I was secretly hoping the forecast was exaggerating, but
sadly it was not. Somewhere in the region of 5-8f waves were battering the
South coast of Cornwall, and the easterly gale expected to remain with us for
the rest of the week. The sea was a churning mess of flotsam and ripped up
kelp, with a dark brown tinge to the waves. Even if it were possible to cast a lure
out into the chaos, the chances of a fish intercepting it before becoming caked
in weed and debris seemed almost impossible.
In an attempt to fight the early onset of cabin fever, Dan
and I had been discussing other options for fishing, to make the most of the
conditions at hand. Sea fishing was out of the question, but how about the
rivers and lakes? Dan had mentioned we could try for a grayling earlier in the
autumn, something I was very keen to do as I hadn’t yet caught one, but we
never got round to trying.
Sunday evening my phone buzzed and I remember glancing over
at the dimly lit screen. A one word text message from Dan had been received,
reading “Grayling?” I didn’t have to think twice; although I had a busy
schedule for Tuesday, I rearranged to let fishing take priority. The allure of
trying new techniques for an unfamiliar species was just what my
fishing-deprived self needed.
Setting my alarm on Monday evening was followed by a night
of light sleep, akin to my childhood fishing trips. I used to be so excited for
the following morning that I would always struggle to get any meaningful sleep.
It was a bitterly cold morning, frost glistened on the windscreens of cars
along the street, but thankfully the previous day’s rain had passed and we were
blessed with clear winter skies. As Dan pulled up outside my house, I’m sure he
must have chuckled to himself, as I clumsily made my way to the car with my
arms piled high with waders and whole wardrobe’s worth of warm clothes.
The drive up’s discussion mostly revolved around fly
fishing, as I tried to pick Dan’s brain to glean any tips for the upcoming
session. As grayling haven’t made it past the Tamar system, we journeyed
towards the Devon border to give ourselves a chance of catching one, giving us
plenty of time to catch up and exchange stories. I always find the anticipation
to be higher on longer trips, although local trips are enjoyable, they lack
some of the uncertainty and mystery which surrounds a dedicated fishing
mission.
Upon arrival at the river, we rushed out the car to peer
over a bridge and gaze into the waters. We were greeted with a pleasant sight,
clear waters and not too much flow. We had the choice of the main river and a
tributary, as we were on a beat either side of a confluence. Before kitting up
in waders, we briskly scouted out the two rivers and Dan gave me some bankside
casting lessons with a fly rod, which was challenging given we had 25knot
winds.
Having navigated a few fences and a steep bank, we found
ourselves immersed in the river, casting small pink nymphs upstream and
watching our indicators bob along in the flow. It took a while to find a
rhythm, where I could cast against the wind, control the line, and ensure the
fly would drift naturally. However, in about ten minutes I felt like I had a
decent grasp of the technique and moved on upstream following Dan’s lead. As we
had had a very cold spell the previous week, we wondered if the fish had
started to shoal up in deeper water, as opposed to being spaced out evenly as
they are in the warmer months. The water in the main river was far more
coloured than the tributary, and having no previous knowledge of the water
meant it was sometimes challenging to know how deep the water was, and where
the fish might be holding. After two hours of fruitless fishing, we decided to
head to the smaller tributary and see if we could fish more effectively there.
Once again we worked our way along the banks, trying our
luck in each pool or riffle we came across, but worryingly we had seen no sign
of fish, not even any spooked out of season trout. It was particularly
disheartening to see Dan not catching, as I thought if he can’t then there’s
little chance I’d be able to. The bitterly cold weather certainly didn’t add to
the experience, and I was becoming increasingly aware of the decline in
sensitivity in my fingers and toes. We carried on, working our way back up to
the bridge and the car, only seeing a few minnows in the shallows. It was now
lunchtime, and we decided to have a short break to warm our near frozen feet
and fuel up on sandwiches.
Whilst eating, we looked over an article on West Country
grayling fishing, reassuring us that our methods were appropriate. I decided to
change the fly I was using to a similar pattern, just slightly bigger. As Dan
worked on a new leader I headed off with renewed enthusiasm, but on no other
than the first cast upstream of the bridge, did I hook a tree on the back cast.
Having seemingly perfected the art of fly removal from overhanging branches for
the previous 5 hours, I was disappointed to lose this one and had to tie on
something else. Fine line and cold hands presents another challenge, but before
too long I was back to casting.
About half an hour passed and by this point, in all honesty
doubted that I’d catch a grayling. Casting an eye over to Dan and observing his
much more refined technique was refreshing, and I was patiently waiting to hear
him shout “fish on” so I could run over and land and photograph his fish. Sadly
this didn’t happen, and I fabricated an almighty tangle of leader and fly line
that could only be resolved by cutting back and starting again. Tying the
leader was far more time consuming than it should have been, joining four lines
of different breaking strains together was excruciatingly slow, with stiff,
cold and wet fingers.
Eventually I was ready to fish again, and we moved on yet
further upstream. As we rounded a corner, we were presented with a narrow
portion of river running fast along the far bank, undercutting the adjacent
sheep field. There was also an overhanging ash tree, and looked an ideal lie
for a fish to hold in. Dan kindly offered the spot to me, and as he headed on
upstream I made a few casts. It took several attempts to place the fly where I
wanted it, but eventually was able to watch the indicator trot gently
downstream close to the undercut bank.
Having already probably watched 500 bite-less drifts, I
wasn’t really expecting this one to be any different, but to my total amazement
something told me that a fish took the nymph. I don’t remember seeing anything
happen, only that my reflexes tightened the line and set the hook, securing my
first grayling to the line. I was in total disbelief that I had actually hooked
one, and shouted to Dan to come over. In all the excitement, my lack of
experience with a fly rod surfaced and I somehow let the fish slip off the hook
before landing it. Despite not landing the fish, this was the confidence boost
we needed, and we quickly set about with fully renewed enthusiasm.
I was unable to extract any more fish from that swim, but
carried on upstream hoping to find some similar areas. An hour later, at a very
promising looking spot, Dan manged to hook into something, however we soon
realised it was a small trout and not the elusive grayling we were after.
I moved further upstream, and tried a couple of promising
spots but saw no signs of fish life. My
bite indicator was also starting to sink, so I managed to incorporate a burdock
seed-head into it to make it float again. Pleased with my improvisation, I
settled on a slightly deeper pool on a bend in the river and managed to force another cast out with my frozen hands. I was pleased with the placement of my cast, and as my nymph drifted just above the stream bed it was intercepted and the bite indicator came to a sudden halt. I stuck fast and was into a fish,
this time determined to land it. Thankfully it stayed hooked as Dan rushed over
to scoop up my silver prize.
Despite being only a small female,
lacking the impressive dorsal fin grayling are renowned for, I was elated. The
effort had paid off, and after a few pictures the fish was released. We carried
on a little longer, but once the sun set, we were forced to head back down to
the far south west. Today was one of those days that becomes ingrained in your
angling memory, succeeding on an adventure into unfamiliar territory, chasing
an unfamiliar fish, with an unfamiliar technique whist in the company of
friends.
