Saturday: Home Jaunts
The ‘Boss’ had lovingly granted me the full weekend for fishing. “You’ve been away for two weeks and haven’t fished much. Why don’t you get two full days in?” She’s after something. Regardless, I wasn’t going to turn the opportunity down, and so by the time Saturday began rearing its sleepy head I was already contemplating the day’s fishing to come, however, I was hampered somewhat by a horrendous cold. Not one to be ill very often (nor one to take pity on myself in such situations), once pilled up and after drinking three cups of coffee, I was off to meet Mostyn at a respectable 9am.
I remember when I was a child; I’d be unable to sleep at night knowing that the next morning would mean an early start for a day’s fishing with Dad. After a “Shhhh!” from Dad not to wake my mother as I practically ran down the stairs with excitement, Dad would make the sandwiches and flasks of coffee (with condensed milk giving it that special, sweet ‘fishing coffee’ taste) and I’d grab the rods and nets (only for the old man to double check – I’d do the same).
With wellies adorned (those of you who’ve seen ‘the’ old photo of me don’t need to know the rest of my attire), we’d set off for the misty journey to whatever fishery Dad had decided we’d fish. The day would end, mostly, with a sleeping Gareth in the passenger seat, complete with blistered hands due to a day’s casting and Dad driving home. Bespoke excitement.
Fishing for me hasn’t lost that excitement as – if anything – the excitement has intensified tenfold, and after two weeks forced abstinence due to a trip abroad, today I resemble a babbling idiot! The trip obviously didn’t change me that much then.
With the metaphorical ‘weekend pass’ firmly in hand, my first days fishing was to be on my secret home stream (actually, I don’t think it’s much of secret anymore, but I’ll be damned if I’ll tell anyone my exact fishing spots). Rods assembled and waders adorned, Mostyn and I began the short hike to a suitable starting point.
Flowing through a gorge of giant slabs of sheet-rock, with light white riffles and glass smooth glides, this stream has cut its way relentlessly south, and in places you’d be hard pushed to hear yourself think over the power of the roaring falls.
There is solitude in silence, and in places on my home stream your only company are your thoughts. Seeing the sun on the horizon, hearing the awakening birds, and my reason for being here, hearing the quite gulps on the water’s surface as the wild brown trout go about their feeding.
Already the sun was warm, and after prospecting one pool that would have normally produced a couple of small wild trout, I found that it didn’t today, so I move upstream leaving Mostyn a little lower.
Creeping upstream towards a fishy looking run incorporating a few nice riffley fingers throughout, I notice a few quiet rises at its head. Sneaking into position and sitting on the backs of my feet, I smile unashamedly as I watch these small but beautiful fish feed away, oblivious to my presence.
The hard work of creeping into position done, I pull off a little line, and check my fly for any faults. With the fish still confidently feeding, a cast is made. Without hesitation my small #20 brown turkey biot parachute is engulfed and a small, but very annoyed, wild brown trout is attached to me via rod and line.
I pick up another fish in this streamy run before, I believe, the rest of it’s fishy inhabitants disburse, knowing that something is amiss as, surely, all of their friends have suddenly disappeared.
Tenderly released, she returns to her bolt hole to mope for while I move on, always upstream in search of new rises or any pockets of water larger than a saucer.
What a beautiful start to the day, and this would continue throughout. No ‘large’ fish were caught, the largest being just 10” or so, but we managed to pick out wild fish after wild fish throughout the day and, in its ever increasing heat, we were more than happy with our results.
Whether in riffles, glides, or in the tails or heads of pools, the fish were where we expected them to be, and exactly where we wanted to be; in the shade. A cast to a riffle next to, or between, a few boulders, under the shady cover of three branches, or within the dark but cool tunnel-like tree canopy, would be met with either a splashed dry fly, or a positive take.
Flies for the day were kept to a minimum, with the majority of my morning fish being taken on a #20 brown turkey biot parachute, while in the afternoon, and as the temperatures rose to around 27°C, I switched to a New Zealand setup consisting of klinkhamer and #20 micro Copper John; the afternoon fish having opted to dive for shady cover, and so the nymph worked better in these conditions.
Sunday: Honddu
Its day #2, 9.45am, and after spending the previous night celebrating my success with a beer or three, I’m headed north-east towards Hereford. My destination is the river Honddu and, more specifically, Lower Stanton.
Turning off the A465 and passing through the charming village of Llanvihangel Crucorney, I’m parked and awaiting my partner for the day, the ever-grinning and hugely knowledgeable Mr Meadows, aka Grizzle.
I’ve fished with Grizz’ on and off for a couple of years now, and, as an angler after my own heart, we both know and love the joys of small streams. Today we’ve decided to fish together, usually taking it in turns to fish a pocket or riffle, while the other hides behind giving tips, advice, or just generally taking the piss whenever the other angler messes up or spooks a pool. It’s all fun, and it’s always good to fish with such an experienced and well to do angler as Grizzle.
Grizz’ (exiting his car and instantly stating that “I’ve spent the previous night at a BBQ, I’ve got a hangover” so I know to be gentle) arrived not long after I and soon we were both tackled up and ready to go.
As we’re about to enter the field we need to cross in order to gain access to the stream Grizz’ reminds me of the nightmarish tale of being charged at by a herd of cows the weekend prior in the very same field. Obviously, it doesn’t distil much faith in crossing said field to our streamy goal alive.
It’s currently mating season for the damned things, and where I’d usually give them as wide a birth as humanly possible, we’re here now, and tackled up, so we feel kind of obliged to attempt to fish. A very cautious approach is needed to cross the field and enter the stream, and as the Wye & Usk Foundation’s permit box is actually inside the field, speed will be of the essence. The journey (from the field’s main gate to permit box, from permit box through field to beat start) was something of a worried affair. Walking like we would at any second need to burst into a sprint (and all the while looking over our shoulders in case of charging bulls), we safely reached the stream, the livestock paying us no heed, and instead, simply looked on at these strange, but scared buffoons with a form of malcontent.
On the stream, and after a few minutes of chatting, I am granted the first cast of the day, and prospect my way up a likely looking runwith my #20 brown biot parachute, but without result. In true “I’ll show you how to do it” style, ol’ Grizz’ works the same run with a duo setup and takes a nice feisty brown trout on a nymph. Well, there are show offs and then there are show offs.
As we worked our way up the next run the sounds of cattle planning some sort of human-kill were coming ever closer, and upon turning around it seemed as if the things had crept upon us and were caught just at the last moment. Grizz’, we don’t know how close we were!
As yesterday, the temperatures were high, and at one point, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Fish were caught, and generally the average 9/10” wild-Honddu-trout size, but there were a couple of larger fish.
At one pool, Grizz’ and I sat in the warm early afternoon grass as we watched the water, and to be more specific, watching one little sipping rise in the tail of a pool. It rose a few times before Grizz’ muttered “Go on, give it a go.” Not one to turn a rising fish down, I accepted and crept my way down to the bank and, standing back from the water’s edge, watched again for the ripple that would indicate the fish hadn’t noticed my advance and was still happily feeding.
I still had my duo of klinkhamer and micro Copper John from the lower riffley waters we’d just been prospecting and, as usual (and with heart rate pounding and adrenalin pumping), some of us neglect to think soberly. If I had been thinking soberly I would’ve opted to switch to a single dry fly (just in case the trailing nymph upset the calm surface of this pool’s tail), but as the adrenaline was pumping and I remember thinking ‘that rise looks a lot bigger than it did from the bank!’, changing flies was the last thing on my mind.
I waited for one more security-rise before casting my duo two feet in front of the rise. Any thoughts I may have previously had in regards to my klink’ and nymph disturbing the water vanished in an instant.
With an enormously confident rise my tan klinkhamer was demolished and my biggest fish of the day (after realising this morsel of food was attached to something) began roaring upstream, then down, then up again. After a minute or so the largest brown trout of the day was held in my shaking hands, it’s heavy shoulders heaving with anger as Grizzle attempted to practically jump down the bank in order to offer both moral support and, in the end, take a photo. A true small stream lunker of a fish that will stay with me for a long time.
The Fight
The Smile
The Fish
Gently returned to the water, she swam off confidently and strongly, but not before casting me a scornful look over her shoulder.
For the next half an hour we worked a little further upstream, but I was no longer in the game. I could have ended my day there and then and still I would have been smiling.
Happily then, Grizz’ suggested the pub, as the sun was high, and the temperatures were soaring. Time to cool down, have a beer and a chat, and look at the photo of that fish again!
The Skirrid Mountain Inn, once the local hanging parlour (in case there is some issue in translation, I mean they actually used to hang people here), was to be our choice of pub, and is situated less than 60 seconds from the beat by car. Cheerfully, it even has the original roof beam that the old nooses were tied too and, even more disturbingly, it currently has a mock noose tied to the beam in the interests of tourism…uh…two pints please bar-keep, any good ol’ hangings today?
A beer is always more refreshing when out fishing, it just tastes better, and after the last fish I’d caught, well deserved I thought!
After our light-lunch break we headed down stream to the Honddu’s Pandy beat, a beat which I’ve not had the pleasure of fishing previously, and a place which I cannot wait to fish again.
The Pandy beat is one consisting of low tree lined banks, never-ending dark tunnels of trees, and of course, the free-stony, creepy-crawly environs which I love and are the trademark of most of Wales’ freestone streams and rivers. That said, it held a few beautiful and mirror smooth runs which, to wade, would be at your peril, as the fish would see you coming from a mile away; a great place for burglars mind you.
Again, and after dumping four more tickets each into the WUF ticket box, we worked our way up stream, picking up fish here and there. From tiny pockets no bigger than computer monitors in size; to riffley white water which aquatic insects call home and wild trout consequently call their dining table.
Standard sized fish most of them, and beautiful as hell, but we were working the beat as quickly as possible as the sun (even though falling and still bright in the openness of the nearby fields) was mute under the dark tree canopies and within the tunnels of trees under which the stream ran.
Picking up fish after fish in the ever fading light, Grizz’ and I worked our way upstream for a couple of hours and, after both deciding we were exhausted, we decided the day must end and so began our the trek back to the cars.
Mostyn and Grizz’, thank you both for two fantastic days in the wild streams of Wales, for the banter, the fishing, and also for taking a few photos of me…it’s a rare thing to see anything other than my hand on this site.
Also, if it hadn’t been for your moral support Grizz’, I doubt I would have ever landed that fish. I owe you a pint!
What a weekend, and one I won’t forget soon. Thank you both.
Streams, I love them, with every fibre of my being.
I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful and I hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly; because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape; because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion; because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience; because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time, and I for one don’t want to waste the trip; because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness; because bourbon out of an old tin cup always tastes better out there; because maybe one day I will catch a mermaid; and, finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant – and not nearly so much fun.
Testament of a Fisherman, by Robert Traver – 1964 (Judge John Voelker, 1903-1991)
To view the full range of photos from the weekend, please click here.
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