The Continuing Adventures of the Fluff Club, Episode 22
In which the Fluff
Boys' names are soubriquets and the place unnamed, in order to protect the
innocent.
"I've never met a fish I didn't like" (Bill Spicer, The New Fly Fisher).
The Fluff Club last visited this fishery in episode 6. Tempus fugit, the only change seemed to be the car parking area which had been tidied up a bit. Despite rumours about a bacon butty only five of us turned out, a pity as its one of the closer venues for some of the missing crew. Beautiful May morn, warm with sun and cloud alternating. Birdsong from the trees and hedges, plus the various waterfowl performing what they fondly believe to be their own particular song.
We paid and split, rods in hand. I took a #5 weight threaded with a first-use Snowbee Thistledown #2 to #5 floater (I know, who’d have thought), plus a glass #6I on the other rod, giving me a range of possibilities. I tied a #14 tan Cruncher on the cast of the floater, then a #14 black Cormorant with fluoro-green cheeks on the sinker. Starting with the floating line I cast from the area between the two big trees on the true right-hand bank; third cast the fly was hit two seconds after touch-down, soon providing a feisty two-pound Rainbow for the bass bag. I headed north towards the inlet end, looking for trout to target. Near the top I saw a Blue trout coming along the deep channel toward me, it disdained my first attempt, but turned 180 degrees and headed my way again, to take the little Cruncher as it sank. A battle royal ensued, the fish pulling solidly until I was able to subdue it and slip it into my landing net.
My feeble brain recollected that last year or maybe the year before the fishery had a rule that Blues had to be returned. I quickly unhooked it and slipped it back into the water inside the confines of my landing net, conscious of the 'thirty seconds maximum' approach, only for it to immediately go belly up, like Grayling often do. I knelt on the bank and got it the right way up, mouth and gills moving. Now I was stuck in a quandary, keen to have it weighed, or even a third-party estimate, as I thought it was over four pounds, but not wanting to breach the rules. There were no other anglers at this end so I ought to head to the lodge to check, but how to retain the fish? The trout had already worried me, and now was alternating between hanging belly up or trying to swim away. I moved slowly towards the inlet holding the fish in the water, the five feet long handle a real boon. I was thinking the flow at the inlet would be more oxygenated, so if I could hold the fish in the net there I could head back to the lodge and get things sorted. There was a length of rope dangling in the water from a section of mesh fence panel, but it was as rotten as a pear. Still no sign of anyone heading my way so I glanced around me, my only chance seemed to be to reach into the big patch of nettles and grab that cut branch. Still holding the net handle in my left hand I stretched out my right, was duly stung, but was able to break twigs off one handed until I had a forked branch which I inverted and drove into the bank; a definite touch of the Heath Robinson but it seemed to do, pinning down the handle of the net to the sward. Fingers crossed I headed to the lodge where the response was "No, you don't have to return them anymore. Didn't you know?".
I stomped back towards the inlet end, noticing on the way that the Admiral seemed to have stopped fishing. Snowy (a recent re-joiner) fishing from the island had a fish on but was stepping backwards towards where he had left his landing net, there was a momentary slackening of his line and the trout was off. The Professor was over the far side out of my sight behind the island, Moneypenny was fishing from one of the small platforms at the southern end. There were a few other anglers about but I couldn't see if they were catching.
Back at the top I was relieved to see the net hadn't slipped in, and the Blue was still incarcerated. As I applied the priest I felt a pang of remorse that the fish had been confined in my net for nearly twenty minutes since I caught it whilst I faffed about, but then was distracted by my nettle rashes, scratches, and something unknown that had brought up a stinging lump on my left index finger. I circuited the pond looking for the next fish. Most of the 'hot spots' were occupied, so I soon ended up back near where I commenced. The Admiral strolled over for a chat, having caught his ticket's brace by 09.30 and pleased there had been no long-distance releases. The Professor had taken a couple from the duffers' bank, he reported, while Snowy also had completed his brace but had lost three in the process; not a bad return to fly fishing. He didn’t know what the successful fly patterns had been.
I passed the Thistledown line set-up to the Admiral to try out, because I was personally very pleased with the way it cast, (and now intended to get the other weight). While we chatted, I had a couple of taps on the Cormorant, and third cast hooked a trout which shortly escaped. The Admiral concurred the new line did cast very nicely, then headed away again. I opened a new attack on a Blue over near the island, not realising that there was a Rainbow lurking in the weed behind the Blue until it smashed the Cormorant! After a great scrap with plenty of give and take I netted the 'bow, which turned out to be my best of the day at four pounds two ounces. Incidentally my Blue turned out not to be as heavy as I thought, being under the four-pound mark. A couple of casts later I had another take, this time a Rainbow which didn't make the two pounds. My ticket thus completed, when the lodge's bell tolled signifying our bacon sandwiches and a welcome brew were ready; there were even ginger biscuits, how sophisticated! After the break, at which I noticed I was the only dunker, the Professor and Moneypenny sallied forth while Admiral and I did a bit of casting practice, utilising flies with the bend cut off. Snowy sat in a plastic chair watching the Professor; they seem to be old acquaintances.
Shortly afterward I packed away my gear, booted engine and stereo, wanting to get home to fillet then brine my fish overnight: they were destined for my secret seasoning rub mix and the hot smoker. Sometimes one or other of the Fluff Boys say they struggle to dispose of some of their catch, I never seem to have that problem.
Hurrengorarte.
"I've never met a fish I didn't like" (Bill Spicer, The New Fly Fisher).
The Fluff Club last visited this fishery in episode 6. Tempus fugit, the only change seemed to be the car parking area which had been tidied up a bit. Despite rumours about a bacon butty only five of us turned out, a pity as its one of the closer venues for some of the missing crew. Beautiful May morn, warm with sun and cloud alternating. Birdsong from the trees and hedges, plus the various waterfowl performing what they fondly believe to be their own particular song.
We paid and split, rods in hand. I took a #5 weight threaded with a first-use Snowbee Thistledown #2 to #5 floater (I know, who’d have thought), plus a glass #6I on the other rod, giving me a range of possibilities. I tied a #14 tan Cruncher on the cast of the floater, then a #14 black Cormorant with fluoro-green cheeks on the sinker. Starting with the floating line I cast from the area between the two big trees on the true right-hand bank; third cast the fly was hit two seconds after touch-down, soon providing a feisty two-pound Rainbow for the bass bag. I headed north towards the inlet end, looking for trout to target. Near the top I saw a Blue trout coming along the deep channel toward me, it disdained my first attempt, but turned 180 degrees and headed my way again, to take the little Cruncher as it sank. A battle royal ensued, the fish pulling solidly until I was able to subdue it and slip it into my landing net.
My feeble brain recollected that last year or maybe the year before the fishery had a rule that Blues had to be returned. I quickly unhooked it and slipped it back into the water inside the confines of my landing net, conscious of the 'thirty seconds maximum' approach, only for it to immediately go belly up, like Grayling often do. I knelt on the bank and got it the right way up, mouth and gills moving. Now I was stuck in a quandary, keen to have it weighed, or even a third-party estimate, as I thought it was over four pounds, but not wanting to breach the rules. There were no other anglers at this end so I ought to head to the lodge to check, but how to retain the fish? The trout had already worried me, and now was alternating between hanging belly up or trying to swim away. I moved slowly towards the inlet holding the fish in the water, the five feet long handle a real boon. I was thinking the flow at the inlet would be more oxygenated, so if I could hold the fish in the net there I could head back to the lodge and get things sorted. There was a length of rope dangling in the water from a section of mesh fence panel, but it was as rotten as a pear. Still no sign of anyone heading my way so I glanced around me, my only chance seemed to be to reach into the big patch of nettles and grab that cut branch. Still holding the net handle in my left hand I stretched out my right, was duly stung, but was able to break twigs off one handed until I had a forked branch which I inverted and drove into the bank; a definite touch of the Heath Robinson but it seemed to do, pinning down the handle of the net to the sward. Fingers crossed I headed to the lodge where the response was "No, you don't have to return them anymore. Didn't you know?".
I stomped back towards the inlet end, noticing on the way that the Admiral seemed to have stopped fishing. Snowy (a recent re-joiner) fishing from the island had a fish on but was stepping backwards towards where he had left his landing net, there was a momentary slackening of his line and the trout was off. The Professor was over the far side out of my sight behind the island, Moneypenny was fishing from one of the small platforms at the southern end. There were a few other anglers about but I couldn't see if they were catching.
Back at the top I was relieved to see the net hadn't slipped in, and the Blue was still incarcerated. As I applied the priest I felt a pang of remorse that the fish had been confined in my net for nearly twenty minutes since I caught it whilst I faffed about, but then was distracted by my nettle rashes, scratches, and something unknown that had brought up a stinging lump on my left index finger. I circuited the pond looking for the next fish. Most of the 'hot spots' were occupied, so I soon ended up back near where I commenced. The Admiral strolled over for a chat, having caught his ticket's brace by 09.30 and pleased there had been no long-distance releases. The Professor had taken a couple from the duffers' bank, he reported, while Snowy also had completed his brace but had lost three in the process; not a bad return to fly fishing. He didn’t know what the successful fly patterns had been.
I passed the Thistledown line set-up to the Admiral to try out, because I was personally very pleased with the way it cast, (and now intended to get the other weight). While we chatted, I had a couple of taps on the Cormorant, and third cast hooked a trout which shortly escaped. The Admiral concurred the new line did cast very nicely, then headed away again. I opened a new attack on a Blue over near the island, not realising that there was a Rainbow lurking in the weed behind the Blue until it smashed the Cormorant! After a great scrap with plenty of give and take I netted the 'bow, which turned out to be my best of the day at four pounds two ounces. Incidentally my Blue turned out not to be as heavy as I thought, being under the four-pound mark. A couple of casts later I had another take, this time a Rainbow which didn't make the two pounds. My ticket thus completed, when the lodge's bell tolled signifying our bacon sandwiches and a welcome brew were ready; there were even ginger biscuits, how sophisticated! After the break, at which I noticed I was the only dunker, the Professor and Moneypenny sallied forth while Admiral and I did a bit of casting practice, utilising flies with the bend cut off. Snowy sat in a plastic chair watching the Professor; they seem to be old acquaintances.
Shortly afterward I packed away my gear, booted engine and stereo, wanting to get home to fillet then brine my fish overnight: they were destined for my secret seasoning rub mix and the hot smoker. Sometimes one or other of the Fluff Boys say they struggle to dispose of some of their catch, I never seem to have that problem.
Hurrengorarte.
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