Post by Speyducer on Oct 4, 2008 22:26:28 GMT
Just Another Day
Arose early, despite the beverages & good meal the evening before. Fortunately, no after effects, no Alka-Seltzer required. A quick splash of soap drizzled cold water on the face, and Colgate on the travelling brush completed the manoeuvres to become at least half awake. Clicked on the small kettle, & it startled the cold water into a swirl followed by the creation of bubbles with that familiar tone.
Meantime, stretching into the wicking layers, then the socks to keep it all from unravelling, hiding from the chill of the autumn morning so rudely interrupted by leaving the cozy quilt.
Strong & sweet, the black coffee had the desired quenching and revival effects of cool water to one emerging from a hot desert trek. Light flannels and a well worn fleece were used to cover the embarrassing shape revealed by the necessary underlayers, then attention to the armoury for the day ahead.
Having tied a few ‘specials’ in the hour between the previous evening’s shower & the night at the bar, just a final coating of head varnish would dry between breakfast and adding them to the over-stuffed flee box.
The rest of the kit had dried partially in the warmth of the room overnight, now an acceptable degree of warm dampness was all that remained.
The hearty full breakfast was interrupted by brief discussions of the plans for the day, whether to take an early chance at the lower beat first, reserving the alternative venue if the fish hadn’t appeared off the tide.
Awkward departure over-loaded with gear, narrowly missing the plant pot on the hallway table. Checking out at reception was the young girl from behind the bar the previous evening, and after the necessary signatures, all was heaved into the car for the short trip to the river.
Arriving at the near-tidal venue revealed a height & water colour that was near perfect, so no delay in setting up the rod and heading to the top of the beat. The dabbling noise of the water making its way downstream between the stones of the croy was soothing, as was the slight chill of the waded water. A slight glimpse of a showing fish at the bottom flat of the pool was encouraging, and the gentle plop of the fly just away from the far bank was quickly followed by the swing in anticipation of that gentle stop. Working down the pool carefully, each cast ever nearer to the fading evidence of former activity downstream, but he would be on his way up towards me as well?
The last cast over the pool didn’t bring the surprise of a take, and having fished it carefully, with the ‘special’ tie, I now doubted the true nature of that shown fish. The drizzle of the day gradually became somewhat more persistent, but with only the lightest of breezes, these were better conditions than forecast.
Onto the next pool, with more water activity gurgling over and between the larger partially exposed boulders, the fly danced and swept in the altering flows, but not enticing enough to result in any additional tension on the line.
Suddenly, the ratchet clicked into life, but only because I had completed the designated pools without substantive offers, and coffee time and a re-think were beckoning.
Cupped hands around the hot mugs in the hut, and with the other rods on a similar blank, discussions centred around sticking it out to wait for the next push of fish here fresh off the tide, or to switch venues. Straws weren’t drawn, but I had been attracted to the alternative venue since my last visit there. The others would stay, ready to ambush any tide licers.
Clicking the rod onto the holder, then clambering into the car with full gear on was as awkward as it always was, but it was a short drive. Through the farm, and down the increasingly muddied & slippery track, and then into the trees, with large spats of water dropping off the heavily loaded remaining leaves. Coming to a skidding halt in the slick conditions left me wondering if I had made the right decision to venture here without the benefit of four-wheel traction.
The heavy drizzle persisted, but the trees provided virtually total protection otherwise. Recovering the rod from the grasp of the car, I set off the sort distance to cover the pool which had been full of promise on my last visit, but without result. This afternoon was no different, there being several fish showing liberally along the pool, but cast as I might, I could not induce one to chase the fly. Every inch covered, I moved to the next pool; a different prospect altogether, with the stream running across to the far side, leaving a large eddy of slackness beyond and right opposite my stance. The main stream ran so close to the overhanging bushes & young trees, so the fly must be placed with not a little danger of an encounter with a branch. Behind to my right were similar hazards, and a slighter fresher downstream breeze managed to sneak its way between the trees at this point. Casting short across this modest river was not an option if there were any hopes of tempting a fish from its lie, although this pool did not seem to have the activity of the previously waded domain.
A new cast was formulated, a combination of a roll and spaghetti, with a stop in between, allowing me to cover the well hidden fish. Again slowly working down the pool, widening and flattening as it went, another briefest of glimpses of a nose & tail was seen at the very farthest of reaches. Covered, but the tension was only in the back of my neck, drenched with the drizzle.
Trudging back upstream, ducking under the vegetation, and out of the pool, I made my way back to the car. A quick half cup of hot sweet black nectar, and after grabbing a bar of chocolate to munch on the way, I decided to try further upstream. The thick woods, and undergrowth not yet dying back, meant that I only got occasional glimpses of the river from the well muddied track. Now out into the field, and marching along its side with a new determination, I stopped at a structure passing for a bridge, its main function being a support for a large pipe across the stream. I clambered up the rusting iron ladder, and got a good view of both up & downstream from that concrete platform; above seemed to be a very small & shallow stream, which gradually merged into a large pool under & beyond this bridge, but without any obvious tributary to swell the water volume. As I was contemplating this conundrum, my thoughts were disturbed by the distinct sound of a fish breaking the surface of the expanding pool below, rather noisily so.
There was no apparent way to fish from this spot, even when off the bridge, so it would have to be worked at from well upstream. By the time I had clambered down the iron rungs, the same sound came from the pool, another splash.
Walking along the field side a further 100 or so yards, I found my way back towards the stream through some small trees, and along a well worn path. Entering the river at that upstream point, I realised that my view from the bridge was not deceptive, this really was a small shallow stream, and certainly not holding water. Working quickly down that shallow stream in case of meeting any temporary stopper, I gradually saw the stream merge into this expanding pool. What appeared to be a larger splash came from the area below the bridge, roughly in the vicinity of the previous disturbances.
There appeared to be an interesting lie about 15 yards above the bridge, again shrouded with a large overhanging bush, but the earlier casting exercises permitted me to cover it with relative ease. A fish showed immediately below that bush, but was not interested enough to tweak my fly, even after several repeat casts.
As I neared the bridge, underfoot became more silty, but still a solid bottom, gradually deepening. Some tricky casting was needed again, as I was near hugging the vegetable overhangs on my side, but reaching the far side was still possible. As the river slipped under the bridge, the large swirl about 40 yards down seemed to indicate that this same fish may be agitated enough to have a swipe at my offering, but that I would have to work my way under the bridge to reach his lie.
The relatively slow moving stream, which had been running nearer the far side, seemed to bounce off the far support of the bridge, and track into the middle of the expansive pool, leaving, in its wake, a large far side slack eddy. As I continued down the pool, and under the bridge, the water was deepening to concerning levels, but fortunately it was a relatively slow push above my waist. Each new plop of the fly to the edge of the far side slack brought me closer to the target of the previously showing fish. I was now about 15 yards below the bridge, and the riverbed continued to deepen where I had planned to continue in the pursuit of this fish, so I could go no further. I had made several casts, even allowing a little line to feed out to lengthen the sweep over the fish, but nothing doing.
I decided that I had better quit soon, as wading back out could be a bit tricky anway, so I determined to have 3 more casts, as you do! I repeated my previous unanswered casts, and as I was near ready to retrieve the line for the final time, a solid stop. A branch? …no, was the answer, as a little headshake transmitted itself up the line, along the rod and into my cold and now trembling hands. It was the fish!
I had not the time to do much before it swept right across the pool to the far side, and strongly. I managed to lift the rod a little, before it was slammed down in a bend again, as the fish seemed to be trying to bounce its way off the small hook. I don’t really think I was ever really in control of the fish, as, although it didn’t strip any line, it certainly wasn’t giving away many inches against the strain of the creaking carbon.
I would have to get out of this deeply waded situation, and with the fish doggedly holding on the far side, it did not appeal to me to try to retrace my footsteps upstream. So, I got as close to the bank as possible, straining to hold the tensioned rod & line, and I had to fight my way amongst branches at the side, and then between these saplings and overhangs. They seemed to be growing into river. I identified a small patch of less tangled bankside about 20 yards or so downstream, co-incidentally about the same level as where the fish had been showing. It was a struggle to get there, but the fish was fortunately not doing anything wild, simply holding weightily nearer the far side.
I did manage to get to that clearer spot, but on closer inspection, not really so clear – just a 10 foot window in the brush, and the bank was now made up of cricket ball sized & bigger boulders – what a weird river!
Although it was a little tricky to get any solid footing on the shifting and slimy balls of rock calling itself a bankside riverbed, there was no way I would be at any additional advantage being on dry land (not that you could call it dry land now, as the drizzle had upped the stakes to a real pouring match!), and anyway, the only room affording movement of the rod was whilst still in the river.
Another 10 minutes of essentially holding this fish near the far side on a straining rod was then followed by a progressive gain for my part; I had managed to bring the fish gradually, and grudgingly, towards myself. The fish hadn’t shown at all.
The first glimpse I had through the slightly peat-stained water was of a dark fish, perhaps in the high teens, and not the 20+ ‘monster’ I felt I had been connected to earlier in the battle.
It took a full three goes to get the fish near enough bankside for long enough to get a secure grasp around his tail, and it was a ‘he’, a deep red coloured flank smattered with black & paler splotches, and capped with a handsome spawning kype. Not that I had much time to admire the fish, as a call from the far bank indicated that the present owner of the beat had been there in attendance for some time. “A nice grilse?” calls he; “No, a rather larger one than that!” was my hurried response, as I tried to steady the fish even momentarily ( the fly already having been removed from near the scissor frighteningly easily) on the 40 degree boulder banking for a quick picture.
Still too lively, and after two (later proven to be wildly blurred) picture attempts, he didn’t even want to hang around for a brief rest to recover in the water, and two seconds, one big swish of the tail and he was gone back into the deep.
I estimated the fish around 16, but every ounce of that was exhibited that wet afternoon. The continued downpour and the increasingly wet clothing no longer had any effect, and even the walk back to the car in the mud seemed pleasanter than should be allowed.
Mike
Arose early, despite the beverages & good meal the evening before. Fortunately, no after effects, no Alka-Seltzer required. A quick splash of soap drizzled cold water on the face, and Colgate on the travelling brush completed the manoeuvres to become at least half awake. Clicked on the small kettle, & it startled the cold water into a swirl followed by the creation of bubbles with that familiar tone.
Meantime, stretching into the wicking layers, then the socks to keep it all from unravelling, hiding from the chill of the autumn morning so rudely interrupted by leaving the cozy quilt.
Strong & sweet, the black coffee had the desired quenching and revival effects of cool water to one emerging from a hot desert trek. Light flannels and a well worn fleece were used to cover the embarrassing shape revealed by the necessary underlayers, then attention to the armoury for the day ahead.
Having tied a few ‘specials’ in the hour between the previous evening’s shower & the night at the bar, just a final coating of head varnish would dry between breakfast and adding them to the over-stuffed flee box.
The rest of the kit had dried partially in the warmth of the room overnight, now an acceptable degree of warm dampness was all that remained.
The hearty full breakfast was interrupted by brief discussions of the plans for the day, whether to take an early chance at the lower beat first, reserving the alternative venue if the fish hadn’t appeared off the tide.
Awkward departure over-loaded with gear, narrowly missing the plant pot on the hallway table. Checking out at reception was the young girl from behind the bar the previous evening, and after the necessary signatures, all was heaved into the car for the short trip to the river.
Arriving at the near-tidal venue revealed a height & water colour that was near perfect, so no delay in setting up the rod and heading to the top of the beat. The dabbling noise of the water making its way downstream between the stones of the croy was soothing, as was the slight chill of the waded water. A slight glimpse of a showing fish at the bottom flat of the pool was encouraging, and the gentle plop of the fly just away from the far bank was quickly followed by the swing in anticipation of that gentle stop. Working down the pool carefully, each cast ever nearer to the fading evidence of former activity downstream, but he would be on his way up towards me as well?
The last cast over the pool didn’t bring the surprise of a take, and having fished it carefully, with the ‘special’ tie, I now doubted the true nature of that shown fish. The drizzle of the day gradually became somewhat more persistent, but with only the lightest of breezes, these were better conditions than forecast.
Onto the next pool, with more water activity gurgling over and between the larger partially exposed boulders, the fly danced and swept in the altering flows, but not enticing enough to result in any additional tension on the line.
Suddenly, the ratchet clicked into life, but only because I had completed the designated pools without substantive offers, and coffee time and a re-think were beckoning.
Cupped hands around the hot mugs in the hut, and with the other rods on a similar blank, discussions centred around sticking it out to wait for the next push of fish here fresh off the tide, or to switch venues. Straws weren’t drawn, but I had been attracted to the alternative venue since my last visit there. The others would stay, ready to ambush any tide licers.
Clicking the rod onto the holder, then clambering into the car with full gear on was as awkward as it always was, but it was a short drive. Through the farm, and down the increasingly muddied & slippery track, and then into the trees, with large spats of water dropping off the heavily loaded remaining leaves. Coming to a skidding halt in the slick conditions left me wondering if I had made the right decision to venture here without the benefit of four-wheel traction.
The heavy drizzle persisted, but the trees provided virtually total protection otherwise. Recovering the rod from the grasp of the car, I set off the sort distance to cover the pool which had been full of promise on my last visit, but without result. This afternoon was no different, there being several fish showing liberally along the pool, but cast as I might, I could not induce one to chase the fly. Every inch covered, I moved to the next pool; a different prospect altogether, with the stream running across to the far side, leaving a large eddy of slackness beyond and right opposite my stance. The main stream ran so close to the overhanging bushes & young trees, so the fly must be placed with not a little danger of an encounter with a branch. Behind to my right were similar hazards, and a slighter fresher downstream breeze managed to sneak its way between the trees at this point. Casting short across this modest river was not an option if there were any hopes of tempting a fish from its lie, although this pool did not seem to have the activity of the previously waded domain.
A new cast was formulated, a combination of a roll and spaghetti, with a stop in between, allowing me to cover the well hidden fish. Again slowly working down the pool, widening and flattening as it went, another briefest of glimpses of a nose & tail was seen at the very farthest of reaches. Covered, but the tension was only in the back of my neck, drenched with the drizzle.
Trudging back upstream, ducking under the vegetation, and out of the pool, I made my way back to the car. A quick half cup of hot sweet black nectar, and after grabbing a bar of chocolate to munch on the way, I decided to try further upstream. The thick woods, and undergrowth not yet dying back, meant that I only got occasional glimpses of the river from the well muddied track. Now out into the field, and marching along its side with a new determination, I stopped at a structure passing for a bridge, its main function being a support for a large pipe across the stream. I clambered up the rusting iron ladder, and got a good view of both up & downstream from that concrete platform; above seemed to be a very small & shallow stream, which gradually merged into a large pool under & beyond this bridge, but without any obvious tributary to swell the water volume. As I was contemplating this conundrum, my thoughts were disturbed by the distinct sound of a fish breaking the surface of the expanding pool below, rather noisily so.
There was no apparent way to fish from this spot, even when off the bridge, so it would have to be worked at from well upstream. By the time I had clambered down the iron rungs, the same sound came from the pool, another splash.
Walking along the field side a further 100 or so yards, I found my way back towards the stream through some small trees, and along a well worn path. Entering the river at that upstream point, I realised that my view from the bridge was not deceptive, this really was a small shallow stream, and certainly not holding water. Working quickly down that shallow stream in case of meeting any temporary stopper, I gradually saw the stream merge into this expanding pool. What appeared to be a larger splash came from the area below the bridge, roughly in the vicinity of the previous disturbances.
There appeared to be an interesting lie about 15 yards above the bridge, again shrouded with a large overhanging bush, but the earlier casting exercises permitted me to cover it with relative ease. A fish showed immediately below that bush, but was not interested enough to tweak my fly, even after several repeat casts.
As I neared the bridge, underfoot became more silty, but still a solid bottom, gradually deepening. Some tricky casting was needed again, as I was near hugging the vegetable overhangs on my side, but reaching the far side was still possible. As the river slipped under the bridge, the large swirl about 40 yards down seemed to indicate that this same fish may be agitated enough to have a swipe at my offering, but that I would have to work my way under the bridge to reach his lie.
The relatively slow moving stream, which had been running nearer the far side, seemed to bounce off the far support of the bridge, and track into the middle of the expansive pool, leaving, in its wake, a large far side slack eddy. As I continued down the pool, and under the bridge, the water was deepening to concerning levels, but fortunately it was a relatively slow push above my waist. Each new plop of the fly to the edge of the far side slack brought me closer to the target of the previously showing fish. I was now about 15 yards below the bridge, and the riverbed continued to deepen where I had planned to continue in the pursuit of this fish, so I could go no further. I had made several casts, even allowing a little line to feed out to lengthen the sweep over the fish, but nothing doing.
I decided that I had better quit soon, as wading back out could be a bit tricky anway, so I determined to have 3 more casts, as you do! I repeated my previous unanswered casts, and as I was near ready to retrieve the line for the final time, a solid stop. A branch? …no, was the answer, as a little headshake transmitted itself up the line, along the rod and into my cold and now trembling hands. It was the fish!
I had not the time to do much before it swept right across the pool to the far side, and strongly. I managed to lift the rod a little, before it was slammed down in a bend again, as the fish seemed to be trying to bounce its way off the small hook. I don’t really think I was ever really in control of the fish, as, although it didn’t strip any line, it certainly wasn’t giving away many inches against the strain of the creaking carbon.
I would have to get out of this deeply waded situation, and with the fish doggedly holding on the far side, it did not appeal to me to try to retrace my footsteps upstream. So, I got as close to the bank as possible, straining to hold the tensioned rod & line, and I had to fight my way amongst branches at the side, and then between these saplings and overhangs. They seemed to be growing into river. I identified a small patch of less tangled bankside about 20 yards or so downstream, co-incidentally about the same level as where the fish had been showing. It was a struggle to get there, but the fish was fortunately not doing anything wild, simply holding weightily nearer the far side.
I did manage to get to that clearer spot, but on closer inspection, not really so clear – just a 10 foot window in the brush, and the bank was now made up of cricket ball sized & bigger boulders – what a weird river!
Although it was a little tricky to get any solid footing on the shifting and slimy balls of rock calling itself a bankside riverbed, there was no way I would be at any additional advantage being on dry land (not that you could call it dry land now, as the drizzle had upped the stakes to a real pouring match!), and anyway, the only room affording movement of the rod was whilst still in the river.
Another 10 minutes of essentially holding this fish near the far side on a straining rod was then followed by a progressive gain for my part; I had managed to bring the fish gradually, and grudgingly, towards myself. The fish hadn’t shown at all.
The first glimpse I had through the slightly peat-stained water was of a dark fish, perhaps in the high teens, and not the 20+ ‘monster’ I felt I had been connected to earlier in the battle.
It took a full three goes to get the fish near enough bankside for long enough to get a secure grasp around his tail, and it was a ‘he’, a deep red coloured flank smattered with black & paler splotches, and capped with a handsome spawning kype. Not that I had much time to admire the fish, as a call from the far bank indicated that the present owner of the beat had been there in attendance for some time. “A nice grilse?” calls he; “No, a rather larger one than that!” was my hurried response, as I tried to steady the fish even momentarily ( the fly already having been removed from near the scissor frighteningly easily) on the 40 degree boulder banking for a quick picture.
Still too lively, and after two (later proven to be wildly blurred) picture attempts, he didn’t even want to hang around for a brief rest to recover in the water, and two seconds, one big swish of the tail and he was gone back into the deep.
I estimated the fish around 16, but every ounce of that was exhibited that wet afternoon. The continued downpour and the increasingly wet clothing no longer had any effect, and even the walk back to the car in the mud seemed pleasanter than should be allowed.
Mike