The Continuing Adventures of the Fluff Club, Episode 47
(... in which the
names of the participants are pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive to
others as possible, attempting to obtain the widest readership. I will be
grateful for any comment the reader cares to make; alternatively complete the
'rate this' element. Thanks.)
"As the angler looks back, he thinks less of individual captures than of the scenes in which he fished" - Grey of Fallodon.
Today's venue was a late substitution, because the scheduled one was suffering from extremely low water levels the Professor had suggested switching to John O'Gaunt's instead. The latter suffered a serious problem with water quality more than a year ago, but rumour had it that there had been a complete recovery: we would see about that in due course. The Fluff Club previously visited in episodes 20, 23, 32 and 35. It is also a matter of fact that the place was the scene of my conversion from coarse to fly, back in the nineties.
The summer's heatwave came and went, now as the sun heads south the nights have cooled, so the water temperatures should be more amenable to our finny friends. The bright sun was burning off the last sheets of mist as I pulled into the grassy parking area, where the Inspector was already tackling up. We were shortly joined by the Professor, so it appeared our number would be low again. There was the usual banter going on, when the Inspector and the chap trousering our moolah discovered they both shared the same professional background previously. This revelation despite the fact that there was no discernible masonic malarkey. Said chap confirmed the fishing was good, the main 'lake' carrying the usual colour whilst Simms was crystal clear. I decided to try the right-hand bank of the main water before heading to Simms. There were plenty of small Roach or Rudd dimpling the surface, but also the bigger swirls indicating feeding Trout; one enormous commotion and zig-zag surge must have been caused by either a big Trout, or Pike, on the hunt. I started out fishing a small, rubber-legged 'Damsel' pattern but it produced nothing, so next on went a 'Wossname', which soon elicited a tug that was too quick for me. A couple of casts later the line tightened, I strip-struck, and the rod arched over; alas, the fish was only on for a minute or so before the hook-hold gave way.
The Inspector hove into view, taking up station diagonally across, to my right in the farthest corner of the 'lake', in a gap in the vegetation. Now, three things happened in quick succession that caused me to reel in and head for Simms: first, a 'phone call from mission control informed me that my schedule had altered such that I was expected back at base by the very early afternoon*. Second and third were the Inspector hooking a cracker which later proved to be four-and-a-half pounds, before catching another, a pound lighter, within minutes. Along the bank to my left a (very welcome) female fisher shouted very loudly "Wot did 'e take?". The Inspector replied "Buzzer" helpfully, at which she yelled again "Nar, I mean wot colour?". The Inspector replied "Olive and yellow" but got no thanks. End of. (They do say 'Roedean will always out', don't they?)
[* I really cannot recall signing up for this grandpa stuff - perhaps I was taken advantage of when in my cups one day?]
Over at Simms I chanced my luck by walking the bank widdershins, soon spotting a pod of fish milling about as the bottom sloped greenly into obscurity towards the two islets, exactly the opposite bank from that isthmus and springs I usually head for. The day was starting to push hard towards the twenty-five centigrade it would attain, but a silver birch provided some shade and I was glad to take off my sling pack and settle for a tilt at those Trout. The 'Wossname' worked its magic and soon brought me a super-fit Rainbow of around two-and-a-half. Time to relax and turn the 'enjoy' dial all the way to eleven. Thinking back to the recent John Watts competition, I next knotted on a 'Shuggie' (my boat partner's Scottish name for a 'Humungous', a pattern I can't remember using here), which brought several chasers before being hammered by a larger fish which charged in from the right. It put up quite a fight, to the point that my wrist began to ache slightly, before I was able to net it, a fully finned and beautifully spotted Rainbow which went four-pounds nine-ounces.
Enjoying being able to watch the reactions of the pod, I decided to try a few different flies, for a change. A tan 'Zonker' raised just a flicker of interest, my 'CorixR' nothing at all. Same with a red-head 'Diawl Bach'; next I tried a new creation, a 'Blackberry Smoke' nymph (yes, a tribute), purple from the micro bead-chain eyes down to the black tail fibres. This one proved to be a complete bore, the assembled fish turned away, yawning. At this point an angler on that isthmus opposite got my attention by hooking a fish off to his right. That hat looked very familiar, and indeed, proved later to be Moneypenny's, making four Fluff Boys present after all.
Next onto my tippet went my 'Gasterosteus' pattern (Stickleback) which evolved at this very fishery. Yep, it still works, bringing another stocker to the net in short order. The Inspector strolled along, telling me he could have bagged up by now if he had remained in that corner swim, before moving away to about half way round Simms before stopping and assuming Grey Heron mode: he had obviously found a good 'un. Over on the opposite bank Moneypenny hooked his second, this time to his left. Once it was safely landed he started to pack up, presumably having only paid for a brace, but stopping to watch the Inspector patiently on the hunt for over an hour, before heading off towards the car parking area and hut..
Tempus fugit, to the extent that I couldn't faff around switching flies anymore, so back on th'end went the Shuggie, bringing my fourth and final 'bow. That's not strictly correct, I did accidentally foul-hook one earlier, but had been able to unhook it whilst still submerged in my landing net and released it with barely a touch. My last 'taker' had a CW variant embedded in its right pectoral fin, from which trailed nine feet or so of mono. I placed this CWv onto a stick, along with two other flies I had found on the bank, and put the ensemble on a stump for another angler to find. At that moment the Inspector hooked his quarry after at least one-and-a-half hours of patient attempts to get it to eat. I walked over to watch him land it, another beauty of four-eight! It had finally succumbed to a metallic purple buzzer with white breathers.
After stowing my gear in the car and filling-in the catch book, I sat in some shade while re-hydrating. The Professor (who, according to Moneypenny, had grassed two and lost two) moved over to Simms, to the nearest corner, while the Inspector crossed going the other way, back towards that earlier corner spot on the bigger 'lake'. While I watched from afar the Professor caught two in fairly rapid succession, but I couldn't see the Inspector fishing from my seating position. Hey ho, time to go. There had been a healthy number of anglers during the morning, from the common to the lesser- and the greater-spotted varieties. Although about three cars had already left there were a couple of late arrivals. Mentally, I wished them well: our FC outing had indicated this fishery has returned to its former self and I couldn't help musing if that also held true for the notoriously frequent, fickle fishing that often prevailed between lunch- and tea-times.
Deinde usque ad tempus.
"As the angler looks back, he thinks less of individual captures than of the scenes in which he fished" - Grey of Fallodon.
Today's venue was a late substitution, because the scheduled one was suffering from extremely low water levels the Professor had suggested switching to John O'Gaunt's instead. The latter suffered a serious problem with water quality more than a year ago, but rumour had it that there had been a complete recovery: we would see about that in due course. The Fluff Club previously visited in episodes 20, 23, 32 and 35. It is also a matter of fact that the place was the scene of my conversion from coarse to fly, back in the nineties.
The summer's heatwave came and went, now as the sun heads south the nights have cooled, so the water temperatures should be more amenable to our finny friends. The bright sun was burning off the last sheets of mist as I pulled into the grassy parking area, where the Inspector was already tackling up. We were shortly joined by the Professor, so it appeared our number would be low again. There was the usual banter going on, when the Inspector and the chap trousering our moolah discovered they both shared the same professional background previously. This revelation despite the fact that there was no discernible masonic malarkey. Said chap confirmed the fishing was good, the main 'lake' carrying the usual colour whilst Simms was crystal clear. I decided to try the right-hand bank of the main water before heading to Simms. There were plenty of small Roach or Rudd dimpling the surface, but also the bigger swirls indicating feeding Trout; one enormous commotion and zig-zag surge must have been caused by either a big Trout, or Pike, on the hunt. I started out fishing a small, rubber-legged 'Damsel' pattern but it produced nothing, so next on went a 'Wossname', which soon elicited a tug that was too quick for me. A couple of casts later the line tightened, I strip-struck, and the rod arched over; alas, the fish was only on for a minute or so before the hook-hold gave way.
The Inspector hove into view, taking up station diagonally across, to my right in the farthest corner of the 'lake', in a gap in the vegetation. Now, three things happened in quick succession that caused me to reel in and head for Simms: first, a 'phone call from mission control informed me that my schedule had altered such that I was expected back at base by the very early afternoon*. Second and third were the Inspector hooking a cracker which later proved to be four-and-a-half pounds, before catching another, a pound lighter, within minutes. Along the bank to my left a (very welcome) female fisher shouted very loudly "Wot did 'e take?". The Inspector replied "Buzzer" helpfully, at which she yelled again "Nar, I mean wot colour?". The Inspector replied "Olive and yellow" but got no thanks. End of. (They do say 'Roedean will always out', don't they?)
[* I really cannot recall signing up for this grandpa stuff - perhaps I was taken advantage of when in my cups one day?]
Over at Simms I chanced my luck by walking the bank widdershins, soon spotting a pod of fish milling about as the bottom sloped greenly into obscurity towards the two islets, exactly the opposite bank from that isthmus and springs I usually head for. The day was starting to push hard towards the twenty-five centigrade it would attain, but a silver birch provided some shade and I was glad to take off my sling pack and settle for a tilt at those Trout. The 'Wossname' worked its magic and soon brought me a super-fit Rainbow of around two-and-a-half. Time to relax and turn the 'enjoy' dial all the way to eleven. Thinking back to the recent John Watts competition, I next knotted on a 'Shuggie' (my boat partner's Scottish name for a 'Humungous', a pattern I can't remember using here), which brought several chasers before being hammered by a larger fish which charged in from the right. It put up quite a fight, to the point that my wrist began to ache slightly, before I was able to net it, a fully finned and beautifully spotted Rainbow which went four-pounds nine-ounces.
Enjoying being able to watch the reactions of the pod, I decided to try a few different flies, for a change. A tan 'Zonker' raised just a flicker of interest, my 'CorixR' nothing at all. Same with a red-head 'Diawl Bach'; next I tried a new creation, a 'Blackberry Smoke' nymph (yes, a tribute), purple from the micro bead-chain eyes down to the black tail fibres. This one proved to be a complete bore, the assembled fish turned away, yawning. At this point an angler on that isthmus opposite got my attention by hooking a fish off to his right. That hat looked very familiar, and indeed, proved later to be Moneypenny's, making four Fluff Boys present after all.
Next onto my tippet went my 'Gasterosteus' pattern (Stickleback) which evolved at this very fishery. Yep, it still works, bringing another stocker to the net in short order. The Inspector strolled along, telling me he could have bagged up by now if he had remained in that corner swim, before moving away to about half way round Simms before stopping and assuming Grey Heron mode: he had obviously found a good 'un. Over on the opposite bank Moneypenny hooked his second, this time to his left. Once it was safely landed he started to pack up, presumably having only paid for a brace, but stopping to watch the Inspector patiently on the hunt for over an hour, before heading off towards the car parking area and hut..
Tempus fugit, to the extent that I couldn't faff around switching flies anymore, so back on th'end went the Shuggie, bringing my fourth and final 'bow. That's not strictly correct, I did accidentally foul-hook one earlier, but had been able to unhook it whilst still submerged in my landing net and released it with barely a touch. My last 'taker' had a CW variant embedded in its right pectoral fin, from which trailed nine feet or so of mono. I placed this CWv onto a stick, along with two other flies I had found on the bank, and put the ensemble on a stump for another angler to find. At that moment the Inspector hooked his quarry after at least one-and-a-half hours of patient attempts to get it to eat. I walked over to watch him land it, another beauty of four-eight! It had finally succumbed to a metallic purple buzzer with white breathers.
After stowing my gear in the car and filling-in the catch book, I sat in some shade while re-hydrating. The Professor (who, according to Moneypenny, had grassed two and lost two) moved over to Simms, to the nearest corner, while the Inspector crossed going the other way, back towards that earlier corner spot on the bigger 'lake'. While I watched from afar the Professor caught two in fairly rapid succession, but I couldn't see the Inspector fishing from my seating position. Hey ho, time to go. There had been a healthy number of anglers during the morning, from the common to the lesser- and the greater-spotted varieties. Although about three cars had already left there were a couple of late arrivals. Mentally, I wished them well: our FC outing had indicated this fishery has returned to its former self and I couldn't help musing if that also held true for the notoriously frequent, fickle fishing that often prevailed between lunch- and tea-times.
Deinde usque ad tempus.
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