What is it about angling for this little fish that captivates us so. They seem to be loved by everyone that throws a line.
Perhaps it's the anticipation.....
James had told me that he would be angling for grayling and asked if I'd like to join him again. We had such a great time last year that it made me wish for the winter months to arrive a little quicker this year. I do love my winter fishing and the addition of grayling to my winter list just seems to be the icing on the cake.
The Speedia was oiled for the occasion, something I do far too infrequently. I do make things difficult for myself because the addition of just one drop of oil makes such a difference.
With the bait sorted and tackle ready, an early start was in order.
Perhaps it's the tackle...
The Allcocks Lucky Strike seems to be just about perfect for small stream grayling fishing. I will admit that I've not actually tried anything else but I just don't need to. I have no problem at all trotting a traditional style float all day with the Lucky/Speedia combo. Some people actually claim that cane is heavy, it's not. OK, it is heavier than carbon, but let's face it, if you can't hold a bit of bamboo all day.......
Perhaps it's the river....
The chalkstream, a fragile environment , bestowed upon us by this diverse and wonderful country of ours. How lucky we are to be able to idle away hours of our lives in such enchanting places.
We arrived at first light, that first glimpse from the bridge giving all the information we needed to assess the days fishing. Low, cold , clear...for any other species I'd have been worried, yet I revelled in the sight before me.
Perhaps it is the company....
James is a good companion. He's fished the stretch more than me and knows the swims well. Like myself, he is fortunate to have a knowledgable angling father who has taught him a little too well.
My love of solitude dictates that I give much thought to who I choose to fish with.
Perhaps its the joy of angling.....
Having caught a few small grayling upstream I took a stroll to a swim I did well in last year. I could clearly see a few fish present, just drifting into view as they snaffled passing red maggots.
The cast is often grabbed by the overhead branches but I succeeded in avoiding the twiggy grasp and the float was on it's way, effortlessly towing line from the Speedia.
The orange tip vanished and the strike connected. The dark cane of the 'Lucky' flexed it's steel against the fish, which was now sitting in the fast central flow. Such strength for such a small fish. He was no match for such a classic combination though and he was eventually mine.
Perhaps it's the fish.....
I once read somewhere that a grayling looks like it has been knitted. Well I can see exactly what they meant. They have a look all of their own. Those exquisitely iridescent colours, that gorgeous sail of a fin, those eyes.
Add to that the tenacity of a fish twice it's size. The strength to hold in the current, that fight and their wirey, muscular contortions when held a little too tightly for their liking....I love 'em.
We caught many. We once again had a fine day, a day to remember. I could wax lyrical about it all, but will save some for another day.
What is it then, what does a grayling have that strikes a chord with all brothers and sisters of the angle?
I suppose that one of the worst things about running a large tackle shop is the fact that the best time to go fishing is also the busiest time of the year. My own angling suffers as I cater for the masses. I'm not complaining, business is good. It just means that I tend to fish more in winter than summer.
With business booming, we do seem to buck the industry trend. I needed a little solitude and eventually found a few hours to re-visit my little stretch of river.
I had a specific swim in mind which was far upstream. Truth is, I hadn't accounted for the surge in growth of the bankside vegetation.
It was clear that no-one had been here for a while.
With only a couple of hours of daylight to play with I decided on the easy option of my old dace swim which was at the right end of the beat.
I was amazed at the sight before me as I reached the swim.......
...It had clearly not been fished since my last visit well over a month ago.
It really does give me a closeness to this little stretch and the river itself. We are friends, it welcomes me, not others.
I sat amongst the vegetation, blending in as best I could. The odd nettle couldn't resist a swipe at me, it comes with the territory.
Just a few years ago this beat was decimated by chainsaw and dredger, you'd never believe it now, yet people still believe the fish have gone for good. Mother nature thrives on neglect.
It was always going to be a Lucky Strike evening, sit back , de-stress and await whatever might come, nestled within the welcoming arms of my special place.
The trotted balsa glided away to bring many silver bars of dace and the occasional stripey swirl of a perch.
However, it was the one nice roach that was given up that made this Intrepid Piscator smile in the face of another week at work.
Come with me, come with me,do. To those placid pastures where smooth waters flow quietly on.
Cast aside the vacant drudgery of fat carp and packed ponds and drift a while a bright float with me.
Next humming bees and the hatch, I sit. 'Tween nettle and willow, poised.
I am alone, no cloned sheep here, this piscator swims against the current.
Cane and pin in secret swims, and unfashionable quarry. It's like being a child again, but with accrued knowledge, perhaps the best of both worlds.
I've sprayed the stream with gentles as I set about tackling up, I'll chance a cast.
Nettles have stung my forearms, they glow now like the tip of the stick as it sails on it's merry way. Then, slowly, down to the depths and I strike...the beautiful dace, flickering, glimmering.
Pristine and unfished, the river, the fish. I've tucked myself away in Eden. I'm allowed here and so is everyone else, but they just don't know.
I could sit here on every balmy summers night, no-one will disturb the tranquility.
Solitude, cane, pin and dace...it's nice isn't it ? I forget all that's humdrum and tedious...that's dace for you, they do that...and another comes to hand.
I'm quite content. Just listening to the birds, adrift in a sea of green, with flashes of dace.
For this evening, at least, they're all mine. Far far away from the chasers of chunks and ego. I'll just stay here a while and catch...dace.
Of course the time does roll by, I only meant to stay an hour or so, but I forgot you see? I lost myself , not really wanting to be not catching dace.
But as soon as you drop your guard. The suprise chub, he's often there lurking, decides he's a bit jealous of dace and tries to take centre stage.
Time to go home, I think. Back through the untrodden, away from the wonder of dace....for now.
The branches and twigs were cloaked in ermine and the mercury couldn't pull itself above the zero. Lakes were covered in glassy wafers, pathways encased the marks of foot and wheel as if sculpted. In my many dreams of grayling, this was the perfect day. I knew that at the end of the journey lay a gin clear stream, gliding, steaming,
I didn't need to deliberate over the invite. I've had a longstanding desire to catch 'The lady of the stream' for many years. Today was to be my first ever attempt at meeting her acquaintance.
At first glance, this small stream seemed unassuming, reluctant to snitch on it's contents, rather like a chap that might say, "You aint seen me, right ?"..The veil was lifted and those contents were easily betrayed though by the addition of a handful of maggots. There, right in front of me, I saw my first grayling, then another ghosting in from the main flow to devour the scarlet grubs.
The invite for this day had come from friend James, and as I watched those gorgeous fish effortlessly gliding over the pebbled river bed, it was he I turned to, "I am actually a little bit excited" I exclaimed, with not a little understatement."They're getting confident" he said,"Have a cast".
Having assembled my now beloved, Lucky Strike and Speedia combination with a loafer style float, bulk shotted to size 18 hook, I gave an underarm flick. We both watched the little float with eager anticipation, alas no bite. The float was batted back home and after a few maggots, another trot.....and it was gone, strike, resistance. I was connected to my first ever grayling, a fish that didn't have any desire to be auspicious and promply shed the hook to groans of despondency.
After a period of brief analysis, the float went out again. Almost immediately it jagged under and I struck into a small hard fighting fish that soon came to net.
Now, I can describe this capture with an aire of nonchalance, but it would be disguising one of the most satifying moments of my angling life. These beautiful fish do not prevail near my home, the nearest being an hour and a halfs drive away in the Windrush, but even there they are not abundant. Every year I mean to try one of the better known rivers, every year something scuppers the plan. I had waited long for this, and I was elated. It would be fair to say that had I gone home that instance I would still have had a great day. The smile says it all....
My first ever grayling.
The rod once again living up to it's name, what joy it has brought to me since I fully restored it. My pb chub, my first redmire gudgeon and now my first grayling.
We moved upstream, James and I continuing to catch fish, more grayling and the odd small brownie, such wonderful colours, along with the azure flash of the 'fisher contrasting against the frosty surround.
This pool looked interesting, with a fast bottleneck upstream, gliding even and smooth to shallows downstream.
James disclosed that he had caught well from this area on a previous visit, so with confidence I primed the glide with maggots and watched a shoal of shadows dart around competitively for them. One fish was bigger than the rest, and though my first trot produced a grayling, as did my second, then my third a trout, fourth another grayling...the bigger fish evaded me.
I remembered the sweetcorn in my bag and having baited and hooked a grain, chanced another cast, right into the messy upstream area. The float disappeared iimmediately and I struck, swiftly setting the hook, the fish shot downstream with the flow. The old Lucky Strike performed superbly and the bigger fish was soon in the net.
I was so pleased to catch this beautiful creature, I had targetted it and made the change of bait that enticed it, it's nice when things come together in such a fantastic way. There was only one way to celebrate....Eccles cakes, they seemed to me to go quite divinely with a cracking grayling. Strangely, James didn't quite see it that way and politely declined, swiftly followed by a change of heart when he came to his senses.
IP rating *****
James suggested that we head further upstream, the air was still crystalline and the rings of the rod regularly became entombed in miniature ice cubes. Whenever this occurs I always think of a quote by, I think, John Bickerdyke..."If you have no grease with you, and your rings are full of ice, do not cut out the ice with a pen-knife, but get your man to put the rings one by one in his mouth, and so thaw the ice." Always makes me smile.
Taking time to watch the flow beneath us, we pondered the day so far. We'd caught many fish already, but James just thought he might know of a nice long trot a little further upstream.
He was right, it looked ideal for a very long trot.
Once again, I baited with red maggot and dunked the float out in front of me. Far from trotting a long way, it went under almost immediately!
I soon landed another small grayling. Having unkooked and released her, I proceeded to spend another five minutes or so (not for the first time today) trying to untangle my end tackle.
At this point, James, who had steadily been catching fish all day, hooked into something a bit special and had a rather impressive curve in his carbon rod. However, the excitement turned to exasperation when the fish was lost at the net. I felt truly gutted for him.
Having rested my swim a while, the next cast produced a right little scrapper, probably the best looking fish I caught all day.
The hours were marching on and it was that time to slowly make our way back downstream, catching a few as we went until we reached the very first swim.
We had to have 'one last cast'......It was decided that we would stand upstream of the area I'd caught my first fish and trot down to it.
On the upstream side was a mid-stream feature with a slack area beneath it. I thought there may be fish holding-up there so cast directly at it.
The float bobbed around, almost static, before trundling a short way and vanishing, I struck. The float shot out of the water and landed back upstream near the feature, whereupon the bait was taken by a larger fish, as yet unseen, tanking off into the main flow.
Having gained some control we both yelled 'Trout'.. a beautiful coloured brownie which soon after shed the hook.
James was convinced that a recast would re-snare it. Not for the first time today, he was right. It took the recast instantly and after a small tussle was netted to howls of delight.
Released to fight another day, it was a great end to a day that will live long in the memory.
What a magical time. I didn't feel the cold at all. I'm so indebted to James for generously sharing this day with me. He was so unselfish, putting me on the best spots first and sharing the joy of that special first fish...Cheers mate.
It was now monday, the time was 11:31 a.m, it hadn't stopped raining entirely, but it had stopped raining torrentially for the first time since our arrival around 21 hours ago.
The Willow pitch, where I'd set up for the night in a deluge was now under 6" of water.
I'd had to abandon ship at 7am as the lake came up to join me.
I was so thankful of the refuge of the boathouse as the rain just hurled itself upon me. I estimate that the pool rose around a foot overnight. I'd have been no more wetter had I jumped in. My only option was to drag all my sodden gear around the pool to the Evening Pitch in the pouring rain. This swim was higher, though not much drier.
Everything, and I mean everything , was drenched. Not the ideal first dawn of a Redmire session.
I checked on Malc in The Stile, he had a small tributary of the Wye running through his bivvy, he looked at me asking,"What shall I do?"..."Move", I replied. He knew he had to, but was so reluctant to face the outside of his bivvy. Eventually he moved to Pitchfords.
Remarkably, there had been two runs in the night. Malc had lost a good fish and Tony, in the relative comfort of Stumps had landed a fine common. He had remarked how wet he'd become whilst playing the fish, but was soon humbled by mine and Malc's plight.
Eventually the rain subsided enough to take a few photos.
Note the relative clarity of the water at this point, it was soon to change dramatically. It stayed dry for an hour and the place took on the look of a shanty town with clothing hanging from every available tree.
As I took out my MkIV for the first time a shard of sunlight flashed through the trees.
Float fished lobworm at the dam wall produced nothing but a few tugs , perhaps by an over ambitious gudgeon, their time would come.
I was joined by Malc with his new Avon, we sat and discussed the weather, all very british.
Back at the Evening Pitch it was time for Redmire Cake, made by the ever thoughtful Lady Sarah, it was a welcomed treat.
If I'm honest, I didn't want to be in the Evening Pitch. I love to indulge the fact that it has a history of being haunted, that fact doesn't bother me. I just don't think it is one of the better swims on the pool. Oh well, beggars can't be choosers.
I cast the rods out as the wind blew, what would my first ever night in the Evening Pitch on my fourth visit to the pool bring.
At around 2 a.m. I woke with a start. A ghost ?, A demon?, A fish?......No..Music! I could clearly hear a song. It was horrible outside, but there, through the wind and rain, was this tune. I didn't know what it was but picked up my journal and wrote down the words., "I don't want to set the world on fire".
This is tune I heard, I make no claim for it being supernatural, but I have no idea where it came from. All very odd.
No fish overnight, morning brought a trip to Ross for provisions and the chance to feel human again.
On return, I decided to take the MkIV down to one of the platforms for a couple of hours.
Note the way the pool had now coloured up. The rain and wind continued but I was treated to a low fly past of a buzzard over the shallows as I took shelter beneath the trees.
St.John phoned to say he would be down the next day, I told him of our plight and living local he was aware how bad the weather had been, he actually had genuine fears over the integrity of the old dam wall. Bless him, he tried so hard to be sympathetic but couldn't quite supress his laughter.
Malc had seen a few carp from the dam wall but bites were not forthcoming, I headed back to the Evening Pitch.
I was soon joined by the legend that is Bamford who had come down to see how we were and remove a few bricks from the overflow to take some of the strain off of the dam, we shared ...er...tea.
The rain soon returned with some venom and I hurriedly sorted the rods for the night.
Organised soon became disorganised and at times chaotic, the rain and wind just came with a frenzy I'd never witnessed on the bank before.
With the band 'Stomp' performing on the roof of my bivvy I prescribed myself a small amount of Napolean to aid sleep and calm real fears of a tree falling upon me.
The rain continued into all of the fishless night. Spiders ran from all around the pool to seek sanctuary in my shelter, I half expected Noah to float by.
Fortunately a dry dawn broke, kettle on, re-think. Then more rain...more tea.
With the removal of the bricks the pool level had started to recede. I had seen a fish top on the other side of the lake. As the rain persisted, I made the decision to move again , back across the dam to In-Willow.
Having finally rebuilt the camp I took out Lucy, the Lucky Strike with my mind firmly fixed on Gudgeon.
I headed for the relative shelter of Cranstouns, armed with a pot of pinkies, my 'Redmire Pinkie-Pult and a size 22 hook.
Not long after the first cast, a bite, strike and I'm into one of the mire's finest. I was so excited, I couldn't have been happier had it been a carp.
I was soon having a ball, getting one of these cracking little fellows on every cast, catching around twenty in all.
I called Ash, Tony's son to tackle up a rod and join in the fun. Sitting in my swim, his face soon shone with the happiness only a gudgeon can bring. I moved aside to the right as the rain came again and was joined by Malc, who was allowed to use Lucy to catch his first fish from Redmire.
Later, at In-Willow, the weather had taken a turn for the better. I think it is my favourite swim on the pool. The view, when the sun shines, is just great.
St.John arrived and we met for the first time on the dam wall. It was a Livingstone-Stanley moment. "You must be Gurn" he said with outstretched hand.
He'd made some ferrule stoppers for me, for the Lucky Strike. Excellently made, I recommend them to all cane users. He can be contacted via the Redmire or Traditional Fisherman forum or you can buy them here.
He also brought the bottle of Glenmorangie I'd won at the TFF AGM raffle. This was soon followed by Sir Les Bamford who'd kindly supplied two thirds of a bottle of Coke and two mugs.
It has to be said that the scotch didn't last very long, but what a laugh we had.
I'd taken the opportunity of tying some new rigs earlier whilst confined to the bivvy, these went out overnight on spots I'd trickled bait into over the course of the day. Alas, another fishless dawn broke.
Looking out from the bivvy I could see dappled reflection and the trails of jet planes. This could only mean one thing, the sun had finally appeared.
At around 10am I reeled in the overnight rods and took the MkIV up to Bramble Island with a view to try to persuade one 'off the top'.
The colouration of the pool made the task of fish spotting incredibly difficult. Every now and then I'd see a dark shadow through the polaroids. Of course, the colour also stopped the fish seeing the riser pellets and floaters I pulted in at regular intervals. The fact is, that after four hours of continuous baiting without a cast I didn't get a single rise, I tackled up a float for carp and strolled down to the dam.
The view from the dam, when the sun shines is one of the finest in fishing. One can sit, relax, reflect and be at peace.
The float shot out of sight and my heart thumped. For a short time I had illusions of it being a carp. It was not to be, however. A few sharp shudders on the end of the line signified an eel It was the biggest eel I'd ever caught. No photo though, I'm not fond of them and it was soon returned safely to it's home with not too much drama. I have now caught all species in the pool.
That evening, our last at the pool, we enjoyed the fabled 'Redmire Risotto'...Yes I know it looks hideous, but it tastes bloody marvellous, and though not exactly haute cuisine, it hits the spot. This year we have ...er..refined the recipe.
You will need ......One Can of Chilli Con Carne
One Can of Minced beef and onions
One Can of Irish Stew
One can of Lentil soup
Drained boiled rice.
Basically throw the lot in a big pot and stir and heat. Only ever to be consumed on the banks of the pool. Don't knock it until you've tried it.
As the sun set on our final night I was still confident that we might get another carp. Unfortunately, it didn't happen, this was not to be a tale of triumph over adversity.
With two runs on the first night, I'm sure that if the rain hadn't arrived and continued for so long we have continued to catch.
The amount of cold water that went through the valley and the way the pool coloured had scuppered our plans. I have fished the pool four times now. Twice under coloured conditions I have failed to catch carp and twice under clear conditions I have caught carp.
We still enjoyed it. I loved catching those gudgeon, they'll stay with me forever, and we'll be back next year.
As I looked out on the final morning I saw leaves falling from the trees and settling on the surface of the pool. a squirrel buried food, sensing the rapidly arriving colder months, and the rain started again.
Thanks to Les, Nick, Rob, St.John, The Richardson Family and my angling companions.
Link back to Redmire forum here.
Link back to Traditonal Fisherman's Forum here.
What is it about angling for this little fish that captivates us so. They seem to be loved by everyone that throws a line.
