Duncan Bamford looks at wild fishing in Wales and asks if he has ever had it so good?
What makes a perfect day’s fishing? Are you a big fish person or do numbers matter to you? What about the quality of the fish themselves?
I sit here during a lull in my work and find myself thinking of such things, looking forward to the next fishing adventure, and reflecting on seasons past. A day that I remember vividly was, to the sane mind, atrocious, but perfect if you’re a fly fisherman and you’re expecting a hatch of olives.
Forget matching the hatch - catching the hatch is what it’s all about isn’t it? Olives like to take to the air when the weather is gloomiest, as their drab camouflage works best against a grey sky. Bizarrely the gloomy wet weather also slows down their metamorphosis into the dun and later, spinner, with the drizzly air keeping the wings damp, delaying the insects in that vulnerable surface stage for longer than they would like. The benefits of the gloom for the hatching insects outweigh the negatives in the end, and if you hatch in your hundreds of thousands, some of you are going to get through, it stands to reason doesn’t it?
The reasoning of olives aside, I like the weather if it’s challenging. If the wind is ripping your line off the water before it settles, and lashing it into the reeds on the bank I’m happy enough. I know to keep my line short and get in between the gusts. Presentation in these conditions isn’t delicate or pretty, but I’ll probably be fishing on my own so it doesn’t matter - and I know the fish will be virtually under my feet.
The perfect day in question starts bright and breezy with scudding clouds but soon turns gloomy as a low pressure front moves in steadily from the west. As patchy drizzle and spitting rain start, I know it is just right for a good hatch, well I guess with a reasonable confidence anyway, which is about as certain as anything gets in fishing. I can imagine the little nymphs wriggling their way to the surface. I like to think visualization is the key to confidence in fishing.
After a mud spattered ride down a bumpy potholed track, I vow to get myself a mountain bike with better suspension, if not for my behind - then for the fly rod that rattles in its tube strapped to the frame. Nothing slows me down when I’m going fishing! I finally see the lake and pause while opening one of several gates, which along with the assorted potholes and remoteness, make this lake the inaccessible paradise that it is. I observe the water as I ride down, I can’t see any rises from this distance, but I can see the squalls as they head down the lake. A few rabbits scurry across the track and off to their burrows, meadow pipits flit from post to post.
When I get to the lakeside, after wiping the worst of the mud from my face and polarising sunglasses, I dump my rucksack, prop up my ageing mountain bike and tackle up. The hatch is already well under way, dancing groups of insects, in swarms of 50 or so, hold their own against the gusty wind around the fringes of the lake. A quick snatch and I pick a single insect from the bunch and get a closer look, it’s a dun - a dark, almost black, body with dull grey wings, a good colour against the leaden sky. I don’t know its exact taxonomy, it’s hard to say as there is so much variation from place to place, but it’s small and seems to be from the olive family of upwings, with two tails. Most fishermen would call it an olive, so an olive it is to me. I’ll try and get a more positive ID in the coming season. The wind is coming down a valley at the head of the lake from a south westerly direction, strong, but warm on the fingers which is nice. At 1600ft you appreciate the little things.
I guess that the windward side will be the best place to start, but I can’t resist a few casts from where I stand. I don’t bother to match the hatch here, a large olive on the point, a rough olive pattern on the middle dropper, and a Claret Bumble on the top will suit me and the fish fine. It’s a short 8ft leader today, tapering from 30lb to an 8lb double strength point (good for extracting flies from lily pads). I’m using basic tackle, my old 5/6weight 10ft rod, past its best but still serviceable - none of your expensive Sage rods for me... It’s a hard life as an illustrator and designer these days.
I winkle out a couple of fish in the first few casts, dark backed and as wild as their home, nothing over 1/4lb, which is the average, but the bright-red spots and spectacular leaping fight more than make up for their size.
I know the action will be at the top end today, and it’s easy to get sidetracked, so I make my ‘last cast’ vow and move on. Keeping a short line, I work the shore up to what I hope will be the more productive water, where I end up walking on a floating sponge of sphagnum moss and purple moor-grass, that tussocky grass that trips you up every second step. Hopping like a mountain goat from clump to clump you can get across some pretty soft bog. Take your eye off the ball though, and you’re immediately up to your thigh in putrid smelling mud (many’s the time) – but that’s all good fun...
"Don’t ignore the bad weather, it’s always good to get out with a fly rod, but fishing buddies need to have a sense of humour."
I pick up some fish, and miss lots of pulls, making my way as swiftly as I can to the top end, and here I change the point fly to a heavier olive pattern to help straighten the leader for the action to come. Rudimentary ‘flicks’ are all that is necessary, and the action is on. I’m amazed as every available inch of water produces a take, almost immediately, as the fly touches down. The fish are just sub-surface and in a feeding frenzy, some leaping clear to hit the fly before it reaches the surface, most missing as they do so. In amongst the lily pads, any patch of water, if I can reach it, gets a take, and savagely confident takes they are. The rise and rejection is often so quick that you need lightning reflexes to hook a fish. I like to think my reactions are honed through hours of fishing and too many misses. On these upland lakes you may see a yellow flash if you’re lucky, and then it’s all over before it has begun. Most fish are in the 1/4lb class, but there are a good few 1/2lbers and a plumper fish of 13”, which I mentally note as around 3/4lb – who cares anyway?
Every fish I marvel at - and take a brief second’s glance before slipping him back, imprinting his image in my mind, but knowing the memory will be swiftly overwritten, I take snaps of a couple.
If you want to see how many fish are in a wild upland lake - get up there when the fish are in a feeding frenzy – olives or coch-y-bonddu will do it. It is incredible how many fish these small waters can hold. Of course such numbers have a negative effect on size but you can’t have everything. I like nature’s way myself.
After 25-30 fish, including landing one of a half dozen double hookups, I take a short break to rest the shoulder and back. By this time two old locals have arrived and taken out the small boat – they are also doing well. When your only company have fished the place for 45yrs or more, you know that you made a right turn somewhere!
"if the sun breaks through the light can be breathtaking"
Crouching down on a clump of reeds, I have a bite to eat and drink, and I have a chance to watch the hatched olive duns sailing merrily along, before being engulfed in a swirl and flash of yellow. After a few minutes I can’t resist any longer, I flick out a fly with my spare hand and land a couple more fish this way before deciding I’ve had enough of a ‘rest’. I wonder if this is just too easy, but on reflection I think you’ve got to revel in the easy days, they don’t happen all that often and the memory will tide you over the leaner times that will inevitably follow.
Working around to the leeward side of the lake I prepare to finish the circuit - back to my bike - and then back home. There are a few pale sedges and alder flies in the rushes here, but not enough to interest the fish with the wholesale olive slaughter going on. The heather is out in places, but not in full bloom. I disturb a couple of families of teal as I go, the youngsters rush off like little fluffy float planes - unable to take off properly yet, they dive and re-emerge further down the bank. Starting the bank ‘home’ I concentrate on the little points and inlets where debris is collecting, and some good fish are the result. I know pickings further down the lake will be scarce, so make the most of it while I can. I adopt the short line ‘step and cast’ approach and cover the nearest water that way, most takes are within 1ft to 3ft from the bank, so distance isn’t an issue. I notice the bilberry is in flower, but there will be no fruit for a few weeks, so I can’t pick berries as I go.
"Even with snow on the hills, these fish will still come to the surface."
As I near the bike and pack, I spot the remains of a grouse, scattered feathers indicating a bird of prey, probably taken by a hen harrier or peregrine, which are not uncommon up here. I have heard the grouse call, and seen single birds, but they are struggling even here where they are surrounded by good habitat.
I switch to a single olive dry, and take a few fish in the bay and hop over the little spawning stream that runs in here, always a good spot for a few fish, I hook and lose a good fish and land another of a 1/4lb before calling it a day. I go through the rigmarole of ‘last cast’, as I always do, out of habit rather than belief, and I hook and lose the final take of the day. Fitting really after such excess. I haven’t taken a fish, so I leave empty handed, and my pack is lighter without the water and food. I wear the wellies on the bike, I just don’t have the spare energy to take them off at this stage. After taking down the rod I shoulder the rucksack and get on my way.
The old locals are still out, enjoying their fishing as much as they did in their first season – and they tell me it has improved since that time, probably it has. As a local, I hope I am still fishing this lake in 45 years time. Getting on the bike and riding home when fish are still rising and I’m not totally exhausted, is tough, but the day has been exceptional. Why stay until the fishing becomes harder? Better to remember it as the best of days. The uphill slog from paradise gets my calf muscles burning, and I can confidently say that wellies don’t make the most comfortable cycling shoes, but they’re better on pedals than on land. I get some funny looks and a few comments from a group of motor cyclists, they think I’m some kind of sadomasochist, - cycling around in wellies for kicks. I say I’ve been fishing. They understand, or think they do...