RH Fly Fishing

As mentioned in Prequel D, now that fishing is out of Covid-19 lockdown (let’s hope permanently), there’s little point in slavishly posting more TCAOTFC Ps because we can fish again, obviating the need for a fishing read. Here, then, is a synopsis of the eight outstanding Ps, albeit lacking a lot of detail, due to minimalist log entries!   E . A trip to Chalk Springs, attended by the Admiral, Professor, Turner, Sailor, Dell-boy, Rodney, Lumberjack, Jackdaw, Moneypenny, and Whytee. Mid-spring, last night’s temperature was down to 3 C., but expected to rise to 10, with strong winds and showers blowing from the north-west. Most of the gang pulled into Fontwell’s Little Chef for breakfast, before the short hop to the fishery. Always a good way to start a day’s fishing. We rigged-up and dispersed about the four ‘lakes’. Moneypenny caught from the off, taking five Rainbows from the same swim o South, all before the fishing became challenging. Squalls, even hailstones and the chopp

  Since the Covid-19 lockdown has been eased here in England I feel that these Prequels have kind of run their course, I was just writing them up to help fill the fishing void, so unless I get a comment to the contrary I might stop posting them, there were actually nine left including this one, but as the reader knows from the previous three, the details in my fishing log left a lot to be desired back then. On the other hand, who knows, they might be fodder for some Off The Log posts in the future? I’ll have to revisit them to see if there’s something worthwhile. Pro tem, here’s the next one of the sequence, as brief as possible:   Six of the Fluff Boys and Girls strolled into the café of Woodington Fly Fishery, which adjoins Whinwhistle Coarse Fishery. It had been very wet of late, but today we were expecting only strong winds. We could see the high-water mark left on the bunds where the Blackwater had flooded, so the ‘lakes’ were just inches from being inundated. Now, tha

  The third Fluff Club outing (pre ‘Episodes’) took us to Moorhen TF. Heavy rain forecast, it started before we could finish our bacon butties beside the wood burner. It didn’t relent for one moment. Dell-boy junior had neglected to bring waterproofs, but fished anyway, believing it would stop. He was soaked through within minutes, whereupon the cold got to his bones and he returned to find warmth indoors. Even Wendy’s ducks and geese thought the weather way too wet, remaining in their respective accommodations. Di5 and the zonker. reposing on my furries box   I set up a Di5 sinker, knotting a black, rabbit zonker onto the business end. Close to the tree with the bird feeders, I made my first cast and I was in! After a brief struggle, I took my fish to the lodge for Wendy to bag, weigh, and refrigerate, pointing out a wound on the trout’s belly. Wendy suggested it might have been injured in an otter encounter, but I thought it looked more like a slash from a cormorant

  The second time I went fishing with the Fluff Club was at a fishery I won’t name, for reasons that will become clear, although there are one or two clues in this piece. Some half a year since K retired, there had been some rumours that the standards at the fishery had dropped way below the horizon. Despite them, the Fluff Club went ahead with the visit, because the Professor had confirmed the booking before we began to hear the mutterings.   Once again, my log fails to inform exactly which Fluff Boys (or Girls) showed up, but I recollect the Professor was one, Whytee too, and possibly four others, although some others had been put off. There had been a lot of rain in the preceding weeks, and a few gales, but the water was crystal clear, a surprise to me because rain often creates some milkiness at this venue. The gossip appeared to be true: we could see a few trout that were clearly infected with that white fungus, and in some swims we could see dead fish lying on the bottom, som

  Sometimes, fly tying is hard. Something holds you back, the internal motivation is gone, and usually it’s run off with your creativity. Shit happens (as they say). It’s not just me, I have heard other tiers say they have “lost their mojo”, meaning they are experiencing a complete lack of enthusiasm for tying. I wonder if this happens to people who make a living tying flies? I tend to think that if tying was your job, you would probably just do it regardless of feelings; experience, pattern familiarity, and the ease of repetition allowing you to churn-out stuff with no real mental effort, rather like being on auto pilot. For us hobbyists though, tying tends to be a ‘take it or leave it’ thing, and we may choose to do the latter.   About a year ago a rod builder and restorer asked me if I would tie two sets of flies for a project he was working on, representing the four stages of the mayfly lifecycle that anglers try to represent with the fly: nymph, emerger, dun, and spinne

The first time I went fishing as a bona fide Fluff Club member was a very windy day, to say the least. Barometers were heading for the floor, and within the next twenty-four hours the super-storm St. Jude would hit. Venue for this outing was Holbury Lane Lakes. The sharp eyed amongst you will spot that in earlier episodes of TCAOTFC I usually avoided naming venues. Hey-ho, here we go.   The source, my fishing log of nearly seven years ago, neglects to record which Fluff Boys attended, but from memory ‘twas the Professor, the Admiral, Lumberjack, Jackdaw, Whytee of course, and possibly Dell-boy, maybe the Sailor as well. The wind blasts were swirling 360 degrees, leaves flying everywhere, occasional twigs and branches coming down, compiling hazards to our casting. As is my wont, I walked the length of the fishery to Willow to make a start. The strong, unpredictable gusts made casting beneath the big willow trees very hit and miss so I moved further around to that deep hole nearer

  I was flummoxed. I had stalked this big, I mean BIG, brown trout all morning, since the new day first lit up its lie. Nothing I tried had worked. The others were having a leisurely breakfast, this being our very last morning, we would be en route to the airport this afternoon. Last night, the drinks had been flowing like the bonhomie; it had been a fabulous week’s fishing, the lodge staff and guides had been great, and we were all firm friends now. There had been no muzziness or headache when I crept from my bed just before dawn, because my mind was too busy planning a campaign to catch the big bruiser I had spotted when we were wearily trudging back to the lodge in the evening’s last light. I didn’t speak of it during our revelry for two reasons: it might not actually be there this morning, and if it was, then I wanted to take my parting shot alone.   Amazingly, the fish was still there. As the light strengthened, I could see it was feeding unhurriedly, white flashes of op