Quote:
Luke: Feel there might be a part two coming soon. No pressure! Just a word of warning to anyone who fancies a day on the bank with him, when he says, and I quote..
"...it's got a nice little path along one side, almost looks manicured..."
...remember to pack your crash helmet and knee pads!
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As promised, it was an easy bit of river...
We arrived at the streamside - only 40 ft above the water. I joked that we'd need a parachute to get to half the best pools, but we managed to get down into the gorges without any broken bones, although Luke had a close shave which we'll gloss over. Let's just say he slipped onto his backside and landed in some fast water, feet first. It was funny... but could have been not so funny. Still, it's all about the adrenalin rush isn't it? This is
real and
serious fishing, in the sense that
1. Your fishing, and in a wild little stream. This is the first pool we've tried to get to. You've already fallen in and...
2. You may fall in the next pool, hit your head and drown. Or if you're lucky, just break a leg and have to crawl miles to the nearest house. On the plus side - over terrain that requires you to be on all fours, fly rod in the mouth half the time anyway.
So we parachuted into the first pool.
It was worth a look, but as with a lot of these pools, approaching them in any way safely requires you to be in full sight of any fish that might be lurking in the tail. The pool therefore appeared lifeless, although we knew the fish were in there saying - "did you see that guy fall in the gulley there" "haha" "I think we should stay out of sight for a bit till these maniacs leave" and that sort of thing - with bubbles... probably.
I have a tendency to pick my way through some pretty rough vegetation, over logjams, down sheer banks and tiptoeing onto glass-smooth rocks. Following my lead isn't always a wise decision.
So the first pool proving fruitless (and getting to it a little
too exciting for one of the party) we moved on up through the moss covered gorge from pool to pool, skirting around sections that were impossible, but fishing every pool that was worthwhile.
This is the sort of little stream I grew up on. I hopped from rock to rock with my whippy little worming rod, a few splitshot in my pocket. I got fish the most effective way for this scale of water - with a worm. Occasionally I would collect some drowned hover flies from the paddling pool in the garden, and float them down, freelining. The trout loved hoverflies. Even a dead bumblebee would produce savage takes. Sometimes a dead moth off the windowsill, and old blow flies or bluebottles were perfect. A rule of thumb is never leave your dead insects in a 35mm film-case on your windowsill for a few months... and then open it. The smell is beyond belief!
You learn a lot about these little rivers and streams if you're a worm drowner: Where the fish are holding in different water conditions, how to approach a pool etc.
It's pocket water, dropping steeply from a small spring in the rounded, sheep dotted, peaty hills on the west coast of Wales. It crashes - waterfall after waterfall, through mature oak woodland to the sea. It has a run of sewin when the conditions are right, but I've only been there a handful of times in nearly 20yrs - so the chances of me seeing one have been pretty slim.
In places the stream is just 1ft wide where it runs down into a gulley. In other places it spreads out into wide pools.
Every step in this place is onto shallow leaf mould sitting on bedrock. Each foot is placed carefully and tested. You always lean into the bank, keep your knees permanently flexed and don't move to quick - but still with some assurance as you need the momentum to get from point A to point B without what can only be termed by any respectable fly angler as "undignified scrambling". You don't want to go there. This is a gentlemanly sport! This is my method anyway. I haven't broken anything yet. Except a knuckle once, and I have got a broken coxix (tailbone if you're wondering), but that was fishing in the sea off the rocks - so that doesn't count.
You have to throw your rod a couple of dozen times in a days fishing - usually up ahead of you when you need both hands to drag yourself up a particularly hairy bank. Sometimes you throw it down to a pool and then think "now I really have to find a way down there!".
Approaching any pool is going to be hard work, you find muscles you've never used before as you approach in a crouch, moving in slow motion with the occasional slip or stumble thrown in to spoil the effect. Chest on your knees you look ready to drop a no.2.
Often you end up kneeling on the sharpest bit of rock you can find... and gritting your teeth whilst you make a couple of casts and then shift your position. Any movement is another chance for you to be spotted. Yes you - I can see you you dumbass fisherman!
Casting is hardly ever elegant, but there's so little water to drift a fly on, you just need to get close enough to make a short flick. Loading the rod in the fast water sometimes works, small roll casts are essential. Long drifts are what you daydream about when you pause to catch your breath.
Of course it doesn't guarantee a fish, but for every pool you have to make the same effort. I'm 6'3", I have to crouch low and move like a stick insect, only weighing 13stone - it's not as easy as it sounds... At the end of the day all this crouching really tells in the legs, and I have a 4mile bike ride home to look forward to.
Here Luke shows me how to make a stealthy approach and shows off his flowing locks.
When two of you fish a river like this it's agreed (though unsaid) in advance that you share the pools, by that I mean you take it in turns. One pool for you, one for me. The advantage of two of you is that if you do happen to break a leg, the other can hopefully get out without breaking their own leg and get some help. It's also nice to have some company - someone to swear towards and smile ruefully at when you miss a take. There was a lot of that. Sometimes fishing unsighted you can look up and be told -
yes the fish did spook and disappear. Give up!
The disadvantage is that you get half the chances at a fish.
There are a lot of what I like to term 'no hope in hell' pools on these little rivers. This is a classic of it's kind. You know the fish is in there - but 'how the hell do you get a fly to him?' - yep, you've got it: No hope in hell.
The fishing was as tricky as you'd expect. We both missed pulls off fish every now and then. I hooked a few fish that jumped before shaking the hook. At this point I would look up at Luke - "see that?". His response would be "yeah - I saw it". And on to the next pool, and the next, and the one after that...
Luke landed a minnow sized fish early on. I was starting to pray for
anything to attach itself to my fly. Anything
except for that damn branch again. Argghh Damn it!
Between the grunting effort, the under your breath swearing at spooked fish or bungled casts, you have a few moments to appreciate where you are. This is just a bit special. Insects were dancing on the water in the sun, little grey gnats, some pale caddis. This is a small river, but it's fairly rich for a west Wales spate river. We watched a dipper go by, pause on a rock with a beakful of insects and carry on downstream. The birdsong is continuous, as is the constant white noise of white water. You only notice it in it's absence.
I'd promised Luke a path beside the river - I wasn't just taking the ****. There it was.
Sadly it didn't give us access to any decent pools! It was a quick way to get further up the valley and into the next steep sided gorge though. It also gave our legs a bit of time to ease off. I paused beside the path whilst Luke tried out a little pool and snapped a shot of a little nymph that works in the shallower pools. When I say it works - it'll hook the fish, but then it's up to you to land them. That wasn't going too well for me.
In the next decent pool, we found a few rising fish. Luke carefully crawled in as I sat in a patch of bluebells and watched. He aimed a dry fly up there and immediately a little trout hurled itself suicidally at it, breaching like a whale and landing on it's side in a nice little splash. The choice of a 'little grey job' was obviously the right one. A couple of casts later, and another rise missed and then he hooked into a nice little fish which jiggled around all over the pool. Jiggling doesn't give this fish the respect it deserves - but that's what it was doing. I can't say his rod was bent double, I wish I could, but it was real live action at least! The result was this little beauty.
For Luke the day was therefore a success. He could relax, as much as was possible in this terrain. Thankfully I hadn't put him through the wringer for nothing. This is a guy who's spent some time serious Mahseer fishing. Spent weeks drinking unpurified river water. Hardly eating a thing. Wild elephants moving through the camp in the pitch dark. With no lights to ward them off, the possibility of being trampled to death becoming uncomfortably real. Waking up in the morning to find scorpions nesting where they really shouldn't. Ok - this is tiring, but he can take a little hardship!
I was enjoying myself, but I was starting to feel it just wasn't going to swing my way.
Time to just look at what you do have - where you are.
Apart from problems catching a fish I was also having trouble taking a decent photograph. The biggest fish of the day, all of maybe 9-10 inches - which we watched cruising up and down a slow pool between shelving rock turned out like this:
The badger turd I found in a latrine amongst the bluebells turned out like this:
That kinda summed up my day I feel. I should have just stuck to the turds. I went after that bigger fish, but spooked it before I got my fly in the water. Luke was on hand to confirm that - yes, you can now save yourself the bother of casting and climb back out.
I put the hours in. I put the flies in the right place. I got the takes, and plenty of them. This time I just couldn't bring one of the little blighters to hand.
The last throw of the dice. Dignity not completely intact. Under my crotch is a lump of rock. If I look uncomfortable it's because I am! As Luke said when I had climbed back out "Pity I didn't get the one of you face down looking well and truly beat, that was a definite Kodak moment!".
Just one more cast. Just in case the gods are smiling, dibble it just there. Nope, nothing.
Good view of the top of my head. Mmm. Is that going a bit thin or is it just my unkempt bed hair?
Sometime you have to say you're beat. Fair and square. After a brief look at the surrounding beauty, and just a few deep breaths and shaking out the shoulders it was time to hike out of the valley and down to the waiting bus.
Out of the wood it was warm and sunny.
Thankfully there was a cold northerly to cool us down a bit as we walked down the tarmac road winding through the woods to the little village where the bus would meet us. How long that would take had been estimated, and we arrived early. There was plenty of time for a Calippo followed by a chocolate Mini Milk from the garage. Very civilized - the sort of high quality fare that any classic fly angler could be proud of.
Smallstream delights part deux
Wonderful place you've got there, proper exploring country
SKB tackle supporter. I love Furled Leaders.
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