I have a passion for fly fishing for trout. Mostly this involves time spent with the beautiful rivers and streams of Monmouthshire, but occasionally I venture further afield.
I write here about my fishing experiences and what I learn. Sometimes I throw in some personal anecdotes and when feeling bold perhaps even offer a little advice.
My journal is for my record and my enjoyment – and hopefully you will find something you like. I’m not an expert but I am an experienced angler and yet each time I go fly fishing I learn something new.
I’m still new to journal writing, hopefully you’ll find something interesting and stop by from time to time. Please do share any thoughts.
I grew up just fourteen miles from here and my father’s childhood home is just eight miles away. Yet as I make my way down the steep slope to the river, I’m struck by how unfamiliar this area is. Roads now connect these eastern valleys that did not exist forty years ago and back then, people just didn’t travel as much.
The Sirhowy river emerges north of Tredegar on the edge of the Beacons park and flows south before turning left to join the Ebbw. Like all of her sisters she was the life blood of the iron and coal industries and paid the price. She ran black and dead for generations. Now, these eastern valley rivers are alive and healthy and hold some extraordinary trout.
Today the river is high and pushing fast after a night of rain. It is coloured too and not ideal for the first outing of a new season. None the less it feels good to be on a river and looking for brown trout.
I pick my way downstream, which is not easy with steep woods on either side and no path. It’s surprisingly quiet for an urban river and I’m disturbed by just one dog walker all afternoon. I’ve also more space than I anticipated and I’m already regretting bringing my 7ft 3wt. The wind is strong and I wish I had one of the longer rods still in the boot of the car. I can’t be bothered to go back, so I make do.
I set up a french leader and begin to prospect what any angler would recognise as a really ‘fishy’ run. The head of a pool narrowing to a deeper channel with two quieter areas either side for fish to hold. Even with the shorter rod I can get a good drift.
I’m surprised with no take and the same again in the pool above.
As it’s very early season and just after a spate, I wonder if the trout are not in the usual feeding channels, so a little upstream I try a deeper quieter pool. Under an overhanging tree and about fifteen feet ahead of me, I catch my first trout of the season and my first Sirhowy fish. A typical lean 10 inch march brownie, beautifully coloured. After a long time fishing, the thrill of the first wild trout of a new season does not diminish.
Over the next couple of hours I catch a dozen similar fish, all from quieter holding pockets and all to a fairly simple pheasant tail pattern.
The one exception is a more aggressive take and I immediately know it’s a good fish. Hugging the bottom of a deeper pool, it’s a minute before I get him to the surface and ease the fish towards the margins. I’m already celebrating when a flick of the tail near the rim of the net sees him disappear. My profanity is so loud and coarse, I even surprise myself!
Every angler who talks about ‘the one that got away’ will immediately be open to claims of exaggeration and that’s probably justifiable. So I’ll just say 16 inches (at least) and leave it at that.
With the wind getting stronger, I switch to a fly line and fish a single nymph upstream for the final ten minutes, but my opening day is done. Light drizzle is getting heavier as I begin the forty minute drive home. I’ve had access to this little river for a few seasons and I wish I’d visited earlier. I will definitely be back as I think this could be a lovely place to spend a few hours with a dry fly in the summer.
With a new season just a few weeks away, I’m calling this my last trip of the winter. As March can be brutal, this might be optimistic but I’m dragging back a memory of just a few years ago when we had a mini March heat wave and temperatures were above twenty for a week. Who knows.
Today is a cold dry afternoon, but it is great to be stood in a fast flowing river again.
I’m taking my time. The flow is faster than ideal and today is not a day to get wet. I suspect the grayling will be lying deep though and I’ll need to get close to some of the deeper pools.
After searching the first few likely spots and finding nothing, the kelly is bubbling away a little earlier than usual. Even when there are no obvious signs of fish, sitting on the bank thawing out in the afternoon sun with a warm drink, is satisfying. There are a few fry in the margins and I wonder how successful this winter spawning has been.
Back in the water I persevere with a ginger tom and a pink shrimp trying to cover every inch of each pool. Same result, nothing.
I’m beginning to think that this will be one of those days remembered for a pleasant few hours on the river rather than anything caught. Once upon a time I would have been grumpy but these days I’m more mellow. There are some who will not agree.
I now have a more classic pheasant tail on the point but it’s the small shrimp that finally attracts a fish. The juvenile grayling puts up little resistance, falls off at the net and in just a few seconds is back in the pool. One quality about grayling is that they don’t go back and blab to their mates about the indignity of getting caught and this one seems content for me to pull out six more of his chums from the same few square feet of river.
With cold hands I fumble to take a picture, nearly drop my phone and decide that this sudden change of fortune is enough to call the day a success.
Weather permitting, in about three weeks I will start a fresh season with all the enthusiasm and hope it always brings. Next time out, it’s all about trout.
It’s a dark cold morning in Hampshire. The Test valley is waking up to the prospect of a lot of rain and wind. For many, this grim November day will no doubt be made worse when an annoyingly brazen politician turns up with a pestering “Can I count on your vote?”
A day for a lay in perhaps. Or, why not stand waist deep in a famous river looking for grayling.It’s an easy choice, with the added benefit of no self serving wannabes knocking on the door.
I lived in Hampshire for years and know this area well, but I’m unfamiliar with the river here and grateful to Steve who knows every inch of this stretch. Andy has fished here many times too and the three of us are looking forward to a good, if somewhat damp, day.
Even in this weather the landscape has a unique beauty and this stretch probably hasn’t changed much for centuries. You can still see the hatches connecting the carrier and main river. Although close to the town, it’s pretty quiet and the only sound is the frequent arrival of ducks and swans and the occasional distant blast from a local shoot.
The water is up from the considerable recent rain and a little murky. Spotting fish is difficult, but we see a few in the gravel channels. The plan is to start on the carrier and work our way up to the main river. As much as I’d like to be casting a dry, nymphs look the way to go and some weight will be needed to get down in the faster runs.
It doesn’t take long for us each to catch a few juveniles before Steve lands a better fish. The grayling here look strong and healthy and there’s a good head of youngsters.
My best fish of the day also comes from the carrier before the rain really kicks in. The take is strong and my first thought is a trout, but as I backtrack to keep him upstream I get a glimpse of that big dorsal. I do like catching grayling. Andy obliges with a quick photo and we crack on.
It’s just before 11.00 when the rain starts and it’s in for the day.
The main river proves a challenge and I learn that some very good anglers at recent nearby events have also struggled for grayling. Perhaps we need a more protracted drier cold snap. Although we continue to catch some smaller fish, anything of size eludes us.
Lunch in the heavy rain is also a challenge, but we find some shelter and warm up a bit. Andy and Steve are known as the ‘pot noodle twins’ and so I join them in the habit. Re-energised we hit the main river again and the going gets even tougher. None of us catch for the next hour or so, not even a bumped fish.
Steve is called away a little early and so Andy and I spend a final half hour on the carrier again before packing up. I switch to a smaller lighter nymph and fine tippet and manage a few more. It’s not a prolific day but enjoyable none the less and we are each into double figures by the close.
My thanks to Steve for introducing me to his home water. It’s many years since I fished the Test and I’m grateful for the opportunity to experience this special river again.
I may be in the minority, but I think I’d rather be on a chalk stream on a wet November day for grayling than fighting the well-heeled in May, trying to catch a stocked trout.
So another trout season has come and gone with the usual ups and downs. I was hoping to get out one last time, but the ‘Monmouthshire Monsoon’ has left my rivers in spate and running a milk chocolate shade of shit.
When I drive over the bridge at Usk, I usually have to glance quickly in each direction and strain my neck to see the water. Today whilst looking straight ahead I can see the river on both sides. It’s high.
Time once again to reflect on a spent season, celebrate the highs and to see if I have the wisdom to learn from the lows.
Before the trout season kicks off, I’m able to chase some grayling with trips to the Avon, Irfon and upper Wye. The fishing isn’t bad but predictably the winter weather can be challenging.
As March approaches so do the storms and this season will be topped and tailed with a lot of rain, flooding and no fishing. Once again it’s April before I wet a line and once again it’s the Usk that gives up the first trout of the season. In a heavy river and stiff breeze I manage just four smallish brown trout. I’m pleased though and my season has started.
I have access to a beautiful stretch of the Monnow this season and mid-April sees me exploring new water. Knowing a river well is a pleasure but there is always something special about fishing somewhere new and I catch my first trout of the season on a dry fly.
April also sees me catch a fantastic grayling at just over 18″. I’ve only caught one larger grayling (from the Wye a few years ago) so it’s a shame it’s OOS. The fish takes a heavy pheasant tail fished on the point and gives me quite a run around.
As the weather improves in May, my job starts to wind down and so with a break from earning a living, I find more time than usual to fish. May is a good month. The hatches gradually improve and increase and the trout are obliging. Several good fish at 16″ and 17″ are eventually bettered by my best wild river brown, a 19″ beauty that takes a mayfly, drifted under the far bank overhang.
Early June sees me in the middle of one of the best mayfly hatches I’ve seen for years, reminiscent of some I remember from when I first started fly fishing. The spinner fall is extraordinary with trout rising in every direction. Only poor light forces me off the wicket.
With long summer evenings and time to fish I fill June with trips to the Monnow, Usk, Honddu, Wye and Lwyd. The fishing is excellent and I enjoy a lot of dry fly action. I manage to fall in one evening, thankfully with no great consequence and thankfully with no witness. Embarrassing as it is, there’s no better time to fall in than on a pleasant June evening, just before home time.
This Summer, on a few occasions, my daughter comes with me to take photographs for a school project. It’s welcome company and adds a new dimension to chasing trout up streams and rivers. She is getting better at taking the piss out of her dad and is good at not taking things too seriously. She’s a good influence.
The weather shifts in August and I find myself with less time on the river.
Last season, I spent most of September either working or busy with family stuff. This year it’s the weather that keeps me off the water. I manage a couple of evenings and one afternoon trip before the rain comes and ruins the last few weeks. At least the last few trout are caught on a dry.
So that’s it. October already and a few grayling days in the diary.
This has been one of my better seasons for some time. More fish caught than in the last few seasons, more trout on the surface and some of the best mayfly activity for years. A new PB for a wild river brown was a highlight, but I won’t forget the little Honddu brownie that took a dry emerger only fifteen feet away, after possibly my most accurate cast of the season. It’s not just the bigger fish that bring reward.
It’s also been great learning new water, although I’ve sacrificed time on the Usk as a result. I’ll just have to make up for it next March. Until then, bring on the grayling….
It’s a bit of a lazy start to the day. I watch Ireland start their rugby world cup campaign by dispatching a very poor Scotland and then an unconvincing England flatter to deceive against Tonga, but a bonus point win is a good start. I’m nervous as Wales will start tomorrow.
In spite of the showers and growing breeze, mid afternoon I head to the river for a few hours. The season is almost done and it’s weeks ago that I cast a line.
I sit on the bank and wonder if my time could be better employed. The drizzle is getting stronger but no matter how much it rains it isn’t going to change the water level over the next few hours! It’s very low and clear.
In these conditions I would usually think that trying to winkle a few trout out of the faster runs with a nymph might be the only option but I’m just not in the mood. On the last day of last season I fished a dry all day and caught a hat full of trout on a small stream not far from here. I resolve to try the same again.
Wandering to the bottom of the beat I experience three seasons in a fifteen minute walk as rain and bright sunshine combine to briefly show me a rainbow. It fades all too quickly and the breeze increases. A lone sheep in a vast empty field, clearly unwell, makes no attempt to avoid me and I hope the shepherd realises it’s missing. There is something unsettling about a sheep on its own, they just don’t have that antisocial gene. Ominously, a buzzard is sat watching from a convenient perch.
As I step into the water I notice a few shapes I hadn’t seen dart away. This will be a challenge. I select a small elk hair CdC to prospect the far bank and quicker riffle at the top of the pool. I have my Sage 4 weight and a long 15ft leader.
Part of me is convinced I’m just practicing casting when a little trout makes a grab for my fly but misses. I resist the temptation to snatch it away and wait a minute before attempting the same drift. This time he’s accurate and so am I.
To my surprise another four similar trout and one grayling are tempted over the next couple of hours, all from similar runs.
I rise nothing from the slower, deeper pools although I clearly see one larger fish circle and nose the fly twice before rejection. Another better fish, perhaps 15″ or 16″ swims slowly upstream just a metre from my feet as I’m tying on some fresh tippet. Whatever’s on his mind it’s not eating.
I’m also treated to a display of low level speed flying by a couple of kingfishers. They remind me of silent versions of the military jets that fly over our valley and like to rattle the tiles on my roof.
I’m hoping to get out one more time before the season ends, maybe after some rain has flushed the river and levels are up a bit. Another dry fly day perhaps.
Now, can Wales keep my blood pressure down and avoid a first match upset? I have learned that when following the oval ball, hope and despair usually take it in turns.
Of all the trout season months, I struggle most with August. If it’s not too little water it’s too much and on day’s when I expect to enjoy some wet wading, I’m as likely to need the thermals. I’ll have to rethink my assumption that August is a summer month.
Today the river is falling after some heavy rain and coloured. It’s not particularly inviting. Intermittent showers has me putting on my light weight jacket and then packing it away half a dozen times. Tiresome.
A strong wind is gusting and swirling making it hard to keep a good drift with the nymphs and I can’t see me using the dry fly rod that is tucked into my waders.
For nearly two hours I fight the elements working upstream through the faster seams and pocket water. Nothing, not even a knock. My motivation is waning and as it’s the middle of the afternoon I decide to eat some lunch, although I’m not really hungry. I notice the kingfisher that I’ve seen twice already, settle on a perch directly opposite me. He’s joined by his mate and over the next twenty minutes they come and go several times before I’m treated to him diving three times into the pool. I’m not close enough to see if he’s successful.
It would be easy to call it a day but I persevere with the pheasant tail in the next pool and I catch a small brown trout quickly followed by a grayling.
As the grayling is sliding back, to my surprise I spot a rise about 25ft upstream under a tree. I’m going to have to cast backhanded or with my left arm to have any chance. I edge a little closer and decide backhand is more feasible. The size 16 Adams in the keeper ring will do.
My first effort isn’t bad but a little short. The second cast is just right and a good fish is on. I’m taken by surprise as he runs straight at me and I can’t take up the slack fast enough. Neither can I hide my disappointment and my curse startles a pheasant on the far bank.
It’s the only rise I see all afternoon but as the wind drops the fishing improves and I net more trout and grayling, including two 14″ browns, on some pheasant tail variants. It’s just before six o’clock when I leave and I notice another angler has arrived to try his luck. I hope he’s not expecting a balmy summer evening.
September is around the corner and when I get home I find my daughter actually doing some school work. She must also be sensing that summer is drawing to a close. I wonder if there’s time to squeeze in one late mini heatwave?
Our daughter is studying Art at GCSE and one of the modules requires building a landscape portfolio, initially with photographs. She decides that rivers might be a good subject. I concur and casually suggest she joins me on the river to get some practice.
I’m half expecting the teenage grimace followed by a perfectly plausible excuse, but she says yes. I’m surprised and pleased as we don’t get a lot of dad and daughter time.
It’s warm and a little overcast when we arrive and as its past lunchtime, the first thing we do is devour all our measly provisions.
She has borrowed a camera and is super enthusiastic. I’m not sure how much of this is the photography project and how much the idea of wet wading on a nice July afternoon. I ask her to stay reasonably close and stay down stream, but she seems as enthusiastic to take some shots of me as the landscape. Maybe I’m just in the way.
As we move slowly upstream, I fish a few of the faster pools and we chat non stop. She takes over 300 pictures from close ups of trees and insects, to fish, me and the river. She is deleting and editing as she goes and I’m pleased she’s having such a good time.
At her age, I would have a roll of 24 and be waiting a week for the packet to arrive from the chemist to see if there were any pictures without my thumb in them.
After a fun few hours we head home and she drops a few not so subtle hints that her own digital SLR might make all the difference. Smart girl.
Oh yes, I almost forget. I catch a few trout and grayling too.