Vital piece of kit for those icy moments

I’ve lost count of the number of times that I’m asked for advice on buying essential fishing tackle. I have even prepared an advice sheet that I can attach to an email or stick in the post; I update it every season. Every person who attends one of my courses at Lockwood Fishery is given a copy of the document, whether they like it or not. Over that last dozen years I must have dispensed scores of these bits of paper.

If by some unlikely accident you still have a copy of these words of wisdom, do me a favour and chuck it away. It’s not that the information is inaccurate; on the contrary I would stand by every word of it. It’s just that I have recently realised that there is a glaring omission; I never mentioned Long Johns.

I’ve just returned from Grantown having spent a week in pursuit of the huge brown trout that inhabit the mighty river Spey. When we arrived, the water gauge by the old bridge was showing a height over three feet; previous experience suggested that about one foot on the gauge was about right. The river was well up the bank and roaring through very quickly, obscuring all the pools, runs, glides and riffles that endow a river with character. I rely on studying the character of a stream to help me to locate fish.

Everyone except me had come to fish for salmon which, you will recall, I consider to be about as interesting and exciting as watching paint dry. Surrounded by the paraphernalia of salmon anglers, I assembled my trout rod and then began a close scrutiny of the river. Here and there were small slacks and slow eddies wherein a trout might find respite from the full force of the flow.

Over the next couple of days, I diligently searched these places with a variety of flies including some very nasty, brightly coloured monstrosities that would have me banned from many a Yorkshire angling club. My efforts were rewarded by a handful of modestly sized brownies, every one sparkling bright and a beauty to behold. I was delighted to see them, but this was not the purpose of a three hundred mile journey. I sought the leviathans, but it was not to be. Meanwhile, my friends landed five salmon between them.

On Thursday, Tim had invited me to fish a little way upstream. As I pulled on my waders, I could see some hefty trout rolling and slurping in the pool upstream of the hut. I knew that they were completely safe. The water was far too deep for me to approach to within casting distance; the levels had receded only inches over three days. Slowly, it dawned on me that there was only one logical course of action; with a heavy heart, I assembled the salmon rod. I’m not quite sure why the best salmon lies are on the other side of the river, they just are. Andrew the gillie pointed them out to me then watched as I waded ever deeper, complete with life jacket and wading staff. Chest deep in the Spey, I began to utilise the special casts born on this very river, which enabled me to reach far bank. Despite all the flailing about with an Ally’s Shrimp, I quickly realised that I was beginning to feel very cold, around the midriff and southern lowlands. As I slowly waded back to the bank, I was now facing the Cairngorm mountain range. The corries were full of snow and my Long Johns were safely tucked away in a drawer in the hotel. By the way, I caught nowt; back to the paint brushes!