ESF reader Rod Mcnamara shares a days fishing during mayfly in the company of a good friend.
It was our third attempt in as many weeks at timing our fishing trip to coincide with the first Mayfly hatch on our stretch of the Teme near Ludlow. Previous ventures had seen sleet, hail, wind and rain and nothing but the odd suicidal up wing making a doomed foray into the terrestrial world.
In my previous article I wrote of the acquaintances and friends I have made through fly fishing and principle amongst them is Karl, or Karlos Fandango as he has come to be known. Karl is the person with whom, when not flying solo, I fish with most. Kindred spirits may be pushing it too far but Karl and I take no offence in being classified as a couple of old fishing hippies.
And so having kept a watch on the weather forecasts on a minute by minute, nay second by second basis, we had decided that this was the one, when all things being equal and in place, the planets aligning, the stars showing favourable portent and of course the Mays deciding the time was right, that this was the day when the legendary May hatch would arrive.
To make the most of our adventure we decided to set off very early with the rising of the sun on the 1 hour drive through Shropshire’s beautiful green rolling vistas to the start of our 2 mile beat under the shadow of Ludlow Castle. On the journey the road runs parallel to two of the more famous Marches rivers and we can never avoid stopping to survey the Onney and the Corve, which very rarely look anything other than eminently fishable. The indications were good. Swifts and House martins could be seen taking insect life millimetres above the water’s surface; a sight that brings warmth to all but the coldest of hearts surely. I suspect thereafter the speedometer needle went a little further around the dial after seeing such encouraging signs.
When we arrived Karl cranked up the Kelly Kettle, (an alliteration I never tire of hearing) and we stood with brews in hand surveying the lower section of the beat where the river turns to a gentle glide, before passing through the old Edwardian Bathing Pool and cascading in ribbons of crystal over Dinham weir, under Dinham Bridge and on to the widening shallowing stretch known as the Breadwalk. Here shoals of monstrous Chub bask in the heat of the sun making use of the submerged ruined groins of the old medieval bridge as shelter from the diminishing current.
Having tackled up and decided it was shirt sleeve day, which luckily it proved to be, we decided to listen to the advice imparted to us by Steve the keeper of the Parkside beat. Steve loves to talk fishing and is never reticent at passing on the knowledge he has gained over 30 years of fishing this stretch of the Teme. Chief amongst this advice to Karl and I, as we are probably the only two fly fishers who are members, is and I quote, “You lot set off up to the top end and ignore this slow bit down here........the big’uns are down this end......” So instead of taking the short cut across the meadow to the faster running “trouty” water we walked around the edge of the field where the bank side is left unplanted for a couple of metres by Phil the Farmer.
There was most definitely a hatch on and the Mays could be seen coming off in sporadic clumps in the in slower back eddies and occasionally a promising splosh was heard. Karl and I continued for some 300 yards or so before our usual crossing point, a slow corner with a submerged gravel berm, came into view. On our side of the river the bank falls down amongst some bull rushes to a shallow bay which is no more then 2 feet deep out into the main flow where we find the gravel bank which we follow in order to wade across. Just in front of this bay is a semi submerged tree, brought down during the last flood and which looks perfectly in place against the backdrop of verdant banks framing the river.
And then; another splosh, this time a foot or so upstream of the submerged tree in no more than 18 inches of water and only a foot or so out from the bank on our side. We took a pause and waited – splosh again – this fish was on the feed and it looked like it wanted Mays. I had tied on a Wulff variant with a yellow body and Karl had a dun. As it was the first proper outing for my new Hardy rod, Karl gave me the honours and I slipped into the water searching for the gravel bank with trembling feet. Karl handed me my rod and as stealthily as possible, trying to control my breathing, trying not make any sound on unseen submerged boulders and telling myself not rush, I made my way into the centre of the river giving me a 30 or so degree angle in which to try and land my fly above the still feeding trout. The cast was made more difficult by the drowned tree, which afforded me some protection from detection by the trout but dictated that a side cast was needed to get the line and fly under the bough of the tree which was no more than 6 feet above the river surface. My first couple of attempts were too short and landed too far out into the river’s main flow. On my third attempt I stopped the forward cast abruptly which curled my leader and tippet around nicely to around 5 feet upstream of the fish. Just as I was about to mend the line; whoosh (for that is the only way to describe it). The trout had taken my fly some 4 or 5 feet upstream from where it had been rising. Strike and I was in. A 2 pound spotted beauty was landed shortly afterwards and my new Hardy had been properly “christened”. Karl is a genuine fishing friend and was as pleased for me at catching that fish than if he had caught it himself. With immovable grins on our faces we spent the remainder of the morning spotting likely lies for the afternoon and evening rise which, after all is what we had really come for.
It is a long held belief amongst fly fishers that the long lunch is not a luxury but a necessity and so it proved that after the kettle took another bashing and chilled sandwiches were consumed, not to mention helping Phil the Farmer round up some bullocks from the adjoining field, that we set out once again on the slower stretch.
The hatch was definitely on this time. Mays were coming off in clouds and trout had switched onto them, the splashing and swirling giving away their feeding stations
We rounded a very slight bend to a point where the river is quite narrow, requiring no more than 30 feet cast to reach the opposite bank. There, under the shade of a mature lopsided oak a fish of obvious quality was leisurely taking the Mayfly that were drawn towards him by the gentle current forming a natural feeding lane. This particular trout showed no interest in my Wulff nor red or olive bodied versions. I searched my box and had one detached bodied May tied to Davie Mcphail’s specifications with a touch more colour in dark and olive greens added to the abdomen by way of permanent markers. I rested the water while shortening my leader and adding 4X diameter tippet and cast again. First cast on the money with the right pattern and he was on! (Duffers Fortnight indeed) After a brief struggle and with me realising this was a real quality fish, knocking on 4 pounds, while attempting to get my line on the reel in case he wanted to go down to the backing, I gave him just enough slack to shake the barbless hook and he was away. No less satisfaction was had at its loss than its capture would have provided. The fish’s presence being imparted down the rod and line to my hand and the sense of achievement at just getting the “craft” right were fine consolation for me and in any event it was Karl’s turn to try his luck.
Again we rested the water and Karl moved up to a casting position while I rested back amongst the meadow plants and marvelled at the Mayfly landing on the vegetation in front of me. As we watched the water a gentle rise began under the bough of a tree some 10 feet upstream. Perhaps not as big a fish as had just been “lost” but a good one none the less. We scanned the water to locate his resting point rather than his rise and then it happened; The moment Karl and I have called, “the promise of things to come”.
Directly across the river from us no more than 20 feet away a leviathan broke the surface in a head, shoulder and tail rise to gently take a struggling May from the surface. The silver shine of its flanks, which is common amongst Teme fish as opposed to the more golden fish caught further up the river system, glinted in the sun light making the red spots rimmed with black stand out all the more; there was no doubt it was brownie and it was the biggest wild brownie either Karl or I had ever seen in our lives. A conservative estimate between us arrived at the figure of 6 pounds with the addendum that, “...it could have been even bigger than that......”
We remained absorbed in the pursuit of that fish for the next hour or so but to no avail. Karl lost another from slightly upstream but the giant we had seen did not put in another appearance.
Realising he was far more cunning a hunter than either of us we left the fish to his banquet and turned to walk further upstream. I should mention here that while it may have been possible to tempt the fish with a submerged emerger or nymph pattern, Karl and I follow only one fly fishing credo – “Dry or Die”, and as such those tactics, today at least, were not to be employed, even if it was potentially the fish of a lifetime.
As the spell of that fish had held us so long and with such concentration, neither of us had turned to look anywhere other than the water. So when we both parted the meadow plants atop the bank we were taken aback by the sight that greeted us. We emerged through the curtain of green and golds we could see the whole of the 2 acre field spread out before us and there was a vision that I have only ever read about before. The entire field was blanketed by thousands of Mayflies rising and falling in a romantic waltz, creating a mesmerising, hazy, hypnotic vision of a typical English country meadow. Why oh why did I leave the camera in the car? Karl and I had no choice but to stop and take in this wonder of nature and it is an image captured in both our memories forever.
I doubt anything I ever see will compare to my memories of that day, although I am happy to be proved wrong in his regard. We went on to take 5 brownies to 3 pounds each without fishing hard, stopping frequently for a brew and to take in our surroundings, before calling it a day at last light.
When in the past I have read of others referring to “halcyon” days I never really appreciated what they meant. I do now and I shall never ever lose the ability to recall that day as along as I have my faculties.
It shall ever be remembered by both Karl and I as the halcyon day of May Majesty.