Chris Brass tells us about his fly fishing roots.
Before you invest any more time reading this article, you must first hear my confession. I am not a lifelong fly fisherman. At 32 I'm pretty sure I can’t call myself a lifelong anything. I can offer no advice on how to catch more fish, make that difficult cast, tie that perfect fly - I’m no ‘expert’ at anything. I do however think there are many more people just like me. You know the sort – when they tell you about their fishing history it starts with words like ‘maggots’ and ‘floats’ and other things that often belong in completely different tackle shops. This was all before they ‘saw the light’, ‘grew up’ and ‘graduated’.
I am a fly fishing covert.
How did this happen? It’s such a familiar tale and a conversion that has happened to so many. Once you pick up a fly rod, that’s it - all others are forsaken in the pursuit of fish on the fly. Is it more pure? Is it ‘better’ somehow? I’m sure there are many reasons, and you will all have your own ideas. But now firmly in the ‘converted’ camp, I can tell you how it happened to me. This is the tale of a boy who as he has grown up has always had fishing in his life and has now firmly settled with a fly rod in his hand.
My curiosity with all things sub-surface (and catching them) began around the age of three. My mother has told me this story many times and I am still proud of the tiny version of myself. We were on a family day out, wandering by a dark little stream somewhere in North Yorkshire. The picnic blanket had been set out and my mother was settling down to read her book.
“I can catch those fish in there Mummy,” I had confidently proclaimed.
“OK son, you go and catch me one then,” she had replied.
Apparently I marched off, into the water and was “playing” quite happily, so my mother continued to read. She tells me she kept lifting her eyes from the book and I was stooping over a deeper part of the stream so she left me. I wasn’t causing any trouble, wasn’t bored, so why change anything? She must have been quite engrossed in that book, because as she tells it from nowhere a little brown trout was dropped into the middle of the picnic rug, causing chaos amongst the sandwiches and cakes. The fish flapped about, soaking the pages of the dropped novel and my mother screamed. Apparently I remained completely serious, looked straight at her and said “I told you I could catch those fish mummy.”
And so began my journey.
At school I would only read non-fiction, and the more facts I could read about fish the better. By the time I was twelve I worked out that I had more books on fishing on my bookshelves than were in the local library. I would fish as often as I could, but being a child it was only when my dad - who had been forced into taking up fishing because it’s all I wanted to do - could take me. Alternatively I could be taken by my grandad, who had been trying desperately to tempt me away from fishing with shiny, exciting twelve bores. His obsession was shooting and he never did understand why I put the fish I caught back: “Why aren’t they for the pot lad?!”
My grandad did however nurture one aspect of my hobby that had common ground with his own; a complete love of the countryside. Just as I am happy to have blank days on the water, he was always happy to return from a day in the field and not get caught up in the “how many?”
And so I carried on, until the glorious day arrived that I finally passed my driving test and could convey myself to a whole new world of exciting fishing destinations. Unfortunately this coincided with going to university so a suitable place had to be found that could not only offer the correct course, but (crucially) have access to more and better fishing. I had, by this point, decided that nothing was more important than fishing, but accepted that it could not be my job. So I had come to the conclusion that being a teacher was my best option. That way I would have more holidays than most and these could be spent by the water. I must add at this point that I am someone who genuinely loves their job. But I thank fishing for that too.
After graduation the obsession could really grow. Finally tackle could come from “proper” shops and prestigious brands. I had a calendar all worked out. Tench were first in the spring, followed by chub and barbel in the summer, with the odd trip for carp as the days grew longer. Chub and barbel again in the autumn, pike and grayling during the winter. But I didn’t forget roach or perch or………you get the picture.
I was always content though, no matter what the species, to just ‘be there’. The urge to fish seemed as much to do with spending time in pretty places around Yorkshire than the fishing itself.
Alarm clocks were regularly set for 3 a.m. through the summer, and I remembered each dawn as much as the chub or tench I caught. Seeing kingfishers, stags and mink were always the first thing I wanted to tell my girlfriend about and they were the things that became etched in my memory.
So to the conversion.
I had a new class in September and one of the children’s parents mentioned that he had recently started fly fishing. I explained that it wasn’t something I did a lot of but hey, if it swims, I’d love a go at catching it! I had tried a few times, fishing spiders on my local River Wharfe. But I only had a 6 weight and (it turns out) was fishing in all the wrong places. There was a real desire to ‘get into it’ but constant failure and wind knots had deterred me.
I had taught myself to cast as a kid, using a bright blue fibreglass rod my neighbour had given me, along with a reel and some very well worn line. I had slowly and painfully moved from whipping the back of my ears to being able to throw a decent straight line. I had practiced after school, often in the dark, on a patch of grass near our house.
But the opportunities to fish flies where I grew up were few and far between and well beyond the reach of mere pocket money. Putting this amateur casting to use now, on a real, moving river had also proven difficult.
Conversations with this parent continued and I was invited to a local club’s open day, on their pretty reservoir. There I met a local guide and between him and the parent I managed to sort out my casting action and get amongst some fish. I think I had eleven rainbows that day, and even though they were stocked fish the excitement of catching them on a fly had already awakened something in me.
Further conversations (you know what it’s like to have a fellow angler to talk to!) went on in the corridors of the lovely old school in which I work, and a date was set to fish with both parent and guide on the river Nidd. Little did I know how life changing setting that date would prove to be.
Coming from a coarse fishing background I have to admit that I was sceptical about guides at first. The idea of paying someone to take you fishing and tell you what to do was completely alien to me. But I had read every book, magazine and website and still my fly fishing was terrible so maybe there was something in it. I must mention at this point that the guide I fished with didn’t ask for a penny, this was a “friendly” trip to help me and the parent out. I thought that buying as many of his flies as I could would make it worth his while.
So I arrived at the pre-arranged meeting place and we went to buy day tickets. I was still oblivious to how much was going to happen in the space of a day.
From the moment I got into the water I was shown so much. How to cast upstream simply, how to read and interpret the water, how to wade stealthily. We fished a duo that day and I listened intently about hatches, emergers and different kinds of rises. I've honestly never learned as much in one day as I did on that trip to the Nidd. I came home completely hooked.
But there was one final test. Could I put this new found knowledge into practice on my own? It was May, and even I knew I should be able to catch a few trout in ‘duffers fortnight’. I headed to the same stretch of river that had been the cause of so much disappointment. So many wasted hours spent watching risers that wouldn’t look at my offerings. I approached the water as I had learned, looked at it in a different light and caught the best four fish I think I've ever caught. I was so overwhelmed at one point that all this new found knowledge was actually working that I had to get out of the river and sit on its banks, just to ensure I committed all of this to memory. Maybe at that moment I was beginning to understand what it meant.
I'm sure everyone who is reading this is going to know this, but as a relative newcomer (four seasons now) I'm going to explain why I think fly fishing is the pinnacle of our sport, and why there are so many ‘converts’ about.
In my opinion it’s not about the difficulty, or the technical ability needed to succeed. Although covering a nervous riser, in clear water with a headwind without putting him down is surely the most difficult thing any angler attempts?
There is a completely different perception of time when fly fishing. Days and weeks can be set around weather conditions and hatches. The direction of the sun is noticed, even crucial when out on the water. The direction of the wind too is important; and not just because it makes a difficult cast border on the impossible. You are immersed in your surroundings and time is lost in the very best of ways.
Most importantly for me fly fishing is about the connection. Having such minimal amounts of gear means the fly fisherman is free to roam the most beautiful parts of our country. We place ourselves in unique positions. Delve deeper into the countryside than most. We get to share a habitat with our intended quarry in the most primitive of ‘hunter/gatherer’ circumstances. We follow nature, not footpaths.
If I have learned anything from coarse fishing it’s appreciating the time in-between fish that counts the most. I urge you to ensure that in the coming seasons you take the time to really appreciate what is around you. Very sadly, the guide who showed me so much suddenly passed away last year and those flies I bought now take pride of place in my box. I use many of them but there is a corner, dedicated to him, that will never be used. They are a reminder of the fragility of all this, and ‘ground’ me on difficult, fishless days.
And so the conversion is complete – how can I return after discovering such a holistic, fulfilling experience? If I needed any more proof, a quick look through my diary shows that I spent 93 days by the water last year – two with a coarse rod. When do I drop the ‘convert’ and become just a ‘fly fisherman’? I’m not sure it matters.