A lesson in urban trouting

'A polished car and a screaming siren, pneumatic drill and ripped up concrete...' , Paul Weller's musings of city lifestyle reflect perhaps my own cynicism of the concrete jungles that led me away from the stifling atmosphere of South East England. And yet here I find myself, striding through throngs of busied shoppers, dawdling café dwellers and self-assured businessmen. Perhaps it's paranoia that leads me to see their looks of distaste and surprise as I do my best to keep my head down and slide past. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm wearing full body waders and clutching a 7 foot 3 weight fly rod. 

Okay so I'll come clean, Truro isn't particularly urban by many peoples' standards, yet for one living in simple solitude with more fields than people for neighbors, is seems more than enough for me. But Truro is also home to a delightful pair of little known rivers, made all the better by their juxtaposed location, the Kenwyn and the Allen. After departing from an all too brief meeting with friends, we parted ways: they for London, I for trout. 

I'd just clambered down the wall of the park, stripped a few yards of line from the reel and trotted my go to dirty water nymph in front of my feet, when a finger length brownie kindly came to the hand. The sun was now warm on my back for the first time in several days, and I was feeling the light relief of being free to pursue a small adventure in the outdoors. All of a sudden, I became aware of an angry voice shouting behind. On the bridge over the rolling water was a short haired lady, leaf blower in hand and high vis jacket wrapped ungraciously around her frame. After exchanging some inaudible remarks, I reluctantly climbed back out of the rich water to ask whatever the source of aggravation might be. 

A beautiful miniature trout.

The full conversation will not here be recounted, for though it is quite humorous it feels a tad petty. It apparently was of great concern that someone might be standing in water reaching 2 feet in depth, risking their delicate life in the raging torrent of the gently passing water, inadequately prepared with studded wading boots and full body waders. Being one for trying to involve our communities in valuing the natural riches that we have, for the sake of our own wellbeing and their protection, I did my upmost to explain positively and kindly as to why I was there, and why we really should be seeing more people in the river. And yet this fell onto an individual apparently so stubborn and disagreeable that I recorded her as being an 'unripe plum' in my logbook. Happily knowing that this river was public land and seeing the conversation going nowhere I headed back towards the river, which of course resulted in Miss disagreeable calling the police on me. It's not all bank robberies and knife crime for our law enforces it seems, sometimes one must step up to the mark and remove an unruly catch and release hippy at risk of maybe getting a touch damp and/or chilly should they slip. Rock and roll. 

Wanted: trout terroriser on the loose.

Happily, the police didn't further waste their time, and I continued to make my way up the life-filled water, whilst a certain figure hung around petulantly standing 50 yards away, huffing and occasionally sweeping some leaves. It is an absolute disgrace not only that we are increasingly disconnected with our natural world, but that this attempt to spend an afternoon soaking it in was met with outright irrational conflict. Recent surveys have shown that one in three British adults cannot recognise our perhaps most quintessential tree species, the oak. It doesn't seem all that far-fetched to suggest that this disconnection to the sights, sounds, smells and intricacies of our complex outdoors, and replacement with loud simplification and instant gratification of our LED screen coated modern existence, could go some way to explaining decline in our ability to focus and be fully aware of our situations. Public health hits the news almost daily (when the trifle of Brexit isn't greedily smearing it's way over again) for the tremendously sad rise in mental health illness and obesity in the UK. How can we even begin to break the exploitative cycles of the mod-cons that exploit our latent biases, to have an active and aware wellbeing? Perhaps it is worth considering whether treating our 'Nature deficiency disorder' will go some way towards this, with oases of urban rivers offering real fully immersive encounters with our charismatic British flora and fauna. I for one will be taking this medication, twice if required. 

Anyway, the fishing. The rest of the afternoon rolled pleasantly by, with the yarn indicator consistently stopping, dropping or pulling forwards to reveal a trout taking a liking to the red-tagged jig nymph. Whilst some of the culprits were mere fingerlings as per the first, there were a good handful over the 10-inch mark- a respectable size for this river. One particular pool will sit in my memory for a long time. Shuffling through a tunnel that carries the river under the pavement, I found myself before this pool, perhaps five or six meters long, bracketed on either side by large dominating road bridges. On the left, the river reached no more than 2 and a half feet deep, while the churning back eddies of the righthand side belied a depth that could be guessed at in the muddied water. Up above me mothers chatted hurriedly as they tried to still squirming children in pushchairs, whilst the dull rumble of engines and tires on tarmac hinted at the busy road traffic. But here sandwiched beneath it all was my slice of heaven. 

I was particularly taken by the number of spots on this individual, and it's no surprise that he spotted that nymph!

Short casts were made with the nymph up into the head of the pool, trying this back eddy and that, under a tree branch and then into the shallower rapids. I was happy to complete a trio of wild brownies from the pool with a particularly plump 10.5” individual which gave a merry little dance in the deep water of the pool before sitting proudly in my hand. Not willing to yet give up on the pool I made another cast at the head, watching the indicator struggle in the turbulent water. Though it had worked this far, I wasn’t quite happy with this set up- in the quick flowing river it felt that even a heavy nymph would struggle to reach bottom with the added hinderance of the indicator. Yarn removed, I cast again at the same spot- making sure to keep slack to a minimum and stay in touch. Pluck, pluck. I struck- good fish on! Almost immediately this fish rushed to the surface and made a spectacular leap, one that revealed the identity of its performer. I was hesitant to jump to conclusions, but something about the forked tail and silvery flanks seemed to just fit the bill for a sea trout. Without a net and using a barbless hook, the fish was played most gently to avoid a gutting loss, and despite a couple more spirited leaps, it too met the embrace of my palm. I was giddy and trembling a little, my first sea trout- and from a small urban Cornish stream at that! Released back to the depths of the pool, I continued to wander up the river, delighting in each precious twist and turn that it made on its course. 

By no means the biggest one out there, but absolutely brilliant to see! Here's hoping that it makes many return spawning trips over the years. 

There’s a glorious natural world out there to explore, and it doesn’t have to consist of tropical megafauna. Right in the bustle of a small city, a remarkable migrant was seen on its quest to spawn, and its watery home understood just a little bit better.