and visible and thereby easy to fish when the trout aren't being too selective. Despite the usual esteem for dry fly fishing as being the 'proper, right and respectable' way of catching trout, those fish which came to my tadpole imitation were those which felt most rewarding. It sets the mind wandering, where there's a bunch of thumbnail sized froglets about in a few weeks, will the trout lock onto those too? What possible Frankenstein frog fly could imitate them? You can keep the mayfly, it's all about the tadpole hatch for me now...

Okay, I guess mayfly fishing is kinda cool too... 

Where shall we go when the gates are locked?

Skylarks mockingly sing their cheerful tunes, parachuting effortlessly to the ground before flitting back to their aerial displays. I wobble unnervingly, just about holding balance as my front tyre sinks into the rut of another babyhead, carrying sweaty momentum forwards. Apart from the lumbering heave of my panting, the crunch of dry grassland and shrill calls of moorland birds, the landscape is empty. It’s no wonder, even in the long carefree days of school summer holidays this corner of Devon is never busy, and that’s exactly what’s drawn me here. I unclip my pedals in relief as I reach a gate along the bridleway, the path has given up here, not me, my legs have held this far. Reaching for the latch, an angry person has entered my company, seeing a shiny new chain and padlock barring this public right of way.

I’ve no right to complain about the circumstances we find ourselves in during lockdown and perhaps my biggest reflection upon this time is to judge those around me as far more commendable than myself for selfless acts in trying to cope with the COVID pandemic. But after 47 days of working, resting, eating, calling friends, cleaning and maintaining gear and all the other things that make up daily life all within the confines of an inner-city flat, the spirit grows deflated. I’ve grown lazy for lack of excitement in life, and regularly sleep beyond the beckoning call of dawn, mustering a purpose for the day a real marathon effort. Anxiety creeps around the covers as uncertainty grows over the ability for us to hold our long-planned wedding this summer and well laid plans for my PhD research lay scattered. This is the world we find ourselves in though, and no wallowing in self-pity will change that.

Wilderness has always been a refuge for the restless mind, from biblical stories of spiritual growth in the desert to the modern fable of Chris McCandless making peace with American middle-class society by retreating to the hard frozen landscape of Alaska. There’s something about these places that gives us the chance to feel small, give space, to vocalise our grief, put ourselves back together and perhaps return with greater fortitude for it. In my own small way, this process is not alien to myself either. Finishing my final exams a few years ago, I packed the hatches of my kayak with a stove, bivvy gear and a few supplies. In the year prior, in youthful optimism, along with some friends we had decided that we would head to Svalbard to document and make clear the impact of plastic and noise pollution on this apparently pristine arctic wilderness. But with mere weeks to go, we were 10’s of thousands of pounds short, committed by our belief in the need for this kind of work but on the brink of financial ruin. After kayaking a kilometre offshore, a wobbling spec in the waves, a rough landing onto an empty beach and spending the night under a clear sky, resolve was found to commit to go for broke, to see it through to the end. More recently, with no home to speak of but my old car, the weight of a long field season and accompanying loneliness made the deteriorating health of my grandfather all the harder to stomach. Walking the banks of the East Lyn, casting a line for small wild brown trout, washing my cares out with a plunge into the cold, cleansing water, the pieces of life seemed to fit back together.

A dip in the East Lyn. 

I’m very grateful for the ability to still get out running and cycling to break the monotony of everyday life, it’s quite hard to imagine how those in the rather more strict measures of Spain are coping. During these times I ponder where I might go when clipped wings are allowed to grow again, to cast a line. Will I head alone to Dartmoor’s tumbling acid rivers, enjoy the improbable buzz of urban trouting or roam the coastline making more time to chat with long missed partners than to cast? The question reverberates: if you could go anywhere, where? Meeting this locked gate across the bridleway reminds me that I cannot go anywhere, that choice has been taken long before I was even able to walk, swim, cast, climb; the UK’s wilderness has been diminished and privatised. And nowhere is this more apparent than for our waterways.

'But on the other side, it didn't say nothing. That side was made for you and me'. 

A very wet run.

It’s 00:30, a scattering of hook packets lay around my bed, loose dubbing covers my shirt and a selection of scruffy flies are packed up in an envelope. An OS map glows from my laptop screen, numerous tabs open beside. The task at hand to equip a friend with the ability to get out fly fishing. His psyche to get into fly fishing is only matched by my elation to have another fishing partner without a pension scheme. Flies complete, I’m looking for likely looking local water for him. Forget the major rivers, a ticket on these is likely to cost a month’s rent or at least more than what we’d pay to feed ourselves for a week. Instead, I seek out the neglected, arse end tributaries, the turd on the shoe of the lordly water. This is the paradigm that we’ve come to work by, accepting that the most beautiful wonderful places in our own country are held at arm’s length. Not because they’ve been put there by these exclusive fisheries but instead are claimed on some antiquated documents of fishing rights, held as scripture to condemn ruffians such as ourselves. In the words of Joni Mitchell, ‘They took all the trees and put them in a tree museum, then they charged the people a dollar and a half just to see them’.

One of the better rivers we've found, even more fish than trolleys!

Back on my ride, I’m now cruising along forestry fire tracks. Looking at the conifer plantations, I’m taken to the wilds of Northern America. The land there is vast, so I hear, rich, true wilderness. Interest is stoked by Stuart’s tales of fishing in Tasmania, a temperate wilderness not unlike what the UK could have been. Rather than scratching through local post offices, obscure forum entries and dodging the gnashing of untamed farm mutts to knock on doors, here you know your rights. A state fishing permit allows you to roam wherever your spirit might take you, never fearful of having a crazed nutter attack you and steal your fishing rod for casting towards ‘his side on the river’ (a story for another time). I wonder if the populous of these countries suffer the same Nature Deficiency Disorder as we’re widely experiencing in the UK, with school children unable to identify our most common species. We shouldn’t have to fly half way around the world for access to awe inspiring rivers, with such landscapes abundant within our own country, and yet every year it proves more accessible for many people to do just this.

Nick Hart said that I reminded him of one of the American 'Troutbums' on one of the first occasions of meeting him. It took sometime to understand how great a compliment that could be!

In true University Student fashion, I’m milking the most out of a free trial to FishingTV, cancelling this before I have to pay. On the list of top rated films is ‘Chalk’, a story of chalks river fishing in the UK. And you know what, it’s everything I feared that it’d be. To give credit, the nod towards river restoration on the Wandle and smaller Yorkshire catchments give some lift in spirit. But the rest just serves the alienate, as home county accents wax lyrical about the tranquillity, perfection of these rivers, overlaid with slow-motion videos of anglers dressed up in thousands of pounds worth of beige, casting rods and reels worth more than my car, not exclusively retired. Words say that this is the glorious heritage of British fly fishing, what is heard is that you are not welcome in this natural beauty unless you earn such an exquisite income so as to buy your way in.

Aforementioned car. 

A small experiment for the next time you are at a party: Firstly, tell people upon meeting that you are a rock climber. Results generally consist of, ‘Awesome’, ‘Wow that’s pretty cool’, ‘Man, I’d love to go climbing sometime’. Now try and tell the other half of the room that you enjoy fishing for wild trout and you might expect such responses as, ‘I wouldn’t have expected that’, ‘each to their own I guess’ or ‘I’d never have the patience for that’. Now for the purely hypothetical part: I reckon if you repeated this experiment in cultures with open land access, right to roam and without the hoarding of natural beauty behind pay gates, the result would be totally different. Indeed, it doesn’t take much looking to see the difference in the fly fishing scene between the UK and America, New Zealand and Tasmania. The average age of anglers in the latter must be at least a generation younger, full of psyche and positive energy, not arthritis. What would it take to get young people enjoying their own right to wilderness, to give space for their spirits to roam, to find peace against the doomsday barrage of news in the media? Cut the locks, remove the ugly barbed wire, both people and the sport will be healthier for it.

Scottish winter climbing. See a mountain, climb the mountain. Marvellous. 

On a lighter note, various passport style schemes are making a positive change here. The Westcountry River’s trust launched their ‘Fish Pass’ app a little over a year ago, making wild fishing available and easily located for the cost of a pint and pasty. Hats off to them, it’s good to see and has made a big difference to my own fishing. But sadly this remains the exception.

Where will you go when it’s safe for us to wander again? This time of confinement has made all the more clear the need for all people (not just those on London salaries) to roam, to experience wild places and be refreshed by clean air. It’s been suggested that our society will change for this experience. I sincerely hope that the British countryside will become a more welcoming space and the ability to fish a far less exclusive acquisition when we do return.

Tasmanian getaway Part 1

As Dan has already mentioned, the 2019/20 winter fishing in the UK was dire. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to travel to the Southern hemisphere and swap seasons for just shy of a month, spending most of my time camping and fishing in Tasmania’s vast wilderness.

With the season comparable to early June in the UK, I planned to spend    most of my fishing time targeting trout and leave marine species till the last week of my stay. Unfortunately, after an early heatwave in October, the weeks leading up to my arrival in Tassie were characterised by unseasonal storms, snow and sub-Antarctic wind. I secretly hoped this lull in spring would pass by   the time I arrived, but sadly this wish did not materialise. Despite passing through smoke-ridden Sydney, I touched down in a windy, 9°C Hobart. The walk to the terminal building got me questioning whether I’d packed enough warm clothes, as I had intended on spending a considerable amount of time in the west and central highlands.

All negative thoughts soon disappeared; no sooner had I stepped into ‘Spot On – the fishing connection’, Hobart's legendary tackle shop, I was eager to cast a line. I must have spent a good hour discussing different lakes and rivers to try over the coming weeks but did eventually head off with a license and selection of new lures to try.

The first session was an urban trip in South Hobart, working my way upstream from the CBD, fishing the creek that supplies Australia’s oldest brewery. It was a pleasant trip, I caught about half a dozen pristine trout from the minute creek in the company of numerous wallabies, cockatoos and pademelons. Although I enjoy fishing tiny urban streams, I had my sights set on exploring some of the more remote areas where the trout have often never seen an angler.

Cascade Brewery and Mt.Wellington in the distance

An urban trout

 After an evening pouring over maps, a plan was hatched with Jon to climb mount Anne and fish the mighty Tyenna river on the return to Hobart, hoping the water levels would have dropped by then as no more rain was forecast. The Tyenna has been somewhere I’ve wanted to fish for some time, this small river is renowned for being incredibly productive; every year double figure fish are pulled from its idyllic waters.

Sadly, we heard the following morning that the Mt Anne region was closed due to bushfire damage so quickly came up with a plan B. We elected to head north-west to Mount Field national park, hike the Tarn Shelf circuit and fish the Tyenna over the long weekend.

The weather was glorious in Mt Field, I distinctly remember applying copious amounts of sun cream before we shouldered our bags. Fishing rod in hand, we began a steep ascent through mixed forest dominated by the endemic and charismatic Richea pandanifolia, the giant grass tree. A few patches of slushy snow were scattered through the forest, but we thought little of it. As we climbed higher, the pandani grove morphed into a thicket of snow gum and the patches of slushy snow became more prevalent. 

Jon beneath a towering 'Pandani'

First signs of snow

Rather alarmingly, at perhaps 1050m altitude, there was a good 5 inches of snow on the track. This did not bode well as the track would climb several hundred metres more before levelling out and following the tarn shelf. We spotted a couple walking towards us, which sent alarm bells ringing. It was still early in the morning; surely no one would have managed to already complete the circuit anti-clockwise? My fears were confirmed, we were told they lost the trail above the treeline in deep snow. Eager to carry on, we ignored their advice to turn back and sought an alternative route to the plateau. We hoped it would be possible to at least make it out if the trees and get glimpse of Lake Seal. Thankfully we did find the track and managed to join up with another set of footprints which followed the route we were following on the map for several kilometres. We were blessed with blue skies and stunning views; a white blanket coated the peaks and cols above us, in stark contrast to the dark, tannin stained waters of Lake Seal below.

A surreal scene for Australian summertime

Our hearts soon sank again as we saw the two figures who had been walking ahead of us approaching. A quick chat revealed that making any progress through the waist deep snow and icy bogs which lay ahead was unpleasantly arduous, so they had chosen to turn back. We decided to carry on regardless, following their footprints to a hut in the distance where we could stop for a bite to eat and assess the situation – it was almost midday and we hadn’t even seen the lakes I planned on fishing! From the hut I could see the Mackenzie tarn, the first of a series of 8 small lakes which the trail follows. It appeared to be frozen over, not something you often come across in Australia!

We decided to make our way slowly down to the tarn, we still had ten hours of daylight and no other plans. It was quite entertaining, trudging through deep snow whilst probing for rocks and pools, every now and then coming across the top of a trail marker confirming we were still on the right track. After a few obligatory pictures by the frozen tarn, we decided to venture onwards to the next one (which was only half frozen) so I could finally cast a line. I wasn’t surprised that nothing was interested in my lures, but nonetheless felt some sense of achievement for attempting to fish in this surreal location.

Not a bad spot for lunch!

We made the decision to have lunch then turn back to go and fish one of the lower lakes below the snowline. Whilst sitting by the lake, a German girl who was running the route showed up and exclaimed “Oh, I guess the footprints end here then!”. We had a chat and explained how we were turning back; it had taken five hours to walk little more than a quarter of the circuit. She tried to persuade us to continue as she didn’t have a proper map, only a small pamphlet with a sketch of the route. We decided against it and wished her good luck before finishing lunch. Feeling slightly worried for her, I climbed a small crag to see if I could spot her bright blue jacket in the snow. I caught sight of her, however she appeared to be lost, stuck on the wrong side of the next tarn, penned in by a braided creek and boggy ground hidden by snow. We decided to continue to show her the correct route, crossing the stream on the other side of the lake. She thankfully saw us and re-joined the right track. We decided to try and reach the next tarn and have a few more casts before heading back, however in the distance ahead of us we could see a group of brightly clothed hikers! This signalled that we’d reach the halfway point if we met, assuming they had started at a similar time to us that morning. We decided to put fishing on hold and meet the group. It turned out that the snow was a lot sparser ahead and progress a lot quicker.

This meant we could finally justify an hour or two fishing the tarns and streams that abound the high plateau. We caught numerous pristine trout from this magical place before heading off at pace to complete the circuit before darkness fell. Reaching the Tyenna valley in twilight, we pitched our tent and cooked two trout surrounded by a plethora of endemic Tasmanian fauna emerging to graze on the lush floodplain. We ended the monumental day by hunting for glow worms amongst tree ferns in the nearby forest before setting pre-dawn alarms for the next fishing trip, in total awe of the experience we had just been through.  

An immaculate brownie, note the vivid red spots on the adipose fin

Living in the moment

Winter was a pretty dreary affair, hopes of grayling fishing shattered with almost comical lifts of rivers into flood just hours before the weekend. With more than enough work on the PhD to keep busy anyway, it has been hard to build drive to stay engaged with fishing. By the new year I’d all but given up with fishing, my heart broken by the flow gauge one too many times, with a month covered in travelling to the Czech Republic for a Genomics training course (think computer programming meets analysing full genome datasets) and heading North to Scotland to sample some excellent winter mountaineering in full-on storm conditions. Precious little time that was found whilst based at home largely found me seeking out toothy, but diminutive canal pike on the fly. On my last visit, whilst returning another of the average stamp of 3-4lb jack, a broad set double figure fish shot out from the part flooded rotten rushes at my feet, sulking in plain view but refusing to acknowledge a fly. Rewarding enough to keep total angling deprivation and withdrawal depression at bay, the mind was ever set on the dawn of coming spring and the new trout season to bring some much needed psych back.

Canal pike on the fly.

 But now everything seems uncertain as we enter an unprecedented state of society- not to mention restriction on the long awaited fishing- all because of the word of the moment (I’ll spare mention of the word!). It’s Sunday tomorrow, at least I think so, I can’t really remember what I’ve done day to day for the past couple of weeks other than consume copious buckets of tea, only the occasional live stream of church meetings or virtual coffee break interrupting the timeless haze. I’ve found myself stalking the comments sections of angling groups on social media too closely for my own good. One time, maybe yesterday or last week, I get called out as an extremist by a bass angling group for advocating that we should be speaking with a united voice as anglers towards conservation of our already plundered inshore ecology rather than squabbling greedily to fill our freezers with the last barely mature fish still scraping by. More recently, I've seen an article criticising the suggested reintroduction of burbot to our waters, a fascinating native species to the UK which was driven locally extinct by a mixture of habitat destruction and climate change, no doubt also suffering from widespread pollution issues that almost universally affect our rivers. It’s all good though now, with less monitoring by the EA on rivers, driven by budget cuts, we’re now missing pollution events and not scrutinising water companies’ discharges, so the rivers are, at least on paper, not in such bad shape! Sorry, I lost my train of thought there. But the burbot; there’s been fantastic work done by Norfolk Rivers Trust and a number of other forward thinking individuals to restore the flood plain habitat that this species needs and work hard to raise the funds for an effective reintroduction campaign. Brilliant, obvious conservation work being done to right a wrong in our native ecology, our natural heritage in Britain in the midst of so many terribly sad losses. But who should criticise this effort but the Angling Times themselves, citing this to be wasted funds and compounding issues of non-native predators in UK waterways. I’m yet to see an article decrying the non-native king carp to British waters, funny that. Not to mention the EU legal obligation to reintroduce native species to their habitats where they are now absent, surely it’s only in every angler’s interest to see native ecology and a really cool fish species restored, grandkids now able to catch the fabled species of their grandfathers and look in admiration. My gut sinks deeper as I delve into that darkest area of the internet, the comments section. Every other dim-witted remark is lauding the article and suggesting that we should get back to exterminating otters whist we’re at it, not a single voice critiquing the magazine for putting out such a narrow vision based purely on speculation and spitting on science.

Argh!

For those unfamiliar, freshwater ecosystems are perhaps the most at threat ecosystem globally. The UK is not immune to this, with modification to our freshwater ecosystems occurring as early as the 11^th century, driving decline in our freshwater fish species. Wind forward the clock and freshwaters in Britain face a myriad of stressors, from dams and barriers preventing breeding migrations of many of our most threatened fish species, arable nutrients leaching into rivers and lakes and causing eutrophication and choking oxygen out of the system, pesticides killing our naturally rich insect life, erosion dumping sediment into rivers and choking gravels into nothing more than a stinking muddy puddle, over-abstraction of water, canalisation of once free flowing rivers into monotonous canals… I mean we’re now even seeing feminisation (male fish becoming sterile or even female!) of fish from pharmaceuticals flowing in from sewage treatment plants. It’s enough to make an ecologist weep and, in my case, keep you busy in a job. Let’s be clear then, otters, beavers, cormorants, even burbot have coexisted in the UK for many millennia with the rest of the fish species which we enjoy catching. Declines in our fish life is then not a result of brilliant work being done to restore these native species to a richer, more diverse native ecosystem function, but because of the multitude of ills that we have inflicted upon our poor waterways. And I’m damned sure that the Angling Times know it. Why then stoke this misinformation? Is it because we want to greedily catch more and more bloated specimen fish from stagnant water, the makings of perfect magazine cover material? Does this prize outweigh the ecosystem services to society that natural freshwater systems provide? Did the author once lose a card game against a freshwater ecologist? We may never know, but, for picking away at hard fought restoration work which will benefit waterways and the people around them immensely, they should hang their heads in shame. One last note, before I bookmark this rant. Grayling were long persecuted in the belief that they harmed trout and salmon, ruthlessly slaughtered by gamekeepers along much of the UK’s chalkstreams by the orders of the various lords and ladies of the land. An innocent victim and now rightly recognised to hold high esteem as a wild fish species alongside trout and salmon.

Sigh. 

Well the original intention of this post was to fill in with my trout fishing up until lockdown set in, so after that lengthy vent, I’ll hopefully finish on a cheerier note! The 15^th of March, opening day of trout season, finally arrived but only after another big dump of rain. Fortunately, we had a plan. Driving north, we passed blown-out river after blown-out river, prospects not looking brilliant. The heavy rain lifted to drizzle however as we entered Exmoor and by the time we were at the coast it was merely overcast. Concerned that the larger rivers might be unapproachable during this spate, and the lowland tributaries of the Exe colouring too quickly from soil erosion, we settled upon the magnificent river Heddon. Between steep wooded Exmoor slopes runs this turbulent stream, less steep than the nearby East Lyn, holding not a bit less character, running directly onto the cobbles of the beach. As we tackled up to make our first casts, we pondered the scene of salmon and sea trout running from the cove up the shallow flow along the beach into the river to find the site of their own conception and give rise to the next generation of glistening fish. Awesome stuff. Despite the clarity being less than a foot, the fish came quickly to feed on heavy tungsten nymphs dropped into slacker water. One particularly nice fish of 10 inches had the good humour of taking my nymph just below Stuart’s own feet in water that he had fished through, before performing some spectacular acrobatics right in front of the disbelieving Stuart. As the day passed on, the colour of the river dropped off and we were both happy to see plenty of eager, hungry trout after what has felt like a very long close season. The trip was of course toasted with half a pint of Exmoor beast in the Hunters Inn before journeying back south.

Yes, that's the sea you can see in the background!

Thereafter the weather finally began to smile upon us, as biblical amounts of rain became a mere memory, enabling many a lunchtime wander with the fly rod. Having recently joined the Crediton Fly Fishing Club, it was nice to explore some entirely new rivers to myself as well as revisiting new sections of already familiar rivers. Such trips were commenced to a visit to the Creedy, pestered by a curious group of bullocks before slipping in to fish the odd pool here or there. It was all pretty quiet still, but just before leaving, an 11 inch fish kindly took a look at my nymph run through a deep pool, colours still muted in the cool winter water. Initially jilted on the Culm, it was a relief to later pick up a plump 12 inch fellow who took in a wide shallow run in the afternoon sun. Best of all was my final trip, rivers really fine by this point, on the Yeo. Amidst the fresh tang of wild garlic, I squeezed beneath barbed wire fences to access the most favourable looking pools. The fish were joyfully colourful and apparently tasteful, refusing more tarty large flies for more natural size 16 nymphs. With a fish of 12 inches already taken from one pool and released after much admiration, I was pretty pleased. Working up a modest size pool, I targeted the deeper flow to the righthand side without so much as a polite nod from a trout, bringing attention to a small back eddy away from the main flow. Typically, this back eddy just happened to be guarded by the clutching grasp of a sycamore tree, fresh sticky buds punctuating long dangling digits. Wading as carefully as I dared, cringing at the crunching gravel beneath my feet, I was just about able to manoeuvre to position to lower my pair of nymphs below the rod tip into this eddy. Within a moment, the line checked and the tip arced over. A splendid dance followed, a fine fish apparent from the deep stubborn fight carried around the whole pool, long fought before resignation. Admired, and a few snaps taken, this fish was not only gorgeous in its own right, but also a good thirteen inches long – already beating my best fish of last season (excluding sea trout of course!). Happily, I gathered a net full of wild garlic before tramping back to the car, one foot squelching from leaky waders, for the last time for some time.

Special mention too should be given to a couple of less solitary trips shared with Stuart. Most of my trout fishing tends to be a lonely affair, making company on the bank a really nice change. Driving up a short way from Exeter, we quickly pass over the popular topic of our current public health situation and quickly pick up onto more important matters of discussion, namely salmon. Parking up behind a housing estate, a lady passes by and huffs loudly enough to express apparent upset at ourselves. Pondering the meaning, I make a point of smiling and making as much eye contact as possible as she passes by again. It’s a mean world folks, but we can all smile it away. The water appeared to be in absolutely top condition, clear but with just an edge of tinge that screamed fishy to both of us. The day started in courtesy, each picking up fish in turn from every likely looking spot, but an edge of slight competition soon crept in. Jumping a fence behind a council building we regained access to the urban river again to find a splendid large pool which I had bookmarked on a previous visit. Wide enough for both of us to cast, we must have taken ten fish between us from the one pool before moving on. Competition was not simply about quantity of trout, highest esteem was held for the most brightly and vividly spotted, or those with the cleanest white stripe on their anal fin, each fish a joyous piece of art. Contrasted with comically urban and criminally modified river, we left the day giggling and giddy at one of the best trout fishing days for both of us. Perhaps more can be said of this trip another time. Lastly, on Stuart’s birthday we made a post-work trip up onto the West Dart. Shrouded in thick fog, cold and in the last weak grey haze of the day, it was quite clear that conditions weren’t quite matched to optimal catching. No matter, despite the blank we shared casts up the gorgeous clear water, complimenting each other on particularly fine presentations to make up for the lack of eager fish to do so, and making plans for return in the scorching bliss of summer.

Brilliant memories, I’m very grateful for the little time that I was able to make the most of. This whole time seems a good reminder that nothing in the future is certain, with plans currently on hold and digested day by day. Make the time now for memories that’ll see you through the rough times and let’s make sure we pass on healthy ecosystems to those after us so that they can do the same. Maybe I’ll see you on the bank when this is all over!

Winter Washout

They say that we Brits like to talk about the weather and, if we were to eliminate utterances of despair at the two political 'B' words of our time, the chorus of the last month might read, 'Has the sun forever disappeared, when will it ever be dry?'. Having now moved to Exeter, commencing a PhD within trout population genetics, I had been hopeful for the many opportunities to explore the local provision of winter grayling within Exmoor's wild tributaries of the Exe and the larger pike and perch of the slower-flowing lowland drains and canals. Heading up to the Exe Valley fishery to sample a well-known stretch of the Exe for some autumn grayling during early October gave the first taste of the season to come: fast, dangerous, turbid water. No chance of presenting even the heaviest tungsten nymphs, the mere thought of wading suicidal. Not content to waste the 4 hour journey that my Dad had made there, consolation was found in some most-obliging Wimbleball rainbows. 

A daily habit, bordering obsession, has been found in checking the river flow monitoring graphs online, the hope of steadily falling levels throughout the week checked as a fresh spate consistently hit our rivers just in time for the weekend. Desperate, both Stuart and I ply fellow anglers in the local area for any recent successful days out. The repeated theme resonated; few had tried fishing, fewer yet had been catching. Not content to simply call winter the season of sitting behind the fly tying vice in the lazy comfort of the stale indoors, we managed to come across some welcome late-season bass. Hopes lifted, I bid Stuart farewell for a while with a small box of flies and odds-and-ends of tackle, my token participation in his seeking of Tasmanian trout. 

The last week of November saw a welcome dry spell, though with many such forecasts having been cruelly replaced by inevitable low-pressure systems as plans were made, hope was kept modest at best. As the days passed, small peaks were read on the flow gauge, as overnight downpours toyed with certainty. But doubt soon gave way on Friday night, as confirmation was given by a friend living next to the Barle. Though flows were still relatively high, the water was at least running clear. Double leggings, flask of tea, an assortment of heavily weighted flies tied the night before and many spare jumpers in case of unplanned dips into the icy water; the car was soon packed and trundling up the Exe valley way. The Dulverton Angling Association holds water on both the main Exe, and its tributaries the Haddeo and Barle, all for a very stipend-funded-student-friendly price of £35 per year, and upon local advice, tempered with the telling words of ‘it’s just nice to be on the water this time of year’, I parked up by the bank of the humble Haddeo. 


Despite the dry forecast, some unexpected shower fell through the trees, clinking loudly upon the roof and windows of my old Skoda. Looking out across the field, a neat line of Rangerovers parked as if in a show room, a grotesque picture of country lifestyle gluttony if I ever did see one, molesting the local environment they pose as stewards of. High in the air, driven pheasants fly clumsily, a few spiralling to the ground in mortal submission. Fat men, sugar-coated in tweed, nod approvingly at the killing. Throughout the year these riverside valleys have been transformed, stuffed thick with a monoculture of non-native pheasants, spoiling the land with a glut of pellet feed, natural ecology pecked thin, polluting the river, all for this day. What an honour to be there and witness the waste.

Holding my thermos of tea inside the car, dodging lead shot, I squirm eagerly into my waders. As if on cue, the guns stop and the opportunity is gladly taken to slink out towards the river. I’ve heard all the rage about Euro-style nymphing and had felt the absence of such a presentation during some sessions over the end of the season, to be able to present nymphs through deep pools and yet stay in contact in such a way that an indicator perhaps might not allow. Eager to expand my horizons, I’ve got my hands on a two-toned French leader from Barbless Flies, and soon find myself looping this on and tying a 5 foot section of tippet to the end. The action, bereft of the assistance of the weight of a fly line is jilted and unpredictable to start, but the systematic pattern is soon ingrained: flick, drift and track stop the rod behind to allow the nymphs to rise and flick against the weight of the water. 

What a sullen scene. I'd certainly not be picking those tail feathers for flies. 

When the first bite came, line halting at the tail of a deep run, I’m not sure who was more surprised. Unfortunately the culprit was soon revealed to be a male brown trout, a fine fellow too of 10 inches, but very much in the season of spawning. Barbless hook slipped out, a few words of encouragement were given to think less of his belly and more of passing his genes on, and he was back to the depths of the pool. Under the imposition of a road bridge, on dutiful cast was given to the dark water beneath so as to cover all the water. A silver flash, a few moments of struggle, and all over. The mind dances tantalisingly as to whether I have just danced with the lady of the stream, or just another out-of-season brown. Either way I’d been jilted. 


Meeting the road bridge, a change of tact was decided, walking the length downstream to look at the beat of the main Exe. Though the water was clear, it was apparent that the waist depth and pacey water might easily carry me all the way back to Exeter, shivering, if caution was not employed. Venturing out nervously, reassurance was found in the crunch of fine gravels and knee depth water, nothing too far out, peeking towards the deeper run on the far bank. Another footstep, however, plunged me down up to my upper thigh in the icy water, stumbling to keep balance. ‘Maintain control’ passed through the mind, as I found myself to be skating on devilishly slippery bedrock. Directly downstream, maybe 20 metres away, a deep churning pool threatened to snatch this foolish angler for his insolent lack of respect. One foot to the right, quickly followed by another, foot jammed beneath a boulder, torqueing against this for security. Wide stride, crunch, and safely back on fine gravels. Enough of that, time for lunch and a cup of tea. 

You're not a grayling! Hoped that the pink bling might bring out the lady. 

There’s something nice about being here by yourself, mind taken to consider the subtleties of conversation or trying to keep others happy. I don’t think that it is selfishness that owns such moments, but the ability to let the rolling water, muted autumn colours and individual birdsong permeate your consciousness; no barriers or distractions. Tea finished. Not finding any more promising and safely wadeable water on the main Exe, a march was to be taken back to the Haddeo, where the day had begun, but fishing further up along the next beat. Instantly I felt more at home, the river scarcely wider than a rod in many places, and mostly shin deep, akin to the intimate waters of West Cornwall. A change was made from the duo of heavy shrimps, the more gentle flow accommodating a single red-peeping caddis. Flicking this into a textbook back eddy, line held high above the fast flow in between, an instant bite is brought, and the value on this nymphing malarkey seems to be made evident.


An hour or so continues in the same vein, chastising all too eager browns from almost every likely looking deep run for grayling. Light dying, I was contented to call it quits besides a deep pool, a half-rotten corpse of a pheasant marring the scene slightly. I’d failed to locate the elusive lady this time, but no matter, it really had been a breath of fresh air to be trying something new. Grayling 1, Dan 0. I’ll be back.

Nice to finally get some patterns out of the vice and into the drink!

Urban Mischief

Lowman

‘Go on then, what happened last night?’ Mia asked as we sped up the Exe Valley way, the commute of this summer’s unorthodox electrofishing ‘working’ life.



‘Man alive, I lost one of those “oh shit fish”, you know the kind that you might only come across once or twice a year. I’m still shaking about it. You’d never guess where I was though’.

It was a late August Wednesday afternoon, the aroma of my Skoda Roomster now thick with the evidence of a summer living as an ecology graduate come vagabond, scraping a living from an unpaid internship by living in this all too cramped and basic camper. Dutifully, I’d made the rounds to landowners in the morning to ask permission to carry out fry surveys on their sections of the river Exe the following day, whilst Mia was doing likewise for gravel cleaning works on the river Culm. If gravel cleaning leaves question marks in your head then don’t fret, it did for me until recently. As it turns out, our rivers suffer such horrendous amounts of soil runoff from the surrounding land, accelerated by poor land management (i.e. cattle farming, growth of biomass crops with no winter cover crop, loss of woodland, ect) that industrial machinery is required to blast away the choking sediment from the river system. Unseen to most of us, something to consider over your next milky brew. Aside from such concerns, my duties were completed for the day with the afternoon laid open for me to occupy myself. To your average nine-to-five kinda guy, such an opportunity might be relished, splashing the rich wealth of hard toil towards a ticket on a pleasant and well managed westcountry fishery. I however found myself as not that kind of guy, lacking the wealth to boot. Free, untamed, dirty water was the order of the day and I had something in mind.

In the centre of Devon’s very own rough and ready Tiverton (my opinion of the town may be marred by the experience of working with particularly uncooperative students from the area), the river Lowman feeds down into there mighty mid-Exe. I’d heard tell of good grayling fishing to be had just upstream of this confluence in the Exe and seen grayling fry in the lower survey site of the Lowman myself, so a foray after the elegant lady of the stream was devised- though perhaps less lady and more streetwise gal in this less than pristine home patch. Beside a gated facility at the back end of an industrial estate, I rushed my waders on as quickly as possible, like an additional round in a triathlon change over, hoping to avoid drawing too much attention before slinking below into the neglected stream.

Lowering in, a quick rise immediately strikes optimism as I miss pricking the unseen offender. Optimistic, I carry on, making short sideways casts with the playful seven foot rod under the hanging grasp of low sycamore branches. The high artificially built-up banks and dense riparian cover leave me squinting for the dry of my duo rig, any takes to the pink nymph irrelevant with my visual margin of error so great. The leader is brought close, a yarn indicator attached in place of the dry, and the nymph left to trot back down the flow again. A snatch here, a tap of connection, and the nymph pings back towards me. How frustrating, one fish missed and one hardly connected. Making my way past a fallen tree I inspect its flowing foliage, a collection of plastic bags trapped in the branches. I can see a deep hole beneath, surely housing a good fish or two, but the dense branches cannot be penetrated by even the most optimistic casting. At the tail of a steep riffle, a large boulder leaves a lee, a textbook relief from the flow for one of the river’s inhabitants. Making my way up with short casts, by my fifth the very head of this water is covered and the indicator goes dashing forwards. Aha! Connection! A bright silver gleam, as the surprised culprit holds itself against the current in a sail-like fashion, revealing her identity as my very target of a (abeit small) grayling. But just again, the line goes limp and the yarn drifts sadly back towards me. Damn. Inspecting the nymph I see nothing wrong; a size 14 barbless pink shrimp with gold bead flickering dully through the limited available light, hook unbent, sharp and well attached to the 3lb tippet. A rancid, rotting pigeon glared mockingly at me, eye now festered from its socket.


Making my way upstream, the engineering on this particular stretch of water begins to become more apparent, with the general riffle-pool-glide sequence broken by long stretches of impounded water, feeding down into steep drops of plunge pools, concrete bound first just in sides and then in substrate. Fishing becomes less efficient; in a bid to continue exploring the length of the river, I find myself walking through long stretches of water too slow to hope for the fish to be undisturbed, before traversing along banks of stacked wire cages of granite boulders, presumably placed in fear of bank subsistence. No bother I thought, it’s all part of the game of exploring new water, the territory will soon become easier, so I thought. Besides, the steep banks were now fenced beyond the thick brambles, my poor waders really didn’t need any more abuse.


Traversing the left hand bank, I found myself able to perch along the partly-submerged branch of an old, thick trunked willow, the bottom below not visible through the turbid water, and I hoped not beyond the limit of my waders, should I have had to (unwillingly) test the bottom. From this point it was possible to cast my nymph forwards into the head of the pool, with great churning flow soon slowing to near stagnant by my position 5 meters behind. Stripping some line from my spool, I worked the weight of the line drifting downstream into an upstream lob, so avoiding the litter of many branches lying between. I can’t see such an unorthodox cast being taught by certified fishing guides anytime soon, but in this far from manicured stretch of water, a sense of ‘imagination’ can often prove valuable. Sorry purists. My uncouth deed was soon met though, as the indicator hesitated, lifting an instinctive flick to the wrist. The three weight bent through to the butt, some unknown force pulsating in the deep water of the plunge pool. Instant adrenaline surged through the blood, a thousand thoughts flying in the periphery of my mind as sole focus was on keeping the rod tip high, maintaining pressure but not pulling too hard in excitement. Elated, water parts and splashes this way and that as a bar of gold goes airbourne. All periphery now melts away. I now know that this is a good fish. I never much want to think of the size of a fish till it’s landed, the grief of too many fish lost has cut me over what was never really mine and the mind drifts greedily to exaggerate. This time though I can see with my own eyes, a really good fish for the westcountry, a prime native brown trout eeking out a lazy existence from the polluted water. And then I feel sick, the line is slack, gone. My hands are shaking, I can’t yet bring myself to cast again. Taking ten minutes, I sit mulling over the events. Losing fish had been frustrating before, and I’m loathe to put a size on the fish, but it was at least as good as any I’ve ever had from southwest England. Shaking subsided, I cast again, but this pool has given its lot. The excitement was not quite over however.


Traversing large boulders I make my way around the deep waters of the pool. The boulders are slimy, covered in grime and dank mosses. A few desperate moves are made to scratch myself through hanging brambles, cruel thorns plucking a few bright crimson droplets of blood. Now above the deep churning water, I find myself in something of a pickle. The wilfully mischievous game of climbing had perhaps prepared me for this moment, a VDiff traverse lunge on sloping holds and awkwardly angled feet. For those that don’t speak in the language of crusty guidebook writers of the trad climbing fraternity, this constitutes moves that would be within hand but somewhat exciting without a rope in fair conditions and a half decent pair of rubber climbing shoes. I, however, was pushing on these awkward nubbins with clumsy size 12 wading boots, cursing through my clenched teeth around the rod the slimy holds. Mischief indeed, but soon passing to safety.


Perhaps I would find a way to extract myself from the now awkwardly modified river, have a cup of tea and laugh it all over. But steep concrete walls, unclimbable even if I had the appropriate attire, mocked this cry of defeat. Timidly I continue upwards, horrified by what laid before me. The substrate of the river had here been entirely replaced by a smooth concrete bottom, uniform in its lifelessness, flow, width and depth. At the head stood a plunge pool with a drop height of a few feet, the concrete abyss stretching at least 6 feet deep and along from the shallow concrete I’d been strolling along. Thought of nymphing through this hole was soon replaced by the dread of knowing that I’d have to pass through. Bother. A construction worker takes another break, waving a cigarette in one hand, the other pointing at me.


‘What dya think you’re doing there, no fish eh?’ he jests.


‘Well I’ve seen a good few, you never know’ I mustered.


Doubt fluttered in my stomach, but I couldn’t bear to admit my predicament, fearing greater scrutiny might be put on whether I could be fishing there, and I’m never in the mood for such trite nonsense. Walking closer, I inspected the smooth concrete walls, hopeful for some weakness. Dread was countered with mild amusement, I found myself to be breaking down the dull stereotype that a certain Mr Hartley has burdened fly fishing with, this was the real stuff. A thin metal board trailed the side of the concrete wall, I suppose a ‘compensatory’ measure put in to allow the passage of aquatic mammals, having all the hallmarks of the minimum cost applied to tick the ‘ecofriendly’ legal requirements. It’s pressed hard against the wall, as I get down to my knees I can’t find space to jam my fingers in, palming hopefully against the side of the metal instead. My left leg trails off of the side, the board a foot or less wide, not quite secure for my whole girth. Grinning through clenched teeth around the rod, I find myself once again too far to retreat, swirling water below and the lip of the next concrete paved riverbed tantalisingly close. Urban fishing at its best I told myself, putting aside the doubt that informed me that I was, in fact, a stubborn fool.

Another pool was passed in like manner, but all soon calmed down as loud construction sites mellowed to quiet urban gardens. Frustrated with the manner of the pink shrimp, unexplainably losing me every hopeful bite, I switched to a tiny #18 black headed pheasant tailed nymph with an offset barbless hook point. Flicking this into the head of a fast shallow run quickly produced a take, and with much insisting to myself that I wouldn’t dare lose this one, nine inches of my first Lowman trout was soon sat in the net. Chuckling away to myself, note was made to return, passing confused looking teenagers on my stomp back through to the car.