Steven Murgatroyd relects on a secret piece of water that didn't always stay that way
Sometimes I think that catching a fish is incidental to having a good time by the river. Then I have a blank day and realise that it's not. It seems that whilst I'm not fooling the trout, I am fooling myself. However, just one fish hooked, though not necessarily landed, will usually be sufficient to keep me content, at least for a while. Often, having caught that one fish I will stop or at least take a break from fishing. I need to.
I need time to reflect on what has just happened. To contemplate the magical experience that has occurred, to be careful not to take it for granted. To be careful not to allow the experience to become devalued by unthinking repetition in a quest for instant gratification. I need time to just stand in the stream and feel the press of the water, the weight of life flowing around and through me. To feel the gravel begin to shift under my feet, pushed on by the relentless flow, to allow my gaze to follow the soft braid of currents downstream to the point where it becomes impossible to differentiate between the surface of the water and the thick, heavy, humid atmosphere. Where it becomes impossible to differentiate between the life coursing through my veins and the water pushing through the streams and rivers of my experience.
And all the time, all around, every life form that you can imagine and many that you can't, continue to be born, to grow, to reproduce, and to die; all part of the great vortex that is nature. That great, indifferent vortex of shifting, flowing life to which you, as an individual, are of little, if any consequence. We humans have a predilection for believing in our own importance, believing that the world revolves around us. It is an easy trap to fall in to, and the more we fail to connect with nature the more this dangerous, egocentric illusion will grow, until, like all illusions, it will be exposed for the fatal lie that it is.
But something as ridiculous as trying to fool a fish with a fly can connect you to the real world. As the hook takes hold you are hauled into the vortex. Above the surface, below the surface, the truth is all pervading. In the gravel beneath your feet, life stirs, and is launched on an unstoppable journey which connects the molten core of the earth with the dancing corona of the sun.
All forms of life are connected and interdependent, and of course, important, yet only as a species. The individual exists only to make up the numbers. Yet, perversely, that is not the case with the trout that I connect with; every single one is important to me. Important for where they take me. As the hook takes hold the connection is made. Not just the obvious one - my life with the trout's - but the more important one; my artificial, sanitised, egocentric world with the real world. A world of muscle, blood and bone, life and death, darkness and light, push and pull. A constant fight for survival. A life without regret and the weight of self awareness to both hinder and deceive. A connection is made. A connection with childhood, a connection with half remembered dreams, a connection with a lost world. A connection with the real world.
High in the Berwyn mountains the sparkling Ceiriog springs to life and begins its tumultuous race to the sea via the Dee. Reputably the fastest flowing river in Wales, the Ceiriog runs roughly west to east and, by the time it reaches the bottom of my garden, approximately half way through its journey, it has matured into a delightful small stream, in most places no more than fifteen to twenty feet across, but still bright and sparkling as it forges its way down the valley.
The Ceiriog valley, known locally as the 'valley of the poets', is home to many writers and artists; strange, mysterious, almost reclusive characters who take inspiration from the area's lush landscape and rich mixture of history and myth. Many came to the valley in the '60s when the area became a magnet for hippies and those seeking to establish a lifestyle based on the growing counter-culture movement.
From my back door I often watch and listen as the pressing plait of currents pushes past the ancient battleground of Crogen, where the invading English were defeated by the defending Welsh. The battleground is flanked by the river on one side and by the 'Gate of the Dead' on the other - an area set in ancient woodland featuring thousand year old oaks that reach skywards towards the dominating castle above. The river then tumbles away below a steeply wooded bank featuring deep foreboding caves - home to...well, who knows what?
It is possible on this border stream to hook your trout in England and land it in Wales having taken just a couple of steps during the playing. The wild trout are like quicksilver and whether your choice of weapon is Tenkara or Tonkin, Graphite or Glass, they respond well to most methods of fly fishing, as long as you are stealthy in your approach. And this approach will pay dividends in other ways; the valley is rich in wildlife and the river attracts creatures of every kind to its banks. Only last season I stood transfixed as, in broad daylight, a young badger came down to drink from the cool waters, its shimmering reflection dancing with the dappled light under the heavy canopy of trees, before it merged magically, almost imperceptibly, back into the undergrowth, leaving the playful waters undisturbed.
The same waters where I now stand, knee deep, in the pulsing flow. Watching, listening and waiting. Silent and serene. Alert yet relaxed. Conscious yet dreamlike. Happy yet sad. Aware of all that is so perfect, yet also aware of what could be lost in the blink of an eye. A perfection to which most seem to be blind. A perfection which sometimes even anglers themselves can unwittingly sabotage.
A few years ago, every evening on my way home from work, I would crawl along the bypass in an endless queue of traffic. I gradually became aware of a small overgrown stream, barely visible beneath the tangle of vegetation that now engulfed and smothered it. Each evening, as I sat in the car I would try to trace its course across the fields and beneath the road. Could it hold any trout? Could anything survive in such a narrow and choked stream?
With hindsight I should probably have left things there, but, being anxious to discover my own secret place, full of huge wild trout that nobody else knew about, I had to find out who owned the land and the fishing. As it turned out this was fairly easily achieved. A few discreet enquiries pointed me in the direction of a local farmer, who obviously thought that I was a complete idiot offering to pay him to fish what he regarded as a fish-less, weed choked ditch. A deal was done on the strength of a handshake and I now had exclusive access to about a mile and a half of my own private stretch of stream.
The initial visits seemed to confirm what the farmer had told me, I saw no sign of fish of any kind. In fact the stream was so choked and overgrown that it was virtually impossible to cast a fly at any point, assuming that you could fight your way through the undergrowth in the first place. A change of tactics was called for; casting just wasn't an option, there was no sign of fish rising on any of my visits, so a new approach was formulated, an approach that would have seen me banned from most other clubs, but since this club had only one member, and that member was me, I made the rules.
On my next visit I used a ten foot rod and a short six pound leader attached to a floating line. The long rod allowed me to poke the tip through the vegetation and lower a heavily weighted fly between the thick weed beds; this was then jigged up and down in what I hoped was an enticing manner. If I tell you that I had more two pound plus wild brownies out of that stream in my first season than I had previously caught in my entire life you will get the picture.
This happy arrangement continued for a couple of seasons, I would visit the water and once I had caught a fish I was content, and so I would leave. What I didn't know, was that I was being watched. When the farmer had asked how the fishing was, I confirmed that I had caught a few, I tried to be vague about the numbers and the size of the fish; you could say that I was economical with the truth.
However, the farmer was curious and on various visits, had seen me catch some nice fish. The next time I went to pay him he called me to one side and suggested that the money I was paying him did not reflect the quality of the fishing. Of course he was right. He thought that perhaps he should form a small syndicate of perhaps just half a dozen fishermen. What did I think? Naturally, not wanting to alienate him I made all the right noises and reassured him that I had some close friends who I was sure would be interested. I would speak with them in confidence and I was sure that I could recruit enough of them to meet his financial demands without the need for him to go public.
And so, over the next couple of seasons, the arrangement was put on a more formal footing and the syndicate became established and, to be fair we all continued to enjoy some exceptional fishing. However, nothing in life stays the same and, under pressure from some syndicate members, the river bank began to get the attention of regular working parties and before too long it even became possible to cast a fly properly! Jungle warfare became a thing of the past and I began to enjoy the fishing less and less.
As the seasons passed, the rent demands became greater and greater and a decision was taken to open the syndicate up to more members. The syndicate became a club, the banks became clearer and manicured and the fishing got tougher and tougher. Increased fishing pressure combined with bank side clearance changed the nature of the water and the fishing beyond recognition. As the quality of the fishing declined, the membership began to fall, and the club was pressured by the members to carry out regular stocking.
For a while the catch rates increased and the membership stabilised. However the wild trout population started to dwindle and catches of the larger browns that had occurred in the early days were now a thing of the past.
After a few seasons it was becoming apparent that it was impossible to maintain a stable membership. The level of rent required to hold the fishing combined with the cost of stock fish meant that the membership were paying relatively high fees to fish a water that produced fewer and smaller fish than the local still waters.
Eventually it became uneconomic to run the club, and several years ago the lease ended and the members all went their separate ways.
A few weeks ago I drove along the old bypass road again and looked for the stream, but it was no longer visible having long been neglected. It is once again hidden beneath a tangle of bracken and weeds. That same evening, I returned with my rod but without consent to fish. I crept towards the stream, forced my way through the undergrowth and lowered my fly into the depths. I will leave it to your imagination as to what, if anything, I hooked; but one thing is for certain, I will be leaving that particular stretch of water in peace.
We anglers have a duty to protect precious wild places, even if that sometimes means forsaking the chance of some exceptional fishing. Maybe angling should only be carried out where it is sustainable. If the ecology of the environment has to be compromised then perhaps we should think twice before wading in. No stocking, catch and release, no wading in vulnerable places; I can live with all of these if, when I do fish, I can do so in an environment as wild and as natural as possible. If we look after Mother Nature she will look after us.
So, let's re-calibrate our expectations. When I was young and knew no better, I killed more wild fish than I should have, I now regret that. I was, I think, trying to prove something. Happiness is a state of mind. We no longer need to fish for food and we shouldn't be fishing for kudos. Do we seriously believe it is right to populate our rivers with genetically modified, overweight trout in order to satisfy our lust for size and for numbers? And all in the name of sport. Is this the world we really want?
Sometimes, just one or two wild fish, of a size appropriate for their environment, should be enough.