Join Chris Brass for a year on his river
“You’ll never get on there, lad. Dead man’s shoes that is”
I had been gazing at a stretch of river above my own club’s. I was a relatively recent convert to fly fishing and had been extremely happy the past few seasons just to be catching trout. But the part of the river I was looking at was different. It was more beautiful, more dramatic. It had real pools that were clearly defined. It looked like fly fishing heaven to me. Everything about it made me desperate to fish it. The river was wider, the pools had proper heads, glides, riffles. But it wasn’t just the river. The scenery was much more engrossing than on ‘my’ stretch. The banks sloped gently on one side and steeply on the other. There were gently undulating fields around certain parts that couldn’t be more Yorkshire if they tried. This was a place to go and not just fish. It was a place to contemplate, to experience.
The old lad leaned more heavily on his tup horn walking stick, which was tucked neatly under his arm. He folded his arms and looked up from beneath his ancient flat cap. This was a man, I felt, that knew this river. He probably knew every bend, certainly every farmer whose land it ran through within a 10-mile radius.
“Yep, it looks lovely doesn’t it? But you’ll not get in there”
He went on to ask me how I’d faired (okay, I’d had four fish so far). He explained he’d never fished himself, but he was visibly unimpressed with my ‘Klink and dink’ setup - “A partridge and orange is all you’ll ever need on here, lad.”
We chatted, me leaning on a fence post him still leaning on his weathered walking stick, watching the odd trout rise. As is almost customary in these parts, we discussed the weather, cows, sheep and ale - he didn’t like “that fizzy lager rubbish” either.
He carried on his bankside stroll and I turned round and headed home, still day dreaming about that stretch of river.
The first sight of that stretch stuck with me for some time and I often looked upstream towards it when I was leaving my own part of the river. It left me feeling intrigued, curious. The feeling was also familiar. I realised the feeling you have when desperate to get on a new stretch of river is similar in many ways to pursuing a new girlfriend. It made me make other comparisons - is your relationship with your home water similar to your relationship with your partner? Is your home river ‘the other woman’?
A year or so later I found myself investigating more fishing nearby. The obsession was growing and I needed more rivers to explore. I remembered the club whose water I kept looking at sold day tickets – surely the odd day here or there would be enough to stop the jealousy? As I started searching, I noticed a very new, very modern website. This new site had lots of pictures of that coveted stretch. It talked about the named pools. The club had miles, not yards like my own. It made me want it even more. Of course I wanted to know all about it and read everything, so I clicked on the ‘membership’ tab. As I read, I swear my heart skipped a little with disbelief. There were a few spaces open to new members. I paused for a second, and then panic set in - surely everyone who has ever owned a fly rod in Yorkshire must have read this and were planning on joining. They were all in front of me in the queue – I must phone up immediately!
I had just found out my lady was single.
As you can imagine, my panic was a little over the top, and after a few conversations with the membership secretary I received a letter confirming my entrance to the holy land, I mean, club for the beginning of the next season.
As a new member I was invited to the AGM, just before the start of the season. I met some lovely folk, all serious fishermen, and not at all the ‘fuddy duddy’, posh old boys I’d been led to believe they were. I tried to keep quiet and listen for anything that would give me the tiniest bit of knowledge or know how to help me in my first season. People described certain pools to me, and how to approach them. They talked about conditions and how things were in high and low water. They talked about great days they’d had and how much they had enjoyed them.
This was research. If I was going on a date, I needed to know about the kind of lady I was meeting.
The season approached, as did opening day. Unfortunately I was busy on the 25th (it was Good Friday and I had commitments with my actual girlfriend) and couldn’t make it to the river. But I had one eye on the 29th – Easter would be over, everyone would be back at work and finally we could be alone.
The short drive over was different to every other I had done to my ‘old’ stretch. Carrying on past my usual parking spot to the new one was in itself an exciting event. My diary tells me there had been snow earlier in the morning that had stuck on higher ground. It was cold, but I felt a warm optimism that couldn’t be impacted upon by weather.
I sorted out my gear, pulled on my waders and climbed over the wooden gate and into the fields that led down to the water’s edge. I have since found this short walk one of the most enjoyable parts of my days there. As I wandered over a small hill I looked over to my right. There was a small stone barn part way down the hill in the adjoining field. The hills rolled gently down to the valley bottom and as I continued walking the river finally came into focus and I looked at her for the first time as a member. I paused.
The first time we met.
I continued to approach and settled under a tree at the head of a pool. I can’t remember how long I sat there, but it was long enough that I noticed that that sun had changed position slightly and this reminded me that I was here to fish. I made my first few steps and started to fish. I find it interesting that no matter how long I study a new pool, and plan my approach, it never really works out that way once I'm actually in the water. Angles don’t quite work out, or new ones present themselves. I find myself hurried in one spot and dithering in others. I fished through a few pools and made frantic mental notes on the flow, the riverbed, trees etc.
Eventually I felt my day coming to a natural end. It had been exciting, interesting, and I was keen for more - but I was going home fishless.
My first date was over, but I wasn’t sure how successful I had been.
On the 5th April it was still wintry and quite windy. I returned to the river a second time and made my way down to the same pools. I sat under the same tree as last time but didn’t ponder quite so long. This introduction was brief – I had already met this lady before. I waded into the first pool and looked upstream. There was a perfect crease in the flow and here was the obvious place to start. I began by making short casts and was only really finding the optimum length of line to begin searching the water when my little Klink dipped and I had to make a surprise strike. Shocked, I felt good resistance as the fish headed towards the faster water in the middle of the river. I was definitely off guard and probably gave the fish too much line. The nervousness of this possible first success came upon me and suddenly I knew this fish was significant. Those few minutes felt like forever and my heart was pounding when I finally slipped the net under a beautiful fish of about 12”.
Our first kiss – right at the start of a date!
This first encounter had me rattled and as I fished on I made hurried mistakes. The joy of knowing I hadn’t blanked was clearly enough and I left the river earlier than I needed to and celebrated with a pie and pint of my favourite ale.
Subsequent days (dates) followed and I had limited success in the early part of the season. I spent time getting to know the river – how different it was to wade with a little extra water, how half chances become great chances in these conditions – the sort of memories you bank and use season upon season. I likened this to learning the small things about a lady – her favourite wine, her favourite music, book and films – the little things.
Then came May. Even the significance of switching month made me feel so much more optimistic about how things were going. Things had developed; the trees were in leaf, the lambs that were so tiny when watching me in the early season looked strong, even the grass looked thicker and more vibrant.
I had planned an outing with my real partner for later in the day, but woke early one weekend. The curtains were open, I could see the dark night sky diluting to watery blue, and there was a faint trace of yellow on the horizon. A strong dawn chorus was enough to see me up and heading to the bank whilst she ‘had a few more winks’. I arrived a while later to witness a picture postcard dawn. The sun was illuminating a slight mist in the valley bottom. This was clearly dispersing, but as it did it swirled and danced upwards like the ghosts of content fisherman who had beaten me to the river. The small stone barn was lit up beautifully and had a glowing carpet of dew surrounding it. I knew that no matter what happed with the fishing, if I lost fish, messed up casts – all of it was already irrelevant having witnessed that dawn. I've been lucky enough to sample many such dawns, and each one makes me feel I'm in a genuinely privileged position. I feel sorry for the people who choose to sleep long into the morning and miss out. But not too sorry that I encourage them all out of bed - after all, the solitude is part of the magic.
After spending enough time that I was sure I had committed the sight to memory, I continued my way down to the river. The mist had lifted by then and I began my approach in an almost familiar way. Except this time things felt different. There was an established connection, I knew certain bends now, certain creases. I could wade without looking, knew where the likely spots were and just how much pressure to use to land my fly there. And in that morning light I was rewarded handsomely for my ground work. Almost all of the likely spots produced a fish. They took my flies with confidence and as I worked my way upstream I felt completely at one with the river. I never felt hurried or that I was missing opportunities. I made changes at different pools, forget to do so and rue it later. And the fish kept coming. It would be cruel to reduce such a morning to a mere digit. But this was definitely the first time I’d had real success, the first red letter day, if it were a relationship the first time we……
After such a fantastic morning I had a new appreciation for my river. I knew that I could get things right and the pressure was off. The summer went on and the trips went well. I continued to learn and settled well into my new relationship. We shared experiences, had good days and as the summer turned to autumn I felt a strong bond had been established.
A possible problem arose on a particularly windy day in October. The day had not started particularly well; a prior engagement moved, my time on the river shortened. But it was better than nothing and I had to make the most of the half term break. The day was overcast, chilly but not particularly cold. The leaves were turning, but it wasn’t quite the spectacular show I was expecting and the dim light didn’t help this. My fishing was equally dull and slow. I felt I was in the right places but nothing was happening. The changes that usually bought me a fish were not working either and all the time the wind grew stronger and made casting more difficult. As I turned a slight bend to approach a familiar pool I felt strong gusts scraping my face. It was nigh on impossible to get my line to turn over. Tempers flared, some harsh words were said and as I sat on the bank about to leave, the long days of summer seemed a long way away.
Our first falling out.
Eventually, autumn gave way to winter. The frosts grew thicker, days shorted and the water seemed a lot darker. This was grayling season. I’d had some real success on the beat below, but this had taken longer to accomplish than getting to grips with trout. There seems to be dwindling numbers in these parts (or maybe I'm just not very good at catching them!). Time always seems to drag in winter, and apart from the possibility of some shiny new tackle from Father Christmas there were few highlights. I took this as us becoming settled, a little stale perhaps – maybe time to mix things up? But there was such a strong bond now, a connection I was reluctant to break. I had made a choice to be with this river and I was going to stick with it. I knew there was a real future, there were prospects and I couldn’t help but feel that even though we had shared some great times, there was even better to come.
I recently attended my second AGM (our first anniversary) and saw some familiar faces. This comforted me, made me feel that although I was still new, I was a part of things now, this was my club too. As the new season approaches I feel that I have an established rhythm to fall into. Things may have changed slightly after the high waters of winter, but fundamentally this is the same lady. I left that AGM full of optimism for the new season and cannot wait to be a regular on the banks again, knowing that this is a partnership that has the potential to last a lifetime.