A blast in Polruan

After a long hard winter, it feels like Cornwall has skipped spring in 2 weeks and headed straight into high summer. Whilst the icy grip of ‘The beast from the East’ was felt around the whole country, I am assured that this year was the first time that Cornwall has seen snow on that kind of magnitude in a decade. Consequently, much of the natural rhythms of spring seem to have been thrown of kilter, with bluebells only now making a strong appearance to adorn the garlic covered banks of our wooded stream valleys. On a more personal level, it’s also been a long period of hibernation for myself- facing my final set of exams and research project hand-ins for my undergraduate degree has meant just snatching the odd opportunity to get out here and there, always just a tantalising taster. But here we are, exams have passed and summer has come; time to look lively.

Preparation

There was no hesitation in mind when given the opportunity to stay with a friend in Polruan for a long weekend, with promise of freedom from responsibilities and communication with the wider world to lunge headfirst into as much fishing as I could possibly hope for. The car was packed (and brought that very day!) and we set off for Polruan in the twilight hours, heading through narrower and narrower lanes until our arrival. We met the rest of the crew on the quayside and lugged baggage up towards the house, before collapsing into rest before the first day. The next morning, stumbling wearily up unfamiliar stairs, I wandered into the kitchen and used all my instincts to locate the coffee and kettle. With a refreshing brew in hand I looked out on the most phenomenal view. We could see right up the estuary of the Fowey river, formed by sea level rise after the last ice age flooding this valley, to the rocky outcrops of the surrounding cliffs. It appeared to me in that moment that I was in fact in paradise, and that I must have passed peacefully in my sleep. 

The fish-mobile, complete with angler and wading boots. 

Thursday

Buzzing from this sight, I set my brain to work. Scouring all the information I could from blogs, forums and other titbits of information online, I tried to piece together an action plan. Suddenly, three days seemed far too short a period to take in this brilliant place. Much of the hard work was done for me by the help of our host’s cousin, for whom this place has formed a refuge and focus of angling intent, dispensing a plethora of advice on locations and species to try for through a brief phone call. My greatest thanks, Dalton! Setting to work, we scouted the proximate surroundings and every rod that I brought was soon rigged with another species in mind. 12ft parabolic rod for breaming from the shore, light action Spro Insync rigged for light lure work, suitably stiff leader with single dropper on the saltwater fly rod, and a lighter leader tied to the brook fly rod to effortlessly flick #16 nymphs into pools and even an old broken fly rod rigged with a float for mullet. Preparation was completed with an early afternoon trip up Pont creek to dig for ragworms for bait. Admittedly this was my first time engaging in this bait collection method, normally preferring to fish lures. In no time the natural disgust threshold had been passed and the two of us who were keen to dig were piling through dark, thick, oozing, peaty mud, competitively sifting out the prehistoric looking prize. Humble beginnings it seems if this is where all life once started.

And this was after washing off much of the mud, with the valuable prize of a bucket of rag. 

That evening saw some great fun to be had, stripping small baitfish and shrimp patterns on a fast sinking fly line back towards the harbour pontoon. It’d admittedly been sometime since I’d wetted the flies in saltwater and it took an hour or so before I found a retrieve that the fish would respond to, having initially experimented with slow pulls, alternating figure of eight and long pauses to allow the flies to sink deep. By good fortune, I had to quickly strip my line back to avoid an incoming tender, which caught the attention of a keen pollock, grabbing my #12 ghostbuster shrimp close to the pontoon and lunging downwards. Having cracked the retrieve, I then caught another pollock and lost two more- with the troublesome two running me into anchor lines. As the time drew nigh to 23:00 it was time to reluctantly put the rod away, with a final search with the headlight revealing some yet uncaught larger fish lurking nearby (I’ll be back for these!). 

Potentially the smallest fish ever caught on an 8 weight rod, would have been much more sporting on the 3 weight brook rod! 

Cup of tea in hand, we made plans for the next morning. We’d be picking up Owain from Bodmin Parkway station after his last exam early afternoon, giving the perfect excuse to head up the river into the freshwater habitat of the trout. Desperate to make the most of this opportunity, I persuaded a dubious Becca that the best course of action would be to leave early- hoping to be out of the house by 07:00 and in waders by 08:00. Not entirely unexpectedly, we arrived at Lostwithiel to fish a little later than we had hoped. 

The very best breakfasts: coffee, fly tying and fishing literature. 

Friday 

Finally, out on the River Fowey, I must admit that I was somewhat daunted. This was a much bigger piece of water than I was used to fishing compared to the brooks that I’ve explored around Falmouth and Truro, with large sections of apparently lifeless water. There is only so much research one can do with OS maps and google earth though, so time to get into the water it was. We started at the tidal limit of the river, set to work our way up from there. Eager to find Becca her first wild brown trout, I was disappointed to find this initial stretch somewhat lifeless and missing any significant hatches or rises. Even after covering a promising rise with a well unfurled, usually faithful #16 black klinkhammer, the fish were apparently unimpressed. It was a definite learning curve and a probably positive humbling experience, causing me to doubt the assumptions that I have taken from a run of successful trips to small, familiar streams. However, by the time that 14:00 came around (after several ‘last’ casts) and we had to walk back, some things had been gained. For one, Becca had the opportunity to refine her casting in a real setting, having only casted on grass to practice the day before. It was great to see a stubborn desire to present the flies enticingly upstream and there was definite evidence of improvement throughout the day. Secondly, in explaining watercraft of where the fish were lying and likely feeding in this newfound role of being the teacher, it gave the opportunity to really think about why we might fish a certain way, rather than thoughtlessly sinking into natural rhythms and patterns as one does when fishing solo. Lastly, this seems a river that is well worth another shot in other conditions, with plenty of water flowing and appearing in good ecological health- indicated by a pollution-sensitive brook lamprey found during our session. We’ll be back for sure. 

Bit different to casting on grass. 

About my 3rd last cast I believe, urged on by a tantalising steady rise.

A brook lamprey, a most ancient type of vertebrate lacking even hinged jaws. These fascinating critters will form the basis of my MSci research project. 

Smiles all round. 

After a difficult morning I was eager to get something slightly stronger on the line, but with only an hour before everyone was together for dinner again our options seemed limited. Not going too far, just pushing past the concrete slipway to where the natural rocky shore began and a pair of posts marked a shallow bar, we sought the company of this rich estuary. Here we rigged up with ragworm on thin wire hooks, bounced behind as we drifted along with the rising tide- a simple but enjoyable method. After a couple of small but spirited gobies, and an unfortunate run in with an anchor line, I was left re-rigging Becca’s rod. No sooner had I finished tying this and hooking a juicy looking rag before I heard a question of what was happening on the end of my line, turning to see the tip lurching forwards in sudden swings towards the water. “Strike!” I exclaimed as I saw this gracefully obvious bite, before Becca brought a fine school bass up to the surface. Even at this small size, this brilliant silver predatory torpedo, charged with an aggressive attitude, gave a fair account of itself, sticking out its spiny dorsal fin and gill plates in defiance. After a couple of quick happy snaps, it was released back to its watery realm, intact in all aspects other than pride. Eager to conserve what little we have left of our once legendary bass stocks, I’m always happy to see these charismatic fish swim safely back to their ecosystem to hopefully breed and have keenly practiced catch and release since beginning fishing for them. Somewhat paradoxical then is my dissatisfaction with the new measures brought in to conserve their stocks: minimal reduction to the takings of commercial gillnetting boats, but a complete ban on anglers taking any specimens. To come to such an arrangement is to bow to the mastery of the economic worldview that our politicians seem to live within. I wonder what it might take for these distantly disconnected, canned seafood consumers, to beyond simple greed and culinary comfort to recognise the innate value that marine life holds for us all. The liberty to see beyond the simple satisfaction of the humdrum of everyday life, to recognise that greater magnitude of something other than ourselves. The freedom to consume from the natural world by the work of our own hands humbles the character and yet allows a widening of perception beyond our everyday narrow field. To take away this simple liberty from every sea-dwelling person with one hand, and yet permit clear felling by a few with the other, sits deeply uncomfortable. But as ever, the expansive beauty of the sea calmed this frustration, as we paddled in the evening light back to shore.

A pleasant school bass, a welcome foretaste of summer to come. 

Saturday

The new morning sunlight once again assaulted my weary eyelids, perpetual angling and pub crawls are not exercises to be combined, even if Polruan does only have two pubs… After a reviving bowl of muesli and cup of coffee, though, more finned opportunities beckoned. I’ve never had much luck with mullet early in the season, I’m not sure if this is due to not cracking the technique for these sea-fresh fish and resulting lack of effort, or if they really are just harder to encourage to take a bait early in the season? All the same, after enthusiasm from our host it seemed only right to have a crack. Sadly, after half an hour of dodging toff-laden tenders and a pleasantly welcoming harbour master, we were still yet to see even a single silver scale of a mullet take to our literal trail of breadcrumbs. Not to waste this glorious blessing of a day, we soon returned to the slipway but this time carrying the boat and estuary-rigged rods for another quick drift. During this brief drift it was my turn to luck out. I felt a sudden pluck, and then again. Nothing. Opening the bail arm of my now well used and abused Shimano Exage reel, I let out a little braid, just enough to alleviate line tension and give this shy biter a better chance of properly having a go at the bait. Clicking the arm closed, handle rotated half a turn and rod 45 degrees to the water, a successive run of tugs, now much more confident, were the reward for this patience. Striking the wire hook home, a delightfully coloured wrasse graced us with its beauty for just a few moments before the wire hook was promptly removed and it could be set back to its kelp forest domain. By no means a large specimen, it was still enough to leave me giddily smiling as we paddled back to the slipway, still no less the kid that delighted in catching gudgeon from farm ponds than I was almost a decade prior. 

"Is that a wrasse?"

Just a giddy little kid and his wrasse.

And back goes the little lady wrasse, maybe she'll grow into a big old bloke of a wrasse one day.

That day saw a departure from the pattern of angling endeavour to spend a little more time with the company that had been largely neglected to this point. We had a most pleasant late morning till mid-afternoon spent at Lantic beach, a saunter of less than an hour across the cliffs from our base. This was not to be a journey to be rushed, the first taste of summer’s heat was radiating down upon us and all the coastal heathland’s fauna coming alive to greet us. Brown butterflies skipped merrily across the grassland, the wheeze of a greenfinch carried on the air and even a potential sand lizard sighting (if only I were at the front to confirm!). Once settled and fed upon the beach, I took to snorkelling across the small reef to the right of us in search of the annual invasion of spider crabs. Alas I was unsuccessful this time in pursuit, with most individuals probably hidden away from the fallen tide. Yet drifting over sweeping kelp beds interspersed between the great sandy desert there was yet life to be seen, with a bass and its quarry of sandeels making a welcome appearance. A sunken carrier bag swinging idly along the bottom was much less welcome, a sad reminder of the utter disregard we often treat the blessing of the natural world with when we are to become disconnected from its awe. 

Post snorkelling contentment

Of course, an obligatory round of casts was made, with a simple weightless soft plastic pulled slowly across the kelp triggering the follow of an inquisitive wrasse, but nothing more. Hats off to Owain though, who spotted a brilliant spider crab making a dash from the tumbled boulders of the point towards the sea, intercepting it for our dinner. Whilst others weren’t quite as enthusiastic, there’s nothing like the visceral pleasure of eating fresh spider crab directly from the shell, even if the remains of the finished meal and I resembled something of an early Neolithic scene. With this however, time was sadly running short, as we bid farewell to half the company late that afternoon, off on their return journey to Falmouth. Not yet content to leave this newly discovered paradise behind, a dedicated few remained for one last angling attempt. 

Crab on a board, a splendid dinner!

We’d struggled over the past few days with the engine for the small boat, opting instead to row with the paddles. However, after some graft, phone calls and intuitive thinking we managed to get the small motor chugging reassuringly along, carrying us up the creek faster and further than we could have hoped for by simple paddle means alone. Stronger rigs were mounted on this occasion in the hope of perhaps encountering a gilthead bream amongst the more typical estuary inhabitants. This Mediterranean species has been making its way onto the South West coastline, likely driven by warming sea temperatures, and as such is the delight of the lucky (or dedicated) few anglers to hook into this incredibly powerful fish, to be able to eat the meaty fillets guilt-free. It was mid-rising tide, and we’d stopped to drift our baits over a section where the creek narrowed and where at low tide only a small flowing channel cut through the mud. This, I thought, must be a highway for any feeding fish. But nothing, the creek was still. 

Lads up in the creek. 

No matter, with rigs exchanged we could head over to the fabled ‘Pollock rock’, a mark previously inaccessible by distance before the addition of an engine. Becca pulled the started chord, all was quiet. Again, still quiet. 3 violent pulls, nothing. Bother.

It seems the engine wasn’t done playing games with us, and consequently the evening of fishing was exchanged for an evening of paddling the boat back to the pontoon. Initially tempted to rush this journey to be able to exchange rods for another session of saltwater fly fishing, I slowly came around to a more contented peace. As the evening sun, flooded river valleys and chattering wildfowl have a habit of doing, they broke me out of my constantly whirling rush of thought, to something bigger, of permanence and clarity. 

Happily chauffeured back, allows for tying of rigs whilst moving. 

Some rambling thoughts...

The old cliché goes that it’s not about the size, nor the number of fish you catch, but about a joy in escapism, the human and other living company. But to reduce angling down to another escape of the bustling 21^st century or demands of significant others is to fall woefully short of the mark of the true value of angling in my life and I’m sure for others too. The simple fact of the matter is that we just wouldn’t bother or find nearly so much delight if there weren’t a hook on the end of whatever line we might be casting, nor the motivation to try of catching was either guaranteed to succeed or to fail. What draws me back is challenge, to immerse myself into a complex aquatic ecosystem where I am simply a guest and to test myself against the guiles of those that inhabit it. In this way I might be so bold as to claim that the world of angling differs from the unapologetically dreary world of golf, where greens sit manicured far from any semblance of natural order in a dreary world of beige. It draws us into the complex tangled web of how different unique fish interact with their environment, and thus re-establishes that natural connection within us. This trip served as a delightful reminder that this is the learning game we play, not just going through the process of rigid rules mentally branded, but to remain attentive to what is going on around. For all the words (kudos if you’re still with me here) I haven’t even mentioned a rock fishing trip on the first day, where I ended up scratched to pieces by brambles and gorse, scrambling down highly questionable sea cliffs and fishless, all for getting caught up in the simple formula and wanting to rush the adrenaline thrill of hooking into fish. Slow down, look around and you’ll be able to do more than in a frantic buzz of activity.

And with that in mind, after having packed and cleaned the house, we sat down to tie flies, drink the homebrewed ginger beer and look forward to the next one. 

At the end of the day, it's about the fish.