First signs of summer and first on a dry

Last season this upland stream was new to me ,  it was great to fish during those first few weeks when the high waters everywhere meant that this little stream was still fishable due to its pocket water nature and you could always find fish ,  moving on twelve months we have the opposite ,  following the driest march for 60 years the rivers are low , the ground is dry but the pocket water nature of the stream keeps things interesting 

It was a frustrating day to start with its a fair trek down to the river. deep valley through a couple of fields and conifer plantation .   which is not a problem normally and indeed is part of the charm but when you start fishing and realise that the very old silk line that you have used for years and passed the out of season checks is actually past it best and passed failed the giving it a tug test which meant a trek back to the car for a spare reel.  Which is even more frustrating given that usually I have a spare line and reel in the backpack but due to closed season cleaning I had taken the spares out.

Anyway here is my first brown trout of the season ,  small I grant you but very very welcome especially as it took a dry fly . There is no better way to start a season 

There were some clear signs from the huge winter floods the rock below that has been broken in half has the area of a ford focus and the slab is about 450 mm thick , had to imagine just done by water it isn`t me in the picture above. it is an older friend . I was having a breather and watching and learning , 

A couple of days after this I had my first trip of the year to my local chalk stream.  The river was as low as I have seen it and considering it should be bank high from the winter rains it is a worrying state. The stream is of course spring fed and even very heavy rain now would be lost in the ground and not make it into the aquifer.

On the day I took two rods , not something I normally do but the bamboo rod is a winter build on a set of blanks that were made by Barry Grantham and I wanted to try a line on it, Barry said it was based upon the Hardy CC d France taper  , I got it from him some time ago. It was nice to christen it in style .  I didn`t get the line choice quite right so after that fish I put it away and went back to my old faithful Streamflex plus ,

The fish were very fit wildies and this one tail walked up the river like a rainbow . I have had this rod for many years and I still think it is one of the finest longer river rods out there.

The fish  were in beautiful condition 

I couldn`t help taking this picture seemed like spring encapsulated 

Then on Saturday we had a work party on another local stream and afterwards myself and a friend walked the river to discover that the hawthorn flies have decided to show their face early this year. 

Its a pretty little stream and it has become an old friend ,  on the day i would have caught many more on a nymph but while there was a chance of a fish on a dry I was going to persevere , 

I think you can see the fly stuck in his jaw and that by the time I caught this fella the fly had already lost his legs ,  The first few I caught were , well lets just say well smaller ,,,,I don`t like fishing the hawthorn on very fine tippets so never go below 5 x ,  The wing and the legs make it a bugger for twisting the tippet. 

That day I used a new rod and for me a new material .  its glass. well S glass which i think is just glass but a bit faster.  When I was fishing the upland stream I was stumbling about due to me not being very fit after hardly fishing since before Christmas also my balance seems to be not getting any better due to a duff knee and ears that have being in the wars and have affected my balance ,  so I reflected that wafting a four figure value bamboo rod about isn`t the best idea on rough upland streams , Also  I here much chatter these days about the new glass rods so have got this one to try.  its a 7ft 3 wt and has an action very much like cane and not unlike the old Hardy featherweight carbon ,  Watch this space to see it it grown on me , but first impressions are good . 

Month by Month Highlights

 January was a slow start

February was gloomy 

March no fishing fly tying , walks and work parties 

April season start but no trout only grayling 

May my favourite month 

Flaming June 

July low rivers 

August not much fishing 

September trout season closes 

October , Grayling starts 

November more grayling 

December much needed rain and then it bit more foreign sun….. but just had the word that next year I will be fishing a new Yorkshire chalk stream…..

 Happy new year everyone 

My first and best fishing buddy

I lost my Dad yesterday.  He was 91 years old and he had a good life . There was no defining illness at the end. Old age gradually just wore him down . However those simple words do nothing to describe him.  He was an honourable gentle man a good Dad and Grandad that I only felt I really got to know in the last few years of his life .   Truth is he and Mum were totally wrapped up in each other most of their lives. Sadly we lost Mum a few years ago. But since she passed away I have spent a lot more time with Dad and seen a different side of him .  Mum was lovely but  a bit of a prude, I knew Dad had a well hidden wicked rude sense of humour but have seen a lot more of it lately.  I guess what with me sent to boarding school age 11 then after school starting work I missed those teenage years with him . Marrying and kids then meant our lives naturally drifted apart. I think truth is like most people we both have faults but as you get older those faults don`t seem to matter anymore . These last few years has allowed me to connect with him again .  Seeing him every few days has made us closer.

He passed away with incredible dignity three weeks from the first call to get to his bedside.  On that first call our arrival at his bedside prompted a smile from him and a brief conversation and some surprise from his carers at his sudden recovery. There have been several calls to his bedside since and one evening I held his hand with the transparent skin every tendon and bone visible ,  but under my fingers the rock steady pulse told its own story.  One Day I was told there wasnt even time to go home first .  Dad left us just over a day later .He certainly wasn`t going to rush of.

 In life he taught me many lessons , I confess I didnt always listen but at the end of his life  he taught me a final one, that is not to be afraid of death he passed away without a complaint. I spent many hours with him through those last 21 days his only worry was for his family and wanting constant assurance that everyone was ok.  He knew he was dying we talked about it and when my time comes I hope I deal with it as well.  I missed the chance to see my Mum at the end I was half way up the motorway when my wife rang me and told me not to rush .  Sadly at the time when the call came I was hundreds of miles away .  Spending time at the end with Dad has given me a real sense of closure that was missing with Mum

He was my early fishing friend and mentor . Dads take their kids fishing that is how it should be. The sight of him bringing a fish home is my earliest memory and the spark that lit my lifetime passion .  He started me fishing and we went together often but like all kids  not as often as i would have liked.  Dad was a coarse angler and his favourite fish were the Roach and the Grayling.  We fished together often many years ago and it was on a stretch of a local river I watched him catch beautiful fish and teach me the same. He was a fine angler trotting a float with skill and delicacy .   He was also passionate about the well being of the fish and how they should be treated with respect ,  it is a lesson I hope I still remember every time I fish . 

Another lesson i could do with learning from him is that tackle doesn`t make an angler , patience , application and thinking tend to be much more productive .  A lesson that applies to many things .He told me he got his Millwards Featherlight match rod and Rapidex reel in his early twenties that would make them 70 years old , it was the only rod I saw him fish with. When I look at all the rods , reels and other stuff I have I am a little embarressed  the rod and reel are now amongst my most treasured possessions ,  next winter on his birthday I will take that rod and reel and go and catch a Grayling on it , I cant think of a better way to remember him .  Thanks Dad..

Relativity and memories

My conversation with the farmer was done in the traditional style , he leant on his shepherds cruck and I leant on my wading staff.  Pleasantries exchanged we went through the price of lamb, his opinions of the EU and my progress in the river. The conversation eventually went on to all things earthly. His knowledge of the river was of course extensive but it came about not from books and an angling perspective but through his and past generations interactions with all the land.  His knowledge was deep and extended to areas that surprised me but it was an interest where the river was a part of the whole, It was viewed as something that intertwined with the meadows, that occasionally flooded them and occasionally damn near disappeared below them but always was at one with them.  In a moment of distraction he told me of the hunting bridge that once stood and how he laid on it and gazed as a child at the fish that, if his memory was accurate far outweighed todays population.  

He talked of the otters that are now so common and where the badgers crossed the river.  We talked of Brown trout and Grayling and how the river had changed .  He told me of the water boards "improvements" half a century ago that raped the river beds and destroyed the banks, something that astonished me as I had considered that this river alone among the ones I fish must surely have remained untouched in all the centuries since the vikings came ashore and gave names to all the local rivers and villages .  I guess it just gives further proof that left alone nature can do pretty well on its own.

My evening fishing was perfection, kingfishers buzzed me and swifts screeched. Columns of mayfly spun their magic. Casts were straight and fish rose.  The evening blessed me with 8 or 9 fish all various sizes of perfection.  Cocooned between the deep banks and wrapped in the clear water for just a short time, like the river. I became a part of the whole.

A cold nights reflection and a river runs through it…

Outside the first real snow of the winter was coming down and I was sitting in front of the log burning stove with my Labrador dog Ruby laid in front of me her backside getting singed by the fire, In one hand I had a glass of malt whisky and my pipe was in the other. The pipe contained a rather nice blend that the local tobacconist refers to as his Christmas pudding mix the aroma is rich fruity with a hint of spice. I find that this is the perfect combination of inactions for perfect pondering, it must be without the distraction of Phone/ TV/ Radio and is something that you appreciate more with years. Anyway last night amongst my thoughts I was considering how life contains certain special defining moments, in particular my fishing moments which have usually involved rivers.

I had just written the cheque to my angling club on the Ure and got to thinking about the first time I saw that river, I was 11 it was the swinging sixties and I was already hooked on fishing. To me back then fishing meant a 7ft spinning rod 10lb line a size 10 hook and worms for the chub in the river whiske near the boarding school I was residing at. But on a field trip to Masham I remember watching a bloke fly fishing , It was the first time I ever saw someone actually wading in a river fly fishing . A teacher at our school did fly fish and had seen him catch chub on little black gnats, but I was enthralled as I watched that angler catch a trout in that fast flowing rocky river, it seemed almost magical and certainly sowed a seed which although it lay dormant for a long time now is blossoming nicely. As nearly half a lifetime down the line I am that angler and have often wondered when watching kids on the bank if seeing me will plant the same dream in them. I hope so.

The first fish I ever caught on fly was a 13” Brown trout . It was on a Tups indispensable and to my shame it was caught by allowing the fly to drift downstream under the leaves of the overhanging bush where the trout was rising, a trotted fly you could say. In my defence I was about 13 and had received no guidance in the craft and my casting was at best terrible. These days the dry fly downstream bit bothers me less and less . The fact that I killed it and cooked it bothers me more and more. But to this day I can still close my eyes and watch that rising fish again and to this day I still marvel at the fact that the little tag of fur and feather at the end of the line can cast such a magical spell. That one event more than any other drove my passion for the dry fly.

A few weeks after this capture I was stood on the bank waving the fly rod about when an old guy from the village asked what I was doing , my response ” I am fly fishing “ delivered with all the attitude of someone filled with teenage hormones. His response was short and to the point , Nay Lad thees not fly fishing thee is just lashing t`watter . But then he said "if thou does want to learn to fly fish meet me here tomorrow and Ill teach thee"….The lessons continued all summer and by the Autumn I was set on the right route. Now my teacher Bill who was the local undertaker and appeared to be about 50 but I learnt later was in fact around 80 at the time will be long gone. But if you can read this Bill.. Thanks mate…Thanks…

So there we are some of the most formative events in my life and it does show that as the book says the river runs through it. Now wheres another log...

A beautiful summer evening and its cold outside

The river is in beautiful condition the flow is gentle but the surface is alive with the rises splashes and dimples of the minnows, dace and tiny trout.

At the head of the pools and in the broken water the larger fish are holding station,  Across under the willow a large fish is rising he  is taking his time ( all large fish are he) The waters surface is alive with flies. Olives ,  Sedges and all manner of terrestials are there he doesnt need to rush.  Anything that needs him to move more than a couple of inches of line is ignored.

As I moved upstream wading gently and keeping the banks of weed between me and him . I was careful to take note of any fish between the banks of weed or tucked in under the bank. A spooked fish would shoot of upstream and scatter everything.  The river is shallow here at most a couple of feet but the clear water can give both the angler and the fish an edge it just depends who is the most careful.  The fly was selected,

I am a fan of the traditional patterns, a greenwells a size 16 just dressed with a hackle, no wing.  What with my bad tying and the leader twisting effect I leave winged patterns alone.  Casting is a gentle affair a gentle side cast with a roll start to lift of.  The first cast is perfect the fly touches down 2 ft above him the leader carrying enough slack to avoid any drag.  As the fly drifts over him I sense the quivering fin and he rises and sips in the greenwells. I tighten into him the rod bends as he gets his head down he turns to dive for cover but of course I am prepared side strain and a low rod tip force him back.  he darts back and forth between the weedbeds but each time I am ahead of him . After a few minutes he is beaten and I beach him . A few moments admiration and he is released.

The river Rye

As I work my way upstream several fish are taken.  My casting is the best its been for months . I am picking the right flies and everything is working as it should.  If only every visit worked as well.  The fly keeps floating and the tippet keeps sinking.  Its wonderful when everything comes together .  I love this river it offers a wonderful mix of long streamy glides and hidden corners . But the cream of it is the bridge pool, when approached from downstream this pool is hidden until you are almost upon it high banks and trees hide it from prying eyes.Tonight the evening sun was framed in the centre arch.  The tail of the pool was alive with rising fish but the fish here are the most difficult an upstream cast to the fish means that drag from the faster  water sets in almost instantly and wading upstream to keep your line of the water is a dangerous game .  The only way is to skirt the pool to the right there is room behind and above for a short backcast  

The Bridge Pool

I am tucked in under the bank the cast is an improvised spey sort of a thing.  False casting on these little streams is kept to a minimum the clear and shallow glides mean the fish dont miss much.  But tonight my casting is perfect. a roll and a single back cast with a bit of a haul and the line clears the high bank behind me, The forward cast stabs out and the quick check puts some slack onto the water.  A short drift over the small group of fish and a rise and take ,The group of fish scatter as the hook takes hold fish tear of in every direction.  The little bow waves marking their track like a pod of torpedos.  A short struggle and a lovely little wildy comes to hand , After exhanging looks we part company .

I take my leave of the river and retreat to the side of the pool ,  a seat is placed there and I enjoy a well earned pipe , a perfect end to a perfect day.  As I gaze out over the pool reality returns and I stare into the log fire the dog is sat looking at me and I wake from the day dream.  Outside the hail batters against the doors the wind shakes the windows and the reality of another Autumn evening  returns , I hope that next year my angling skills match my dreaming.

Fishing stuff, memories and tackle tartness:

There is a debilitating condition called Tackle tartness. A peculiar condition that afflicts us anglers turning that sensible “need” sense in your head into that troublesome “want “ emotion that gnaws in your brain to convince you that the latest shiny sage rod or new fancy reel or whatever will improve your fishing. I suffer with it from time to time especially in the depths of winter when the lack of been out there fishing combined with the feeling that you cant tie any more flies. Results in time spent dreaming and wondering and perusing magazines and web sites.


It occurred to me recently that this condition must be truly a modern phenomenon. Among my most treasured physical possessions is the rod and reel that belonged to Grandad who is sadly no longer with us. The rod he left me is a magnificent Greenheart and Lancewood Scarborough sea rod and 8 inch diameter mahogany and brass Scarborough reel. He could cast a good 80 yds with that which I can tell you is no mean feat.

I fished with him often on the rocks around the town when I was growing up, He showed me the fishing marks and explained the effects the tides and weather had on those places. He was the most perfect of Grandads he taught me to fish was a good friend and was full of stories of the Somme, Ypres and Paschendale and it only occurred to me recently that here was a man who fished pretty much his whole life through with one rod and one reel. Its hard to believe it even after I wrote it but I have memories of him telling me he bought the rod and reel when he returned from France after the war and he was still using it up till the time Grandma wouldn’t let him fish anymore. I went with him the last time he fished. I wish I had a decent memory of the time but sadly I don’t. Incidentally Grandad always referred to WW1 as the war, Not the great war or the first war. He didn’t much talk about WW2 I think mainly because the Army wouldn’t let him join up as he was to old . He took that personally I am sure he still had unfinished business with the Germans even till the time he died.


But the point is he was a man who loved fishing but yet the “stuff “ The rod and reel were tools, a means to an end what made him a good angler (and he was) was the hard won stuff, the local knowledge understanding the tides and the weather knowing which marks fished on what tides, and the real value of that stuff is that it can be handed down or passed on. Give a learner another fancy rod or whatever and he is still a learner give him some hard won knowledge and he becomes an improver and is then on a better pathway. I restored the rod recently, Varnished the wood and polished the brass and it now hangs on my study wall It hangs above the fly tying desk and this winter when the tartness starts gnawing I shall look at the rod and convince myself that I would be better studying Falkus or Edwards and trying to learn things instead of buying more stuff. Well I will try anyway…….