Before the storm

Sitting here amongst the cow parsley, nettle and ransoms, the aroma of spring vegetation is intoxicating. At my feet the little chalk stream hurries by, more full now than ever. Thunderous weather is forecast to bring yet more rain, but I’m here until the storm breaks, hoping to reconnect with this miraculous river and hoping for a first trout on my new (old) fly rod. It’s split cane, 7 1/2ft for a 4 weight line, maker unknown, although the blank is by Partridge of Redditch, or so I’m told. I took a punt on the rod, purchased unseen, it could have been a soggy noodle. But I had a good feeling, and happily reality matches up to the photographs I pored over while making up my mind. 

Over the years I’ve fished rods from Sage, Orvis, Hardy, and others. All of them excellent, but not one of them as alive and yet so sweet tempered  in the hand as this little golden cane wand. It really is the most beautiful thing to cast, and pairs perfectly with the Pridex reel gifted to me by Ron, a retired Welsh fly fisherman, now in his nineties, the man who taught me how to catch wild river trout with a fly. So today is also about catching a trout in his honour, and although he will struggle later to see my photographs, my words in the telling will, I hope, help him to remember, help him to travel back.

I’m drifting a small swept hackle nymph through the pool. It a nameless, buggy creation I can tie up in three minutes  flat and seems to work almost anywhere. This morning is no exception - two fish come to the fly within minutes but slip the hook on the way to the net. Typically the trout here are small but with the odd thumper putting in an occasional show, as I’m reminded now as a good two pounder hurtles past, a cormorant close on its tail. The bird darts in to the pool then sees me and beats a hasty retreat. A sign of the times, I’ve never seen a cormorant here before.

With the commotion dissipating I try some other spots along the stretch, but news it seems has travelled fast on the piscine telegraph, and the river is reluctant to offer up any further jewels. So four wheels take me a short hop to a different beat, where the river skirts the edge of a park. The water here is more shallow and more safely wadeable. It’s a good dry fly stretch but also popular with dog walkers who always seem confounded to find someone standing in the river waving a stick, when all they want to do is throw one in for their dog. Conversations though are invariably good natured and the fish don’t seem to care.

In truth I’m more than a little rusty with a fly rod and today’s outing is as much about the process of reacquaintance as anything else. I try out traditional upstream nymph, downstream wet and even euro nymph style fishing with the little bamboo wand. But it’s with a dry fly that I really want to christen the rod, and it casts such a delicate line. After a while my eye is in, and my hand seems to be mostly responding to my brain. A sedge tied on, a perfect drift, a flash of crimson adipose and spotted buttery flank then a white flash of mouth and the fish is briefly on, only to come unstuck as it turns away with the fly. 

In different drifts the sequence plays out twice more - why does my hook unerringly stick fast in my net, my boot, a tree, but unerringly fail when it comes anywhere near a trout? As I move to the next promising glide, my dry fly trails behind, now decidedly wet, dragged up the river disconsolately, only to be met with an emphatic and thumping take. This time the little spotted rocket comes to hand, and with the formalities of a first fish on a new rod dealt with, I slip it back into the flow and can relax. And of course my angling now improves dramatically.

I’m remembering why I love fishing short brook rods so much, although the current wisdom (or is it fashion) in fly fishing is to use the longest rod you can get away with. The advantages of reach and line control offered by a long fly rod aren’t lost on me, it’s just that I don’t enjoy fishing with one (unless I’m fishing tenkara, but that’s another story). With conventional western fly fishing, a long rod for me, introduces a feeling of disconnect with the fly and fish, but there again I’m not a competition angler and mostly fish smaller rivers. What I love about a brook rod is its portability, accuracy and sheer feel. I can work little nooks and crannies in confined spaces more easily, and today, as well as placing a dry fly in the little micro slacks on the far bank, I even manage to hook trout in some of the deeper runs fishing a perdigon nymph, euro style. For me versatility is key on little streams, where every variety of flow and depth may be encountered over a short distance. 

Three fish to hand later, and another  four that fall off (one a real brute that just sat on the gravel, my line yanked with every shake of its head) and I’ve moved on to a gnarly wooded section, leaving the dogs, tennis balls and prosecco mums behind. This part of the river is always a real challenge. It’s dark, moody and confined by a tree canopy that leans in, ready to snatch any wayward fly.

Today there is so much water pushing through that the stream is mostly un-wadeable, so I creep about in the bank side thicket looking for gaps where I can crouch and run through a euro style nymph, heavy and beaded, the line hanging near vertically down to the water from my rod tip as I track my fly through any likely looking run. The recent storm has felled an old tree, and a limb has been left across the river to form a kind of woody weir sill and a new and interesting fish holding feature. I connect with a trout here after only a couple of casts, and it’s another good fish. The smaller trout skitter and leap, while the big ones hold deep and rely on head shakes and snags to undo you. I try to take it easier with this fish, and take my time. Not wanting it to leave the tiny pool and head for faster water, I’m content to just hold it here wait for it to tire, but the fish has other ideas and takes advantage of its short leash, strains and bends my hook out and is gone. 

The first drops of predicted rain begin to fall, and I can feel the air pressure dropping. The sun has dimmed, making it even darker amongst the trees, too dark for my Polaroids. A cool breeze gets up, the kind that ushers in a changing weather front, and I start to feel the headache I often get before a storm. Before I leave, just one fish from the woodland, please please Saint Izaak. I am obliged by a trout that comes to a perfectly placed nymph cast delicately upstream - I must be channeling Charles Cotton, as I hardly recognise such a cast as my own. My spotted reward, though tiny, is most welcome because sometimes tiny is more than enough.