Atrocious weather failed to put dampers on fishing year

Despite the fact that 2012 threw some atrocious weather at us, I’ve had a wonderful fishing season. For the first time in 13 years I have fished for my own pleasure.

I live 10 minutes drive from the River Rye and one phone call to river keeper, Jim Gurling, provides full details of the water conditions, based on his encyclopaedic knowledge of the valley. So, I have been able to pick my days. I prefer to fish when the river is a bit too coloured rather than a bit too clear.

As I’ve said before; the ideal tint in my opinion would be indistinguishable from Timothy Taylor’s bitter; anything in the range of John Smith’s to Joshua Tetley’s still works well for me. Newcastle Brown is a step too far. I have pushed my luck on several occasions when the river has only just been fishable.

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However, by combining small beaded nymphs with Steve’s exquisite spider patterns, I never drew a single blank. This is a testament to the health of the river and Jim’s sterling work, not to me. On some days it’s not been easy; that’s fine. My philosophy is that fishing should be challenging and satisfying, not predictable.

A couple of days stand out in my memories of 2012; I still derive huge enjoyment from seeing others catch fish. In late October, Richard joined me as a guest on the river. He has no opportunity to fish for grayling on his home territory; he was keen to meet the “ladies of the stream” who reside in satisfying numbers in the Rye.

It was October 23 and the river was somewhere between John and Joshua. I was fairly sure that I knew where to find a few grayling; mid morning found us just below the falls.

The complex currents that flow diagonally from the falls pool always hold a few of our target species; except today! We were mesmerised by the sight of brown trout bravely trying to jump the falls on the way to the spawning grounds, but not a grayling to be found.

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Unconcerned, we made our way upstream; Richard had introduced himself to nine grayling before we reached the bridge and was like a dog with two tails.

On the last day of October, John was my guest. It was cold and windy; the river was in the “just fishable” category, approaching Newcastle Brown. John is the son of my late mentor and dear friend, Hugh; his influence remains though.

Hugh was firmly of the opinion that classic cane rods could not be bettered by modern carbon; he taught me to appreciate natural materials and revelled in my first crude, rushed attempts to make bamboo rods work.

“Ask it nicely” he would say, grinning mischievously from astride his shooting stick. John brought along his own 7ft Hardy CC de France cane rod, Hugh declared it to be Hardy’s finest design. John’s sole aim was to catch his first grayling with his rod, watching it like a hawk lest I made off with it.

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By early afternoon, we were fishless and I was becoming uneasy and chilly. As we sat on the bank, my eyes were glued to a seam of current by the far bank, no more than two yards long.

A tiny trickle of large dark olives started to hatch; the first grayling that I’d seen all day sipped them from the surface. I chose a John Titmouse, from my fly box, a traditional grayling fly. The ladies cooperated and John caught four of them from those two yards of river. We retired, frozen, checking the colour of Joshua on the way home.