Friday; my focal point throughout the past week. Work; in all its IT wonder, joy, and glory is on hold today as I am set to treat myself with a day away from the dungeon office. Specifically, I am to spend a day fishing on the wonderful River Severn in the pursuit of wild brown trout.

It is 06:30 in the morning and the streets are deserted. As I sit in my car awaiting the excited form of Eldon to emerge from his front door, my mind wanders to my memories of the river Severn and her fish.

I’ve not fished the Severn since February, the last session well and truly tanning my hide as I blanked royally in the presence of ‘Nymphing Master’ Bill. However, back in February, I remembered hoping (praying even!) for a warm day bursting with abundant fly life and rising fish. That mercilessly cold February day that the ‘Master of Nymphs’ easily laughed off seems a lifetime away. So today (with it’s more favourable temperatures) I aim to make it a day to remember (my cold bones thankful for the warmth!).

Heading north into the wilds of Wales at 6:40, after hurriedly packing the car, I realise it isn’t really that early. I mean, sunrise at the moment is around 5am, but still, I enjoy being out fishing when the majority of the country are still in bed.

As we make the transition from South Wales up into the Brecon Beacons, and then down the other side and into Mid Wales, I feel my excitement grow as the majestic form of the river Wye joins our expedition North alongside our medium of travel, the A470.

Buried within my excitement there is, however, a seed of doubt. The feedback on the river’s conditions over the last week has changed from low, to very low, to ‘nearly on its bones’. I’m slightly worried.

I feel I must get to the river soon, as earlier excited thoughts of rising fish lazily lapping up surface trapped duns and spinners are replaced by waters devoid of fish, all feeding put aside in order to seek out more oxygenated runs and riffles. Either that or the trout (having gotten bored with waiting for these two travelling South Welsh anglers) have grumpily sunken down into the depths, uninterested in any offering fashioned from feather and thread.

“Now come on, it is going to be a good day!” I tell myself as pessimism looms.

Negative thoughts are cast out as we reach our destination after an hour and a half’s drive and purchase our permits from the friendly Spar employee. After five minutes and £13.67 later we are fully legalised in the realms of fishing permits and have purchased our food for the day.

As we make our way back across the bridge towards the car holding our day’s gear, we stop momentarily to take in the view of the magnificent form of the river Severn running below us in all its 220 mile long glory. The fish, not willing to give away their locations with a rise, are unseen, and so tactics are formulated accordingly.

It’s 08:00 and Eldon and I sit patiently on the warm morning grass of the river bank awaiting any sign of a rise. We quietly discuss the day’s tactics, excitedly glancing through fly boxes every once in a while to cheerfully produce the pattern discussed, and, hoping upon hope that a fish will rise. It is summer after all (finally!), and what better way to spend it than by catching a few fish to a day dry fly!?

Unfortunately, the rises we were hoping for failed to materialise, and so, after waiting on the bank for 15 minutes we begin prospecting the water and working our way upstream, one foot at a time (yours truly setting up a duo consisting of a #12 pink post klinkhamer and a #14 tungsten beaded hair’s ear).

As its warm and the river low, the fish will be seeking out well oxygenated water. Riffles, white waters, necks of pools, etc, these are to be my targets; and what better searching flies are there than a klinkhamer and tungsten beaded hare’s ear duo? Some may have a different favourite pair, some may even rely on just one dry fly or just one weighted nymph for searching waters for fish, but these are my favourite searching patterns. On one pool however, I decided to try a slightly different pattern.

There is a pool on the Severn. It has a neck with a very strong flow. The flow actually turns the pool into a great swirling whirlpool. I decided to add to this whirlpool a woolly bugger, but not just any woolly bugger. This pattern was recommended by a friend who is rather better at fishing buggers than I, and so, who am I to argue.

She shall be known as the Goldilox; originally tied with gold fritz chenille (I only had a yellow fritz dubbing), she didn’t half do the job. Stripped, tweaked, figure of eight’d, the fish followed. I even saw no less than three trout follow the fly on one retrieve! This reaction I have not had the grace of seeing before. Needless to say, this fly is good. So now I know a Master of Nymphs, and a Masters of Woolly Buggers.

At this point, Eldon would love me to point out, that he had caught 9…and I had caught 1.

Then we reached another pool.

Sitting down on the bank to have a rest while a bloody large trout is feeding voraciously on the other bank is rather difficult. He rose once, twice, three times. This guy is hungry…and large. If I was a large and hungry trout what would I like to eat? How about that bloody great big woolly bugger you have in your box Gareth? Good idea Gareth.

For anyone who hasn’t cast a woolly bugger before, please dispel any thoughts of the graceful casting known to our love affair that is Fly Fishing. If I were to choose a word, ‘Bombing’ would be more suited.

After ‘bombing’ an olive woolly bugger 5ft in front of the large, hungry brown (a tweak here, a strip there) I was met by an arm wrenching pull. The big bugger (not the fly) was on. After a rather uninteresting fight (the brown allowing its large form to be guided into my hand), a picture was taken, and then the trout was released. As I watched him swim happily away I couldn’t help but think it was a little ill. Trout I know don’t fight like that…and trout I know that big fight like hell!

After working our way up the river, and back down again. We passed the area where we had parked.

There is a bridge, and god, it looks fishy. We’ve got a while left until dark, so we decide to give it a shot.

Sitting there for five minutes as Eldon begins to prospect a run with klink and nymph, I find myself drawn to a similar but smaller run on the far bank. As Eldon’s run, this is underneath an arch of a stone bridge and looks slightly difficult to wader to. However, if it looks difficult to wade to, my experience has shown there will more than likely be a fish there.

I’ve got a lot of confidence in klinkhamers, especially in the way they’re able to bring fish up, even when there isn’t a rise to be seen. As it is the end of the day, on goes a klink, my go to dry fly.

As I start making my way up into this small run, I start to notice, it isn’t actually that ‘small’, as I’m now up to my waist in water. Covering the water up into the run, there is a rise not 10ft from me. It’s a small rise, more of a slurp. Over goes the klink.

Then the world became a fish. A four inch-wide mouth came from the speedy flow of the swiftly darkening waters of this early summer evening, only to demolish my tiny klinkhamer and then speed off downstream…tippet, fly line, and (consequently) a rather frightened angler still attached.

This trout is large, larger than the previous large trout of the day (or so I think as it is still submerged), although its fight is the complete opposite! As it’s powerful form steams up and down the river, attempting to zig-zag into faster flowing runs within the centre of the river, I feel panic set in. Has my tippet got any knots? This is definitely going to snap me! AGH! My waders have sprung a leak! (Okay, that last part is true).

After five minutes of a stomach wrenching fight (and a crotch increasing in wetness due to my now VERY breathable waders!), my biggest ever river caught brown sits quite happily cradled in my hand. The trout seems quite happy to remain in my hand as I support the fish in the flow of the river in order for it to regain it’s strength, and in turn, swim off. A spectacular fight and one which I find impossible to put into words.

After releasing this most beautiful of fish; I just stood there, water more confidently entering my waders. I was happy, content, and exhausted from my panicky fight with a large brown trout. For the next 2 minutes I just stood there; heart beat slowly returning to normal, with a big smile slapped across my face.

A red letter day, with my biggest ever grayling caught, and now this huge (for me) brown trout fooled by a small klinkhammer. Words fail me.

I do believe this is the longest ramble regarding a fishing trip I have ever written, and my apologies to anyone who was bored senseless whilst reading. That said, I’m yet to meet a fly fisherman who doesn’t bumble or babble like an idiot at the thought or sight of a beautiful riffle where a brown trout may be lying.

Actually, I’m quite proud to say I’m part of that fraternity.

My fish of a lifetime

A few more images from the day:

 

Comments RSS