Join John Stephens in the latest instalment of the Kupa River Chronicles.
It’s June, it's noon, and it's 32 degrees here in Brod na Kupi, in the Gorski Kotar, north west Croatia. The sun blazes down on the sleepy little town. It is lunchtime and everything about this place seems as if it is caught in a daydream.
My fishing companion Dave and I have enjoyed the morning fishing through the lush green shade of the River Kupica. Our car is parked by the school, on the edge of town. It’s a short walk into the town centre but by the time we get there we are gagging for something long and cool and I don’t mean a wet towel.
The Museum of Forestry, Hunting and Fishing
The hotel, with its shady terrace stands at the crossroads right opposite the Muzej lova i ribolovoa-Brod na Kupi (the Museum of Forestry, Hunting and Fishing) right in the heart of town. Housed in a grand fortress of a building, the museum is a must see- it’s on our itinerary, but with so much tantalising fishing to explore, we haven’t quite made it there yet.
Under the white heat of the noonday sun the shady terrace at the hotel beckons from across the street. We're looking for a light lunch, a toasted sandwich and a beer; to take some time out to reflect on our morning and plan the afternoon’s fishing -flies, tactics; that kind of stuff.
At the main entrance it appears to be closed. We venture around to the terrace. There’s a bead curtain across a side door. We step from the white heat of noon through into darkness. It has us blinking for a moment. As our eyes adjust we find ourselves standing in the silence of the hotel reception. But there is no one here. We move through into what looks like a bar. We take in the décor, soak up the antique ambience: heavy hunting lodge style woodwork, hunting trophies and the coolness of a black and white marble floor. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there is something quite surreal about the place, something strangely subterranean; the black and white marble floor reminds me of an old swimming baths that I used to go to after school.
Then, as if from nowhere, a short, rather dapper man pops up from behind the bar. He has very neatly combed and pomaded hair. His face wears a somewhat pinched expression. The eyes flick between us, as if puzzled by our presence.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
He speaks in a curt, very clipped way. Stand to attention. Right. Yes. Well?
Somehow he’s guessed we’re English. Then I figure that from his concealment out back he has been eavesdropping on our musings about the place. Have we said anything that might have upset him?
“We wondered if we could get a sandwich?” I venture.
He gives us that slightly disconcerted, puzzled look again; like we’ve said something odd or inappropriate, perhaps mildly insulting?
“A sandwich?” he repeats. He looks first at me and then at Dave, like he’s weighing us up. Are we the Hotel Police?
“A toasted sandwich,” Dave advances, classifying the item, clarifying more precisely what we are looking for.
“A toasted sandwich?” the man repeats. His puzzlement seems to deepen.
For a moment it feels like we’re in a Monty Python sketch, like the one about the Cheese Shop. If it weren’t so strange I’d find it hard not to laugh.
“Yes, a toasted sandwich. Could we have that?”
“You can have it, if it is want you want?”
“ Yes, we’d like that, ” Dave affirms.
“Ham?”
“Ham, would be nice,” I offer with a smile.
“What about ham and cheese?” Dave suggests.
The man looks at Dave like he’s just stepped in something nasty.
“Cheese?”
“Yes, ham with cheese,” says Dave. “Can you do that?”
The man breathes in through his nose and lets out a gentle sigh.
“Yes, I can do that.”
Silence. We look at him. He looks back at us. He’s clearly had a bad morning. Perhaps the wife’s been nagging him again about the leaves on the terrace.
“Anything else?” he snaps.
“Yes, could we have two beers?” asks Dave.
“You want two beers?”
That’s done it! He stares back at us.
“Two beers,” he nods. “That is all?”
“Yes, that’s all. Shall we...?” I gesture toward the bead curtain and the terrace beyond.
He lets out another long sigh.
“I’ll bring it to you,” he says, in that long-suffering tone of someone who is bored, bored, bored with it all. He gestures for us to depart. Just go!
No sooner are we settled at one of the tables under the sun awning than he is out on the terrace, fussing with chairs and brushing fallen leaves from the tables. There is something very intense about him, something manic; like someone’s just set him going.
“You stay here somewhere?” he asks.
“Along the valley, “ we offer.
There’s that puzzled look again, the eyes flick between us.
“Where… Where are you staying?”
“At the Lodge. The Fishing Lodge.”
His eyes narrow and he lifts his chin knowingly. He doesn’t approve. We might just as well have said we were sleeping rough. There is no further comment. He’s off back through the bead curtain.
The ice-cold beers arrive on a tray and are deftly poured into two tulip shaped goblets. Dew forms instantly on the glass. The scene in the bar in Ice Cold in Alex comes to mind. How is it that after a morning’s fishing, in the heat of the noonday sun, a beer can taste so very, very good; pure amber nectar, brewed in heaven?
In a flash our friend is back with the toasted sandwiches.
“Do you have fishermen staying in the hotel?” asks Dave.
“Of course,” says the man, placing a brown leather billfold next to Dave’s plate.
“Is service included?” Dave enquires.
“No, it is not included,” the man states.
“Can I give you this?” asks Dave, slipping a note inside the billfold.
The man slides the billfold and note away. It’s just about acceptable. And without another word he turns on his heels and is off, fussing with the chairs and tables as he goes.
The beer and sandwiches hit the spot. We spend a leisurely lunch sitting in the shade of the terrace watching the world go by through this nothing-to-do noonday. An occasional car passes; a group of workers in orange overalls drink beer at the café opposite, and that is the sum total of activity here in this sleepy little shut-eye-town.
We quaff down the cold beer and plan our afternoon. We’re fishing the winding, bolder strewn Curac; a tributary of the River Kupica. Its confluence is just above the road bridge, off the 203, about a kilometre outside of town. The little stream tumbles out of a wooded valley and spills into the Kupica beside an old mill, where it forms a large pool. It’s a real hotspot - cross the bridge at any time of the day and you’re guaranteed to find a fly fisher casting a line across that pool.
The Curac
It’s one of those enticing forest streams, the Curac. It twists and turns through rocky falls and deep pools. It reminds me of those little rivers you find in South Wales, like the Honddu or the upper reaches of the Monnow. It is pocket water fishing; wading through bouldery rock falls to flick a little weighted caddis into the fast runs that come tumbling down through deep and moss-lined pools. Having taken a moment to check out the entomology I note there are masses of caddis littering the streambed; more than I have seen in any river. It really is caddis heaven.
Caddis Heaven
Small though it is, the Curac holds some remarkably large trout and grayling. When you first catch sight of them they stop you dead in your tracks. Forgiving though grayling can be, this is close quarters fishing, and that means you need to step lightly. Easier said than done. Just like those little rivers in South Wales, the stony streambed is covered in silt and algae; one foot wrong and you’re slithering about like a clown; cursing yourself for spoiling yet another promising little pool.
We park beneath a big old beech tree, at a spot where the road turns away up an incline. Here, the stream carves a wide bend through the trees. Its ragged banks witness to the violence of the winter torrents that come crashing down through the forest. Gnarled tree roots jut out at every twist and turn, like something from an Arthur Rackham illustration. The water runs fast through shallow stony riffles, barely six inches deep. But every now and then a pile of boulders dams the flow, forming a pool beneath the deep undercut banks. And here, in three to four feet of crystal water you will find the fish, holding mid stream, taking those caddis nymphs.
Hair’s Ear Tungsten Bead Caddis
Tungsten Caddis
No prize for guessing what fly to tie on. It has to be a size 16 and 18 Tungsten Bead Caddis. The trick when fishing these pocket water pools is to get the flies down quickly. If you want to fish small sizes it’s best to add a tungsten underbody in addition to the bead. This gets your flies down to the fish before the current takes them past the target. Having a few small split shot in your vest is also useful, allowing you to add weight as and where you need it.
Stealth is all, so we stay well back, and try very hard not to send shock waves along the streambed as we navigate our way ahead. It’s often better to leave the water and move along the bank. In this quiet little forested steam the fish are hyper sensitive.
It’s a lesson we learn the hard way, sending some lovely looking grayling darting for cover in the first few pools, long before we have a chance of casting to them. And once spooked it’s a while before they’ll re-emerge and start to feed again.
However, soon we begin to get the hang of it. Just ahead, the third mossy pool glimmers enticingly, bathed in the green light that filters down through the trees. Above us a pair squirrels are having a scrap. Like a couple crazed high-wire artists they swing and tumble in the thick green canopy. Below, is just the sound of the stream spilling into the pool; the rest is that deep silence of a forest and the deeper silence still of the pool.
In the middle is a boulder, covered in thick moss- the moss so lush, so green that it seems the very essence of moss, the very essence of green. We peer into the crystal water. And there, right behind the boulder, one behind the other, as if in a dinner line, are two lovely grayling. We look at one another. Dave breathes.
His fly line slices through the silence. Two caddis grubs plop above the bolder. They sink silently through the water column, the 16 taking the 18 down as they swirl around the boulder and tumble on toward the fish.
The grayling fin in the current; motionless, except for an almost imperceptible quiver of the dorsal fin; the quintessence of grace; so still, so poised, so focused. The caddis grubs tumble along. Dave lifts his rod, the grubs lift in the current. The first grayling moves to take, but misses. The second fish has more time; the head turns, the grub is taken. Gotcha!
Dave’s rod bucks and arches as the fish runs for cover. Although the pool is small, this grayling knows exactly where to go. Dave swings his rod over to keep the fish away from a tangle of roots. It’s a tussle and a half, but Dave finally scoops up his prize and we gaze down at a pretty Curac grayling; circa 24 cms.
Dave’s Curac Grayling
We fish on up-steam in turns, leap-frog fashion; one person fishing, the other sighting. Now it’s my turn.
At the head of the pool two large rocks divide the stream, the water spills through them and forms a small patch of turbulence, giving almost perfect cover for me to present my caddis grubs.
I position myself for the short cast. The grubs land below the rocks. They spiral out of the turbulence and sink through a clear patch, above another boulder. The fish lies in a little eye of calm, just out of the current, waiting to ambush whatever drifts its way.
The water is so clear here; everything is super sharp. I can see the grayling, its gills opening and closing, the gold ringed iris and the black pupil. The caddis grubs swim in the current. I hold my rod high. I can feel myself itching to lift. Easy does it!
Grayling in water
The grubs lift. The grayling moves. It’s going to take! Then, there is a sudden flash and a little brown trout shoots out from nowhere and snatches the dropper.
My rod kicks and bucks as the little trout goes into the turbulence at the head of the pool. The line tightens and the fish clears the water. It somersaults through dappled light, throwing a rainbow crescent across the afternoon.
It’s a feisty little beggar, this trout; but I bring it safely to my hand. And what a lovely wild thing it is; spots of black and tangerine. In moments like this you just have to smile. I have been royally robbed of my grayling, but hey, right here and now on the Curac I am mightily blessed.
Little Curac Trout
We fish on through the woods and take several more of the Curac’s grayling, nice fish; the biggest no more than 24cms, but a prize for all of that. Above us clouds are gathering. A wind starts to rustle through the trees. And soon there is the patter of rain, gentle at first, then heavier. Then it nails it down, turning the stream into beaten lead and sending us running for cover. A flash of lightning turns the whole forest an electric shade of green. Moments later a long roll of thunder rattles down the valley. It’s some distance away, but we know it is now time to leave the little Curac and its lovely grayling for another day.
Kolač od Jabuka na Starinski Način
Back at the lodge, Zac welcomes us in out of the storm with a pot of tea and a slice of Kolač od Jabuka na Starinski Način (Old Fashioned Croatian Apple Cake).
It’s a recipe that his grandmother used to bake. And, Jees, is it good!
We tell him all about our man from the hotel..
“You should not go there,” Zac warns.
We’re not sure exactly what that means, it sounds like something from The League of Gentlemen. Persona non grata, all round, it seems. But for me he will always be Basil of Brod na Kupi.
…In the next installment we take a white-knuckle ride into the wild and beautiful Risnjak National Park to the source of the River Kupa.